Chapter Text
Collecting superstitions has always brought you some small joy.
Tossing an auspicious number of coins into a fountain—
—muttering a prayer to a suspiciously divine-looking cloud formation—
—drawing a fortune card at a foreign tent and having it read—
These have always been your litany: simple things, little enough effort that even if they have no effect, the doing of the actions has never been inconvenient enough to be a detriment to your quality of life. And for the brief, passing cheer and optimism they've always brought, it would be hard to claim them completely ineffective.
Every place has a new assortment of these small rituals, so with all the travel you've seen visiting far-flung subsidiaries in your otherwise completely unfulfilling work as an executive assistant, it’s been easy to collect them and keep them close to your heart.
Maybe the next place would hold the key to real happiness.
More likely, it would be the next job—not that leaving this one is an affordable option.
But there's been no new ritual to be found in this frigid—in more ways than one—land. The locals turn up their noses when you ask about their traditions, making faces that seem like they'll soon get stuck that way while deriding those superstitions and suggesting you attend a "real" service. Happily— or, as it had turned out, not— your trip had coincided with a midweek religious holiday that would afford you the chance.
But at this "real" service, you'd gotten an idea how welcome you were when the old priest's lumpy face had soured at your out-of-place question about how a simple wish for good fortune might work in his faith. He'd suggested that an evening service might be more appropriate for a tourist like you, and that you might learn more there about the appropriate reasons to pray (not "wish," he'd sneered) before returning to the busy holiday crowd.
Now, at the evening service the next day, his advice has proven unhelpful so far.
Stand, chant, sit—
—listen to fragments of myth so expansive it needs a thick book of thin pages to hold it all—
—stand, sing an unfamiliar song led by oppressive instruments and piercing bells, sit—
—temptation, guilt, fire, and most of all, fear.
A new litany that, if Svart's people were to be believed, would need to be adopted in full if you were to have any chance of real peace or happiness.
These people—are they happy? Is this kind of life-consuming devotion what it takes to be happy—is that why you've failed until now?
Most of the churchgoers are gone by now, filing out in a hurry as soon as it had been acceptable in order to get home in the extremely early night of a northern winter. You sit in a pew alone, the warmth of the expansive room now far more controlled and pleasant than the thick stifle of bodies from not long ago. Your hotel room, with little more to occupy you than a laptop and a few snacks, feels more like a sentence than a refuge, so you stay, chewing on your discontent.
"The burden of heavy questions does not become you." A voice draws your attention; the priest who had read tonight's service stands over you, hands clasped in front of himself. Unlike the older, angrier priest, this one looks much closer to your age—though he seems weak of constitution, frail and pale, the underlying handsomeness is clear—and his expression is gentle where the older one's had been judgmental. His hair is a vibrant silver instead of a pallid gray, grown unusually long compared to most others here and pulled back in an unassuming ponytail, and he has remarkable gold eyes with long lashes.
At least watching and listening to him had been pleasant despite the uncertainty of what he'd been doing or saying. But returning after the service like this, after taking the time to dress down to basic black slacks and a simple dress shirt... he's probably wondering what you're still doing here, like a last customer who squeezed in through the doors ten minutes before close, swearing you'd need three minutes and taking ten times that.
"I'm sorry, I'll go—"
"You are welcome to stay. You seem troubled, and I have no other pressing matter to attend to. I am here to watch over my flock, so to speak." He tilts his head and offers a placid smile. "Call me Father Richter. And you are?"
"...Rosa." His flock. What irony, when so often it's easy to feel like you're not much more than a sheep plodding your way through a life with so few paths or choices. "I'm just a tourist, not one of your flock. Please don't trouble yourself on my account."
"Do you often feel you trouble others, even when assistance or time is freely offered?" The uncomfortably accurate assessment leaves you silent, but he must feel the silence is answer enough, because he continues. "May I sit with you?"
You shrug. "It's your house."
