Chapter Text
1734 Cranesmuir
Daniel puts down his razor and rinses his face, examining himself carefully in the polished silver looking glass. He’s certainly presentable. Cleaner than he’s been in weeks, and his deep green kilt and plaid is new, a wedding gift from his groom.
For the tenth time, he checks that the posy of herbs is still in his sporran. Lavender for love, a bay leaf for fidelity, belladonna for illusion, and a lock of hair from his husband-to-be. For good measure, a tiny vial of laudanum is tucked in beside it.
“Are ye ready, sir?” a tentative voice asks from behind him.
He turns to see the timid maidservant hovering in the doorway. “Aye,” he says, taking a deep breath before following her downstairs.
His new home opens onto the main square, across from the kirk. The space is filled with townspeople. They greet Daniel warmly, and he accepts their congratulations, shaking hands and participating in a few toasts. The brandy warms his chest and eases his nerves. Across the square, he sees his groom locked in similar conversation. They make eye contact for a moment, but Daniel quickly turns away.
Eventually, the group migrates toward the kirk. It seems that all of Cranesmuir files into the small building, filling the coarse wooden pews. Daniel hovers in the back, waiting for the entrance hymn to begin.
With the first whine of the pipes, the assembly rises. He follows the priest down the aisle, trying not to look at the man walking at his side. They take their places near the altar.
Daniel stares at the ground, letting the Latin words of the mass wash over him. The priest gives a long, somewhat dour homily about the gravity of marriage, and then he finds himself being asked to state his intentions. He seems to float outside his body as he dutifully repeats the familiar words.
The two men clasp their right hands, and the sound of his own name draws him back to himself. He locks eyes with his groom, listening to him speak.
“…take you, Daniel Molloy, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward…” His words are loud and clear, echoing in the church.
Daniel swallows, struggling to find his voice. “I, Daniel Molloy, take you, Arthur Duncan…” a wave of dizziness threatens to overwhelm him, but he forces out the rest of the vow. “…in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”
The priest says a few more words and asks them to exchange rings. Daniel has a palpable feeling of being shackled as the gold band is slid onto his finger. Then, Arthur steps forward, and he feels the press of warm lips against his.
The kiss lasts barely a moment, but it’s enough to make bile rise in his throat. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get through the night.
There’s a palpable shift from the solemnity of the mass as the priest produces a dirk. Daniel holds out his arm, and the sting of the knife against the skin of his wrist brings him back into his body with a lurch. The priest presses his bleeding wound to Arthur’s, tying their forearms together with a strip of tartan, and they repeat the Gaelic words of the handfasting.
After a final blessing, they take their seats for the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Daniel accepts communion with shaking hands, the wafer a dry lump on his tongue.
Their wedding dinner passes in a blur. Daniel drinks steadily until the world goes hazy around him. He enjoys the dizziness, laughing with the villagers as the moon rises. They dance long into the night, whirling to the cries of the bagpipes.
Eventually, he finds himself in his wedding chamber, waiting for his groom to appear. He stares out the window, watching the revelry that continues in the square below, trying to suppress waves of nausea.
This is the only way. Through his marriage to Arthur Duncan, the district procurator, he’s gained status, financial security, and social validity among the villagers of Cranesmuir. He can create a life. He’ll have the chance to get closer to the residents of Castle Leoch and persuade them to share their unholy power. And here, the domain of Marius, is the only place that Armand won’t dare to look for him.
He firmly shoves down his thoughts of Armand, locking them in the corner of his mind that he doesn’t touch.
His rumination is interrupted by the arrival of his new husband in the doorway. He’s very drunk, and stumbles toward Daniel, leering at him with greedy eyes. Daniel neatly sidesteps him, and Arthur collapses onto the bed.
On the side table is a bottle of whisky and two glasses, taken by Daniel from the celebration when no one was looking. He lifts the bottle, raising his eyebrows at Arthur. “Shall we have a wee dram?”
Without waiting for a response, he turns away to pour their drinks. Blocking his movement with his body, he reaches into his sporran. He fingers the herbs, feeling the glamour rise around him. Lavender for love, a bay leaf for fidelity, belladonna for illusion, and a lock of hair from his husband.
Deftly, he slips out the laudanum and empties it into Arthur’s glass.
1983 The Night Island
For the first time in weeks, Daniel doesn’t feel dizzy and ill when he wakes up.
He stretches languidly in the soft bed, enjoying the luxury of cool silk sheets against his naked skin. Eventually, he cracks his eyes open, looking around the room. It’s exactly the same, as if he never left. Elegantly understated furniture, that terrible minimalist painting, and wide windows that look out over the ocean.
He pushes down his emotions and climbs out of bed, crossing to the walk-in closet. He roots carelessly through bespoke suits, tailored to his measurements, until he finds a white t-shirt and an old pair of jeans hidden in the back.
