Chapter Text
With a spike of vampire attacks, doctors began research on documented victims—attentive to changes in both appearance and behavior. An inquiry was soon released afterward, heeding all citizens to read, analyze, and memorize the stages. The document reads as followed:
“When bitten, most victims are eaten alive by their assailant. However, in the unlikely scenario they survive, they will find themselves spiraling into a transmogrification. None of it will be pleasurable. Culprit should seek immediate medical assistance if they fall prey to the lamia.
Stage one: Druxy, internal decomposition. Through there will be nothing but a puncture wound on the outside, it is inside we find their body wither away. The victim's body molds, organs conditioning themself to please the lamia's tastes. They are not remediable. There is no hope for them, even at this early stage. They should abandon the Gods, their body deprived of any salvation.
If your loved one becomes infected, do not question the Gods in their decisions. They must let go of some to love all.
Stage two: Saudade, Stockholm syndrome. Once the victim accepts that they are no longer a child of our Gods, they will turn to their perpetrator for comfort. Most showcase unhealthy levels of codependency, convinced that the lamia is the only one who can offer them peace—most preferably through death.
We ask you not to have pity on their souls, save your words for better prayers.
Stage three: Putridity, wasted angels. As the lamia rejects that which will turn, nothing remains for the rusted corpse. They bear no purpose, no reason to live. They are defective. Heed our pleas and pass on, we swore to not tarnish the soil our Gods’ let us walk on.
Upon death, we will miss what the victim could've been, not what they've become.
Most do not make it past the first stage, the idea of our Gods abandoning them enough to push them towards self-inflicted violence. Some argue their actions were instructed by our Gods, abandoned notes declaring it was their last chance at redemption. Do not believe them. Our Gods do not offer second chances.
Few who pass stage one suffer the most. They are the true outcasts of our world, never to be desired by man nor cretin. Their relationship with loneliness is one no rational being should bring themself to endure.
Yet have we found a case where the lamia aids the desperate. Studies suggest the lamia are incapable of feeling such compassion. Do not trust them, their words of endearment are nothing more than a manipulative tactic. They see you not as a friend nor lover, but a set of organs they hope to devour.
This is the fate of the vampire's curse—titled under, ‘The world, the flesh, and the devil.’”
♰
Social interaction was never a necessity to Martyn, more so an accessory.
He preferred to be uninvolved with the world, a type who happens to people-watch. Studying others shared many traits to that of verbal engagement, the only difference being the lack of responsibility. There’s no urgency when you're in the background—none of the mistakes made by performers able to fall onto you. You learn everything about the world, all without feeling even the slightest bit of guilt.
It's a joy of his, being so perceptive at how rotten humanity is at the core.
And he doesn't shy away from admitting that, it's people who lack the guts to believe his word. Many choose to turn an eye, taking his words—like they do most things—as nothing but a wisecrack gesture.
Their heedless nature allows Martyn to adapt with ease. For when they laugh, he laughs; when they pout, he pouts. It's the game of benevolent mimicking.
“Is what they say true?” Someone poses in distant conversation, their face grim, “Have they declared Jimmy dead?”
The other down some of their beer, a hand rubbing the back of their neck, “They're unsure, but I wouldn’t be shocked… All the paper just say he's gone missing.”
News surfaced this morning, now spreading like wildfire. Martyn felt his stomach turn while thinking what this entails for him.
“So, the canary might have met his end, huh?” He stage-whispers, sipping his own drink, “I wonder who the curse heeds warning to… Is it to the whole town, or to the next unfortunate soul?”
Bigb sighs, his head heavy as he stares down at his empty glass, “Such a shame. I know we had our jokes, but I do pray for nothing but safety over him.”
That gets an eased shrug out of Martyn, “I’m sure Jimmy’s fine,” he reassures, resting his chin in his hand, “he’s no soldier, but he's got the wit to defend himself.”
That's a lie. Martyn can't bring himself to hold faith for Jimmy, not if it concerns survival. Jimmy lacked self-preservation, carried no instinct. Martyn is convinced Jimmy would eat himself alive, if gullible enough.
“This was inevitable,” Martyn mutters, looking off at the distance in a scowl, “some of us just aren’t born to live long in this world.”
“Did you say something?” Bigb turns to Martyn with a curious glance, “It’s hard to hear with all the people talking.”
“Nope,” Martyn holds a gleeful front, “I didn’t say anything. Nothing of importance, at least.”
Bigb takes Martyn’s words at face value, questioning no further. It humors Martyn, how much trust the people hold towards him.
How do you bring yourself to trust with ease? Such approach is one Martyn can never wrap his head around.
It's bound to happen, being hurt by the ones you love the most, since none of it is in your control. The most you can do is pray that they have the decency to feel remorse in the end.
But his internal mulling stops by the outright silence that fills the room. He looks around before catching glimpse of the cause, growing tense himself.
At the door stood a person Martyn was all too familiar with. Their presence able to thicken air, making the room stuffy.
They look around, paying no attention to the glares, before locking eyes with Martyn. They smile, rolling their wheelchair forward—making the occasional squeak on wooden tile.
“Bigb! Martyn!” Scar greets, his face overly chipper, “How are you guys? Good, I presume?”
Martyn turns his head away, hiding the grunt he lets out. His grip on his drink tightens, wondering what hides underneath Scar’s casual exchange this time.
“Scar, hey!” Bigb bounces back, meshing with Scar’s bright mood, “Doing fine myself! What about you? How’s life been treating you?”