"Ah, but it is God's house." He lifts his hands, gesturing to the large chamber as if its magnificence was self-evident before clapping them together with a shrug. "...or so they say." The pause is almost comedic in its timing, left nearly long enough to be the expected statement of reverence and finality before subverting it with that dismissive ending. He sits anyway. "I do not believe He will make Himself known just to refuse my request."
The man's behavior, so fresh from reading that sermon of fear and fire, stuns you until laughter bubbles up from within, spilling out in light chuckles that bring a warmth to his eyes. After your brief mirth fades, though, the air between you lapses into awkwardness and fidgeting—why so anxious? echoes through your thoughts—as he waits quietly for your input, if you have any. You clear your throat. "The service was... nice."
"Was it your first time hearing a Svartist service? I think I would remember if I had seen you in the congregation before." His emphasis is surprising and draws your attention, an easy smile clear on his face as he fixes his gaze on you. Is he... flirting? Even back in Stellis, the celibacy this religion demands of its leaders is known. But it's hard to deny his interest, even if it's just as hard to pin down the cause.
"Yes. It seems..." Oppressive. Overwhelming. Depressing. Don't be insulting. "...like a very demanding belief system." That thick book of scripture and vivid tales comes to mind, more like an alternate history than the easygoing local legends you're used to. "Its followers must be very devoted."
This time, it's the priest who laughs, deep and delicate like temple bells. "Some certainly are. Many are only here because our culture demands it. The scowl you wear, the questioning and confusion—I know it well. At least as a visitor, it will not turn into the vacant-eyed wish to be anywhere but here."
More like anywhere but this life in general, snaps the sharp part of your inner monologue.
"Or perhaps... hmm." His head tilts as you realize he's studying you, measuring you somehow, and your eyes dart away.
He's been kind; there's no reason to burden him with the things that cause the sullenness you see in the mirror daily, and you turn the talk back to the service. "I'm sorry. It's disrespectful after the work I'm sure you put in—"
The man gestures dismissively, waving long, slender fingers. "Do not worry; the services are prepared by the church. It is only my duty to deliver them. Though I am glad I was tasked with the evening service today, if it meant this chance encounter."
There he goes again, with the... flirting? There's a magnetism in the way he looks at you—something that compels you to trust, to accept, to yield—and it feels a little embarrassing to look for too long. A slight heat rises to your cheeks.
"Perhaps if I share something about myself, you will be more comfortable confiding in me. You see..." He leans closer, his manner conspiratorial despite his still-respectful distance. "I, too, find Svartist beliefs to be... well. Over the top."
How could that be? The amount of pride the common citizen had in these beliefs, and yet their own leadership—"But you're a priest...?"
He nods. "As I said, some are here because our culture demands it. I did not choose to be a priest; but to be a psychologist. Svart considers psychology to be a branch of theology and used to forbid those outside the church from studying the field." He's quiet for a long moment, like he's giving it time to sink in before continuing. "So you see, I would be honored if you would tell me your troubles. It is my life's passion to listen."
With the way his kind expression pleads with you, it's hard to refuse him. And with the reason for his profession, he'll probably understand what it is to feel trapped, so the dam of silence holding back your troubles wants to crack, but—
While you had been one of few left in the church, there are others, and the large, open space seems prone to undesired echoes. Father Richter seems to notice your gaze darting around: "I could walk you to wherever you are staying, if you would prefer to speak more privately?"
That magnetism draws you in again, and you know you can trust him; you nod. "That sounds good. I'm at that hotel not too far away."
Some ten to fifteen minutes later, you're unlatching your door with butterflies in your stomach, not completely sure where your earlier certainty and decisiveness had come from; it isn't like you to invite a man to your room, even in such an innocent scenario. Yet when you push the door open and he doesn't immediately follow, it's hard to justify your nervousness in the face of his gentlemanly manner, and you shove down that irrational corner of your mind that wants to panic at the thought of the next words: "Please, come in."