As he dresses, he eyes his reflection in the full-length mirror. He’s clean-shaven and free of grime from his wandering journey. Vaguely, he remembers soaking in a warm bath, cool hands manipulating his limbs and shampooing his hair. Nausea rises in his throat.
He needs a smoke. Grabbing his leather jacket off the chair where he left it, he pads, barefoot, out onto the balcony.
It’s a clear afternoon, and the Florida sun is blinding, reflecting off the white sand and sparkling water. He rests his elbows on the railing, staring out at the sea. This view, again, despite everything. With a sigh, he roots in the pocket of his jacket.
His cigarettes and lighter are gone.
“Fucking asshole,” he grumbles to himself, tossing the jacket to the ground. There must be a pack somewhere in this godforsaken place.
As always, the manor is austere and spotlessly clean, room after room of elegant modern design framed with floor-to-ceiling windows. He heads to the kitchens, considering his situation as he waits for coffee to brew. The public part of the Night Island won’t open until sunset. Unless he wants to take the ferry into Miami to buy cigarettes, he’ll have to find them somewhere in the house.
He instinctively grabs one of his mugs – a tacky, touristic souvenir that Armand hates – and pours himself a black coffee. He knows there are boxes of his stuff in the storage rooms, brought from old apartments and never unpacked.
He takes the elevator down. Sipping his coffee, he wanders through the severe corridors of the basement. The concrete is cold against his bare feet. Eventually, he stops at a nondescript, padlocked door.
The password is his birthday.
The room is reminiscent of the inside of a moving truck, dozens of cardboard boxes piled on top of old furniture. He affectionately brushes the dust off a motheaten couch from his San Francisco apartment. Sitting down, he pulls the nearest box into his lap and tears it open. It’s full of clothes, mostly from his college days, band t-shirts and ripped jeans. The next is all books, dog-eared, his notes scribbled carelessly in the margins. Why had Armand kept all this stuff?
As he searches, he unearths stranger and stranger things. Newspaper clippings from his early journalism, bloodstained clothes that he remembers throwing away, a small hoard of ticket stubs, empty bottles of his aftershave. It’s like a three-dimensional scrapbook, a shrine to their 70s escapades.
Despite himself, he feels a wave of fondness when he finds a small leather jewelry box full of Polaroids. Him and Armand in London, Athens, New York; in suit and tie at the ballet and mesh and leather at gay clubs; half-naked in opulent hotel rooms. As he looks deeper, he finds candid shots of himself, taking a drag of a cigarette, sitting in front of a bonfire, asleep with his head in Armand’s lap. A blurry one of him glassy-eyed, with blood on his lips, Armand’s hand reaching out to cup his cheek.
He swallows, picking the last up for a closer look. As he does, he exposes a strange object at the bottom of the box.
It looks like an ornate pocket mirror at first, a folded, compact little thing. He grabs it, rubbing at the tarnished silver. It’s stamped with delicate Celtic knotwork, clearly very old. Curious, he thumbs the clasp and pries it open.
Inside is a painting of him.
He blinks in confusion, peering closer. It’s a miniature portrait, yellow with age, of a man dressed in an old-fashioned black coat and high-necked white shirt. The face is unmistakably his own. A little older and paler, maybe, but the straight nose and violet eyes stare out at him as if from a mirror.
Engraved into the silver frame is the year 1745.
He sits back, mind reeling. That’s him. In the eighteenth century.
The words of Louis’ interview from years ago find their way into his mind, like a distant dream. Louis had travelled through standing stones in Scotland, ending up two hundred years in the past. Is it possible that, sometime in his future, Daniel does the same thing? But if Armand has this painting now, that means…
“Danny.”
He looks up, startled out of his thoughts. Armand is standing in the doorway, watching him with an unreadable expression.
Daniel swallows and rises to his feet, clutching the painting in his hand. “What the fuck is this?”
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” Armand says, stepping closer.
Daniel scoffs, backing away from him. “Clearly. Answer the question.”
Come upstairs, I’ll explain everything. As always, Armand’s voice in his head disarms him. The vampire swoops forward, taking Daniel’s wrist in his cold hand and leading him from the room.
In the parlor, Daniel sits on the arm of the couch, still gripping the portrait with white knuckles. Armand moves to stand next to him. Despite himself, Daniel shivers at the nearness of his body.
He takes the miniature from Daniel’s hands, staring at it for a long moment. Daniel scowls at him. “Well?”
“I haven’t seen this for a very long time,” Armand says softly. He reaches out one long, clawed finger to gently touch the painted face. “Yes, Danny, it’s you.”
“Obviously,” Daniel snaps. “I travel to the past, then, through the faery stones? Like… like Louis?”
“Yes,” Armand says. He turns his gaze on Daniel, staring at him with glowing amber eyes.