He smiles, relaxed, and follows you to the small kitchenette, where you shuffle through unfamiliar cupboards. "Would you like some coffee? I'm sure this place came with mugs somewhere—"
"No thank you. Sit; I see enough from here for a chamomile tea that will help you relax. No—" He cuts off the protest already threatening to form itself into words. "—I am no average guest; I am here to help with your distress, not to cause you worry about making me feel at home."
Sheepish and with nothing left to do but wait, you sit at one end of your couch, grateful that your stingy boss had sprung for a slightly more spacious room than he'd had to; otherwise, your only seat would have been the bed.
....Stop checking out the priest, you tell yourself, no matter how nice those pants look on him. You force yourself to become very interested in your knees until, after a few moments, a cup of tea appears before you, extended in one hand as he holds one for himself in the other.
When you take your cup from him, he sits on the other end of the couch. "So—what is it that weighs on you so?"
Out pours your unfulfilled life, your dreams of law school lost to various life circumstances, your carefree playboy boss with his revolving door of women you never see more than once, and all the doubts the service had given you. He listens patiently, nodding, asking questions, caring—the simple act of caring goes so far—as you transition to your search for purpose, for completion, for answers that, in Svart, seems they may as well be barred behind a locked gate that says "You must be this comfortable with fire and brimstone to proceed."
That last quip gets quite the laugh from Father Richter.
"Many in our congregation have questions like yours, but fear of the church is too ingrained in them to voice them. What a refreshing perspective you bring." He seems genuinely happy, which seems strange when all you've done is complain and question, but your thoughts turn to your boss and your constant wonder at how he can actually enjoy his endless parade of sycophants, and it becomes clearer. Father Richter interrupts your thoughts: "I will tell you a secret: hell is not real. A sinner may become locked away from any heaven that might exist, but there is no great torment of fire to fear."
The tales of hell had seemed fantastical enough, but his certainty is equally strange. "It's impossible to prove a place doesn't exist. How do you know?"
He smiles enigmatically, as though this topic holds some special interest to him, but he doesn't immediately answer. "The devil, though, whatever you might call him—that force of temptation and power prominent in so many belief systems—most certainly is real. His domain is the earth itself, which he has walked nearly as long as humanity has resided upon it."
Things are silent for a moment as that thought sinks in. That would explain the certainty about hell, but... if he really thinks he's met the devil, it's even stranger on its own. You drain the last of the tea that fueled your long talk, considering his words. Is he delivering another sermon with a false truth, or could he mean what he says? Even if he means it, it could just be a belief spoken with conviction. All you can do is shrug, go along with the conversation at face value, and sort out the pieces later. "So that makes the earth hell. It explains a few things."
He exhales a light laughter. "If you view hell as his domain, then yes." Taking your engagement in stride, he answers like he's telling you about something as mundane as breakfast. "And it means that to sell your soul to the devil is to walk the earth forever, as he does."
It's hard not to laugh at the irony, doubt or faith be damned. "So, zombies? Sounds terrible."
"Nothing so inglorious as that. Death is amorous, and he keeps his paramours beautiful. I think you would find that many possibilities open to those who become his companions." His stare becomes cryptic and unsettling, and the flash in his eyes—maybe it's just a trick of the light, but they seem brighter than the room around him—dissuades further questions unless you're comfortable with even madder statements.
The strangeness of your situation begins to become clearer: surely there had been private offices in the church where you could have spoken rather than coming here? But he could have just been reluctant to speak there because of this story.... And assuming he means what he says, whether fact or fiction, it's natural for someone in his profession to encounter whatever spiritual and supernatural stories exist. Maybe this is just one of the legends he keeps in his heart, like you do so many others.
In the end, though your heart pounds, you choose not to fear, gathering yourself with a deep breath that involuntarily becomes a yawn; Father Richter's brows climb, clearly not expecting your reaction, and the intensity you'd seen in his expression dissipates, leaving only the kind smile of a man who'd freely given you his time. "I apologize; I have kept you too long. I will let you be, so you can go about your night's routine and rest at an appropriate hour."