“And you…” Daniel swallows. “You knew me. In the past. You already knew me when we met.”
“I did,” Armand admits.
Daniel rises to his feet, striding across the room. He runs a hand through his hair. “So, our life together has been a lie?” he says, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
A lie? Of course not, Armand is at his side suddenly, reaching out to touch his arm. How could you say such a thing?
Daniel gives a bitter laugh, covering his face with his hands. “You’re just trying to keep me alive so I become him. The man in the portrait. That’s all I am to you.”
Armand grabs at his wrists, pulling them down and forcing Daniel to meet his eyes. I take care of you because I love you.
Daniel is unable to tear away from his gaze. Slowly, Armand draws him closer, wrapping firm arms around him and pulling him into his chest.
Daniel can’t help it; it’s been months since he’s been held like this. He melts into Armand, clutching desperately at his back. Burying his face in his neck, he breathes in the familiar smell of him, blood and roses. “I fucking hate you,” he mumbles into his skin.
Armand doesn’t respond. He steps back, taking Daniel with him, and pulls them down to sit on the couch. Daniel collapses into his lap, shaking. Gentle yet firm, Armand takes his chin in one hand and pulls him into a kiss.
Armand’s cool lips send electricity shooting through him. He groans, licking into his mouth, chasing the taste of iron. Armand’s strong grip finds his waist, and he tangles his hands in his hair, moving desperately closer.
Icy hands slip under his t-shirt, stroking at his ribs and sending a shiver down his spine. You’re too thin, my love, Armand says in his mind. You must stop running away. Let me take care of you.
Armand breaks away long enough to pull Daniel’s shirt over his head. He pushes him down onto the couch, pressing cool kisses to his collarbones and down his chest. Daniel moans at the scrape of blunt teeth against his stomach, fisting a hand in his hair.
In a swift movement, Armand unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down his thighs. Long fingers wrap around his cock, and Daniel gasps, throwing his head back. Armand mouths at the skin of Daniel’s hip, stroking him firmly. He moves to lick a stripe up the underside of his cock, and then looks up at Daniel as he wraps his lips around the head. Daniel groans as he sinks down. “Fuck, baby, I missed you,” he pants, tugging at his hair.
Armand works Daniel until he’s shaking and crying out, thrusting into his mouth, and then pulls off with a wet pop. Daniel lets out a whine of complaint, digging his nails into his scalp. Armand ignores him, moving Daniel’s knee to rest on his shoulder so he can mouth at his inner thigh.
Daniel wraps his leg around him, pressing his heel into his upper back. He shivers when razor-sharp fangs brush his sensitive skin. Ask for what you want, Danny, Armand commands him.
“Bite me,” Daniel says immediately.
Good boy.
There’s a sharp pinch as Armand’s teeth sink into his flesh, followed by a rush of numbness. Daniel sighs in relief and lets the swoon take him, falling away into waves of pleasure. There’s nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears and the sweet drag of Armand’s mouth, tugging on his veins, on his heart. He feels himself sinking down, into the depths of a vast, cool ocean.
Eventually, Armand pulls away. He releases his grip on Daniel’s thigh and moves over him. Daniel blinks up at him blearily, lightheaded. “That was a lot of blood, boss,” he says hoarsely.
Armand doesn’t respond. He pulls Daniel’s jeans all the way off, and then lifts him, naked, into his arms. The room spins around him. Daniel closes his eyes and leans into Armand’s chest, letting himself be carried to their bedroom.
The Night Island is unusually busy. There’s some kind of performance being held in one of the casinos. Daniel wanders through the crowd, taking a drag of his cigarette. Armand left to go hunt, giving him a brief respite to gather his thoughts.
He steps into one of the bars, pushing through the throng to order a whisky. The bartender is new, and she gets extremely flustered when Daniel gives her his name for the tab, apologizing profusely for not recognizing him. It makes his skin prickle.
He finds a distant corner of the outdoor patio to nurse his drink, where he can see the young people cavorting on the beach below. At thirty-three years old, he feels suddenly ancient, watching them scream and throw each other into the surf. He lights another cigarette.
The miniature portrait is in his pocket, a heavy weight against his thigh.
Since that fateful interview eight years ago, he has been beholden to this dark underworld. No matter how often he tries to escape, he always finds his way back to Armand’s side, blood on his lips and teeth in his neck.
The entire time, he was merely a replacement for Armand’s old lover. That other version of himself, lost in the past.
He drops his cigarette in an ashtray and pulls out the painting, flipping it open. Holding it up to the light, he turns it back and forth, eyeing it closely. Is his skin paler and eyes brighter, or is it merely artistic license? Had Armand turned this Daniel into a vampire?
Putting the portrait down, he takes a sip of his whisky, relieved at the burn in his throat. He can’t go on like this. Armand is never going to turn him. Something must change.
For the first time in years, he finds himself thinking back to the details of Louis’ story.
1736 Cranesmuir
Daniel searches carefully through the shelves of his workroom, fingers brushing over jars and bottles, wiping dust from the labels. He has a rush of satisfaction when he finds the container of dried mushrooms. He brings it over to his altar, adding it to the array of herbs and crystals spread out over the surface.
The room is dim and smoky from the peat fire. He brings his candle close to the pages of his grimoire to read the dense, handwritten French. Nearly everything is ready. Once he collects the moonwater and prepares the sacrifice, he’ll be able to commune with the spirits. They will help him seduce Marius, convince the ancient vampire to make him one of them.
He’s interrupted by a hesitant knock at his door. With an annoyed sigh, he grabs his vial of white arsenic and crosses the room, opening it to reveal their maidservant. “Arthur needs another tincture already?” he demands.
“No, sir,” she says, curtsying, “there’s a customer for ye, sir.”
He raises his eyebrows. “The Anderson lass? Tell her it’ll be a few days yet until the brew is finished.”
“No, sir.” The maid looks even more flustered than usual, pink and shaky. She drops her voice to a whisper as she goes on, forcing Daniel to lean close to hear her. “It’s a… a Sassenach soldier.”
Redcoats in Cranesmuir are nearly unheard of. Daniel understands her anxiety. “I see. And he wants to speak to me? Not Mr. Duncan?”
“He asked for the witch, sir,” she says, voice low and shaky. “I dinna ken why.”
Daniel feels a rush of trepidation. His activities aren’t, strictly speaking, illegal, but certainly frowned upon by Protestant Englishmen. So far, his husband’s status has managed to protect him from retribution. This could be a reckoning.
“Send him up,” he commands, with more confidence than he feels. The maid curtsies and disappears.
Moving quickly, he blows out his altar candle and tosses a cloth over his grimoire and bone collection. In case of trouble, he slips a mare-stane into his coat pocket, alongside the vial of arsenic. He finds a decanter of decent brandy and two glasses, setting himself up by the hearth to receive company.
He’s pouring himself a glass when the door opens again. He looks up and his heart stops beating.
“Good evening,” Armand says, “I hear you are a proprietor of charms?”
Daniel stares at him, mouth dry, trying desperately to suppress his thoughts.
He’s dressed in the uniform of an English Lieutenant, tall and imposing in the scarlet coat. He’s wearing his own hair, thank God, not one of those awful wigs. It’s neatly clubbed at the back of his head, a few strands fallen out to frame his face. He looks a little more human than Daniel remembers him, flushed in the cheek, without quite as much unearthly radiance.
Every bone in Daniel’s body screams for him to take Armand into his arms.
Clearing his throat, he stares at the wall and starts listing the Latin names of plants in his head. He can do this. After a moment of struggle, he finds his voice and gestures to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
He hears a click as the door closes. Achillea millefolium, Aesculus hippocastum, Determinedly, he refuses to avert his gaze from the wall as Armand moves silently closer to him.
How do you know me? Armand’s voice sounds in his head.
Daniel wants to cry at the familiar feeling. Allium sativa. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says firmly. Shit, he shouldn’t be acting like the telepathy is normal. Arctium lappa. Arnica montana.
Armand pauses, looming over Daniel’s shoulder. Daniel stares down at his brandy, clutched in his shaking hands. Artemisia vulgaris.
He feels the insistent press of Armand’s mind against his, and winces, closing his eyes. “Please, don’t.”
Cold fingers touch the back of his neck, and the dam bursts.
Armand accosting him in Roma Termini, asking him about books. Presenting him proudly with a highlighter pink smoothie. Bringing him to dinner and a concert, watching him eat the bloody steak, amber eyes unblinking. His teeth in Daniel’s neck. Dancing in a sweaty club, bodies pressed together. Kissing in the back of a movie theater like teenagers. Watching from the corner of the hotel room, eyes glowing in the darkness, as the man from the bar undresses Daniel. The taste of his blood. Walking through the Louvre at night, pointing out their favorite pieces. His face the first time Daniel said ‘I love you.’ Painting Daniel, nude, laid out on their couch like an offering. Tying Daniel to their bed on the Night Island and taking him apart until he’s sobbing for it. Swimming in their ocean, under the stars, making love in the soft sand. Begging Daniel not to leave, cheeks damp with bloody tears.
Daniel covers his face with his hands. “Fuck.”
He takes a deep breath and looks up. Armand is genuinely shocked; an expression Daniel hasn’t seen before. He’s staring with wide eyes, mouth slightly open, hand still hovering near the side of Daniel’s face.
All or nothing. Daniel swallows and gently reaches up to take the hand in his. “I’m from the future,” he says.