In spite of the confusing end to the conversation, your heart feels heavy watching him stand and move to collect his coat, but you stand and walk him to the door anyway. Before he leaves through the hall of your hotel, he turns to you. "I enjoyed talking with you. If you find yourself here again on future business, I hope you will seek me out again."
"Thank you. I will, if I can." He offers a small, polite bow and turns away, and you close the door with a sigh before cleaning up, trying not to think about the fact that you can see now he'd not once touched his tea in the hour you'd talked.
When you wake up in the morning, your head swims, unable to make sense of an obnoxious sound that overwhelms your entire being.
You try to sit up, but it's difficult; your limbs are heavy, your blankets are heavier, and your movements are sluggish. Once you sit, you realize the overwhelming sound is coming from your door. It's hard to imagine who would act like that at... whatever time it is.
Ice douses your nerves, shocking you into wakefulness when you check the clock on your phone and find yourself an hour and a half late for work. That means the person pounding on the door can only be—
The sound stops long enough for a muffled voice to call from beyond. "If the hotel bans us because of all this noise, I'm taking the price difference between it and the one we have to use next time out of your paycheck." There's another racket, then he calls again. "Hey, open up before I actually get worried and call the cops."
You sigh, swinging your feet down to the floor, standing, quickly tipping, and grabbing the wall to guide yourself, wondering whether it's possible to use sick days in the middle of a business trip.
The instant you disengage the lock, your boss barges in, already starting his irritated rant. "Finally. We were supposed to meet half an hour ago to go over—whoa." He turns to flick the lightswitch—your eyes snap shut, stinging—then he puts his hands on your shoulders to steady you and, from the shift of his weight and movement of body heat, seems to stoop down to study your face. After a long moment, he moves one hand to your chin, grasping it and turning your head, brushing your hair out of the way as he looks you over.
"Adding this to the file, Mr. von Hagen," you mumble.
"Come on, Miss, you can't be thinking about that harassment case you keep claiming to be building when you had so much fun without me last night." Marius laughs, his ire from a moment ago forgotten. "So that's what you're into! No wonder I haven't been able to find an opening."
You swipe his hands away with a sleepy, closed-eyed scowl. "What are you talking about? I just had someone over for tea and a chat."
"Is that what you're calling it now? Miss, you'd better check a mirror before you try lying to me like that again. Go on, I'll wait for your apology." You sigh, too heavy all over to fight him, and slowly make your way to the vanity in your small suite. Your eyes widen when you see the reason for your boss' reaction.
Memories rush back to you—
You'd fallen asleep reading, sitting up in bed, until a vague awareness of presence caused you to wake. Struck with some kind of sleep paralysis, it was impossible to open your eyes to see who, if anyone, was there, but you could hear faint movement and feel weight on the bed.
Then you smelled something vaguely familiar, something recent but hard to place, like... gin and flowers? There was heat, and you knew someone had leaned in close enough to trap your own breaths between you; your chin had been grasped and your head tilted to the side, much like your boss had just done. Lips delicately brushed your neck, then moved against your skin in a soft whisper—"forgive me."
Teeth punctured through your skin, accompanied by searing pain that finally broke through your paralysis and allowed your eyes to snap wide open; a man leaned over you, but all you could see in the dark room was a shoulder in dark clothes. The pain quickly gave way to a euphoric pleasure as the man began sucking at the wound he made. His lips and tongue on your skin were pure bliss and bloomed arousal through your body, and you distantly registered his own sounds of heavy breaths and desperate swallowing above you, like he'd been wandering a desert for days and found an oasis.
He took and took from you until your consciousness began to fade again, but before it did, you ran your hands across his back and your fingers through his hair, enjoying the silky texture of a long ponytail—
It’s hard to decide how to feel about this. Was it real? The marks and exhaustion seem to indicate it was, but it's completely mad, isn't it? If Marius hadn't seen them too, you'd doubt your sanity. Maybe an allergic reaction to the tea? A hallucinogen? You can't imagine why, but—
"Well? I'm waiting." Marius badgers you from his position leaning against the wall outside the sectioned-off vanity. At least he hadn't been so pushy as to follow you in here—though you wouldn't have put it past him. One thing is certain: you hadn't "had fun" in the way Marius insinuates, and he won't have the satisfaction he's looking for.
"I just had a conversation last night with a new friend. That's all." Still leaning on the walls for support, you make your way away from the vanity and plop down unceremoniously onto the closest seat—the bed, too exhausted to care about improprieties.
"Right. Conversation. Friend. That's why you're blushing." He smirks at you, raising a mocking eyebrow. "I mean, sort of. You've gone all pasty, someone with less of an eye for color might not notice."
"I'm blushing because of a dream I remembered." Somehow, pretending you'd had an adult dream is less humiliating than your boss getting an I-told-you-so moment in.
"Dreams don't leave marks, Miss." You pull your hair forward to cover your neck, then reach for your phone to add concealer to your running shopping list. "Besides, you don't have those kinds of dreams." He leans in close wearing a grin of pure sin and wickedness. "Yet."
Now, you really do blush, slightly embarrassed and upset that he's correct. "How would you know that?"
"Because you're still my secretary, of course!” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
"Executive assistant." You scowl; it's hard to feel bad about being late today when his response is to tease you relentlessly like this. He knows you hate being called his secretary, which means he does it just to upset you.
Marius shrugs. "I'll let you stick to one mystery at a time. Anyway, let's make a deal: I'll give you the day off to recover, and you tell me who your new friend is."
"You can't threaten or fire this one, Mr. von Hagen." He'd tried before, switching delivery companies, reassigning staff, discouraging lunches outside the building to keep Luke from picking you up, claiming it was to keep your focus on him. In a work-related capacity, of course.
"Now there's where you're wrong. Everyone has a price, even if it's not monetary. Besides, I just want to see this one, not get rid of him. I gotta see what anyone who could charm his way in here is like—figure out what caught your eye." He winks.
After a long pause, with Marius refusing to budge, you relent with a sigh. After all, you really do need that day off. "He's a priest at the church down the road—"
"A priest? Really?! Oh, this is too funny."
You glare, trying to pretend he hadn't interrupted. "—named Father Richter. He looked around 30, had long silver hair and gold eyes."
"You like them distinguished, huh? I get it." He sweeps toward your door in a smooth but hurried motion and knocks on it senselessly as he passes through, like he's got too much energy to refrain from hitting something. "Okay, you get some rest. I'll cancel today's plans. We'll head back tonight and schedule the rest of the acquisition talks for another trip."
"Mr. von Hagen, that's not really—"
"Hush! Rest! If you have the energy to argue about it, I'll put you in charge of all the cancellations, and I know you hate making excuses for me already. You'd probably implode from guilt if you're the cause."
The threat is a rare almost-sweet moment, in his brash and oppressively charismatic way. "Yes, Mr. von Hagen." The door closes, and you let yourself fall back onto the bed.
After so many years of suppressing his needs that they were all but gone, Vyn had forgotten how alive he could feel.
The very sight of you had ignited a fire in him; he'd reached out in part for the reason he'd claimed, but it had also been in pessimistic expectation of finding a reason to stamp out that fire. You'd only stoked it to burn more brightly with every opinion you'd spoken and every choice you'd made in the conversation, and he’d been left not only with the need to taste you but to save you from the inauspicious stars you suffered. Leaving once in the face of your irresistible draw had been a miracle; he hadn't gone far, occupying a nearby cafe with a view of your window so he could watch for the disappearance of its light.
You'd been absolutely delectable; in his intense thirst, stopping had been difficult, but your story had made it seem like you might return on future business, and he briefly entertains the idea that if you don't, he could simply travel to Stellis to find you. He needs to protect you. He must. Maybe he'll even resort to managing his thirst more proactively, drinking from the distasteful fools who follow the church so diligently, so he can properly savor you without risking taking too much next time. Plenty of the area’s populace had invited him in, and though his technique had grown rusty, he could make his visit be forgotten, blended seamlessly with the beginnings of those first always-forgotten dreams at the edge of sleep.
As he sweeps between the pews, blessed by your gift of life, gone are the stiffness in Vyn's joints and the pallid hollowness in his cheeks; even a human eminently aware of his kind might have trouble recognizing him for what he is.
But as the doors swing open to reveal an imitation who's anything but "human," Vyn focuses all his attention on the creature stepping in from the cold pre-dawn gray light that comes during Svart's late mornings. The supernatural have a way of recognizing their own, even from different kinds, and this is no exception as a spark of knowing passes between the two. An incubus? Vyn thinks with mild curiosity that turns to ashen bitterness nearly the instant the tall "man" with midnight blue hair opens his mouth.
"Man, Rosa wasn't kidding. This place isn't consecrated at all, no wonder someone like you can live here without any problems." It explains several strange details from your stories from the night before—especially your distress about your wasted potential, in that management of his schedule revolved more around his many dates than his business, most of which never returned for a second.
Consumed, maybe—not bodily, not like Vyn, but spiritually dimmed and dulled—the worst imaginable fate for someone as bright as you.
Still, it’s Vyn's duty to receive guests—even vile ones—and he explains in response. "The church's seat of power is so rotten that it relies on creatures like us to debride what festering flesh even it cannot tolerate. They could not consecrate a thimble of water, let alone designate true holy ground or symbols."
The incubus—Marius, Vyn supposes—approaches him with squared shoulders and the easy manner of someone unused to the word no. "You left my secretary in quite a state. I had to give her the day off because she was so drained." He smirks, like he's proud of the pun; Vyn, unimpressed, wonders briefly how long he'd spent coming up with it.
Executive assistant, Vyn derides silently, recalling the disrespect you'd been so upset over the night before and shaking his head while Marius responds with only a toothy grin. It shames him that you feel so unwell the next morning, but he presses his concerns: "It seemed to me she needed the rest whether I was involved or not."
Fight or flight instincts light up Vyn's nerves as Marius steps still closer in a painfully unsubtle attempt at intimidation; he feels a great need to demand Marius end any pursuit of you—you'd been clear about his relentless flirting, and now, seeing his nature, it isn't hard to imagine how he would covet someone like you—but Vyn also understands that he's the interloper, and Marius would have the prior claim and the power to keep you away.
Which Vyn could never allow, of course. He'd have to balance carefully, pressing his momentum without scaring you away....
And so the game begins.
“Y'know... heh. I changed my mind; I think this'll work out in my favor after all.” Marius’ grin never fades. “We’re leaving tonight, but we’ll be back in a month—both of us. For you, I’ll even make sure we get the same rooms.”
Vyn keeps his expression flat, all but certain Marius is merely making a poor attempt at reverse psychology— banking on the idea that fear of playing into the demon’s plan would keep him away—but he’s far harder to read than a human, and there’s room for doubt to take root like a weed. “What do you want out of this?”
“A thank you, for a start?” He puts on a mocking pout. “You vampires are always so stiff. Just because you were like them once doesn’t mean their lives are equal to ours. This world is our playground.” Vyn’s neutral expression doesn’t change, which causes Marius to drop the pout with a dramatic sigh. “I’m starting to feel unwelcome. Anyway, I have better things to do than... whatever this is. Ciao.”
The door swings shut, leaving Vyn holding his broom, thinking and planning rather than resuming his cleaning of the hall for the next service. The safest play would be....
It’s far too early to be considering—Vyn knows the fact that it’s even come to mind means he’s in trouble—but if he could convince you, somehow, eventually, to accept a life like his... Marius would lose his main route of attack, then grow bored of something inhuman. Maybe you'd be his saved.
Vyn can only be certain of one thing: his life is about to be more interesting than it’s been in centuries. Whether it's a good or bad kind of interesting would remain to be seen.