He uses their fruitless talk as a cover, clearing his throat to let out any visible irritation. By the time Martyn puts up a sham gesture, Scar’s all up in his personal space, “What of you, Martyn? Do say you’ve been well!”
Martyn leans back, dog-tired by Scar’s energetic display. “As good as I can be.” He hints, no one catching on.
Scar clasps his hands together, stars shining in his eyes, “That’s great! I hope me joining in won’t deter that?”
It does, and it took everything out of Martyn to swallow down that disparagement. He keeps his gaze away as Scar settles himself down at the table, soon to order his drink.
He had to know what he was doing. He was mocking Martyn, all with an unadulterated show. Each hum Scar let out pressed salt deeper into the flesh wound.
Because that’s what Scar does. He mocks those who are forced into close proximity. Close relations grow conscious to his mannerisms; how each interaction with him hid a high demand, an expectation you're required to meet.
You can only lie there, helpless, as the thread that has you wrapped around his finger tightens. How it binds you, forcing you to do as your told.
You’re used, and you can do nothing about it.
Scar had Martyn’s contract wrapped around his neck—the pressure just light enough to keep him alive, conscious of the pain inflicted onto him.
“So, Boss,” Martyn calls to, holding up a poor excuse of a smile, “what brings you here? It’s unlike you to be out in a place like this.”
Scar snaps his fingers, pointing a finger gun to Martyn, “So glad you asked! I am a busy man, so I’ll get straight to business!”
Martyn takes in every detail of Scar as he spoke, making a game out of his behavior. It’s entertaining, he must admit.
He takes in Scar’s smile, one that's too wide. His tone, so overly jovial. It does well distracting you from the aspects Scar couldn't hide—such as the lack of light you'll find in his eyes.
It’s impressive, Martyn thinks. He gives props to his commander, outdoing him in the act of pretending.
”You guys have heard of Jimmy’s recent disappearance, yes? Quite the talk of the town.” Scar continues, resting his arms on the table.
Both nod. “We were just taking about that!” Bigb informs, letting out a frown, “Yeah, it’s a pity… I hope he’s alive and well.”
The waiter places a drink down before Scar, who thanks them before taking a sip.
“Yes, it is unfortunate.” Scar sighs, letting out a grieving gesture, “I pray someone bears the will to go out there and save him.”
Martyn felt a brow twitch, unsure if he should laugh or grunt at Scar’s connotation. “Someone will step up, I’m sure of it.” Martyn follows up with a voice rather rigid.
He found it difficult to relax with the topic at hand, a constant taunt towards his job. It haunts him, like that of a spirit—you feel it loom over your body, that translucent body forever cold.
It leaves Martyn feeling like a caged animal, a dog with a tight collar wrapped around its neck. They leave him outside, lying in the run-down doghouse he calls home, until he’s of need. Only then does his people care for him; yanking the metal chain latched to his collar, dragging him wherever pivotal.
He could be nothing but dead, and they would still find ways to have use for his poor excuse of a corpse.
This grim outlook was a constant whenever Martyn thinks of his occupation. The weight on his shoulders never fail to feel heavy.
“Sorry,” he mutters, standing from his seat, “I need to excuse myself. Bigb, uhm… Can you cover for me, just this once? I’ll treat you next time, promise.” It wasn’t long before Martyn walked off, making his sudden leave out the door.
Bigb wished to ask what this was about, but he could only sit in his own confusion. “That’s odd, never seen Martyn act like that before…” He then turns to Scar, “Any idea what that was about?”
“No clue.” Scar shrugs off as he pulls out his wallet, setting a few dollars down onto the table.
“Oh, are you leaving as well?” Bigb takes note, thrown off by the pace of things, “You have yet to order any food, though… Are you sure you don’t want anything? Not even an appetizer?”
Scar waves a hand in dismal, rolling his wheelchair back from the table. “There’s no need for food, Bigb.” he reassures, soon to have his back facing the other, “I got what I came for.”
Bigb could only struggle to make sense of Scar's words as the other sets out the door.
“Hello, hello?” Scar calls out before poking his head through the office door, acknowledging Grian and Martyn.
Grian looks over, scornful at the sight of his boss. Many deemed Grian as the distant type, given his brutal quips and attitude, but Martyn argued otherwise. He merely did everyone a favor by verbalizing the thoughts they all kept pent up inside.
Truthfully, Martyn would say Grian was Scar's most authentic relation. When you spectate the two, you might just be able to convince yourself that Scar is capable of holding someone closer than arm's length.
“I see you sent Martyn.” Grian comments, straightening out a stack of folders. He slouches back once finished, turning his chair around to face Scar, “but, next time, can you do the bare minimum and give me an estimated time before you send people off my way? There's only so much I can handle, as I am rather tight on time.”
Scar replies with a simple laugh, feigning innocence with a finger to his cheek, “I did do that, didn’t I? My bad, I’ll make sure to be more aware!”
Grian's jaw tightens, all his irritation conveyed with a clenched fist pressed onto his armrest, “The leader of this organization. My boss, mind you,” he emphasis to Martyn, “but he can’t even have the common courtesy of saying something more formal than, ‘my bad!’”
Martyn began to feel awkward when he sees Grian cringe at his superior. A voice implores he steps out so Grian has a moment to let it all out. He would humor the visual of Scar being lectured.
But Scar prevents him from doing so, waving down a hand as he redirects the conversation, “Well, anywho, let’s get onto the dirty work, shall we?”
Grian lets out a delirious laugh, uttering, “‘dirty work,’ he says,” to himself as he pulls out a folder from the organized pile. He opens it, confirms it contents, then passes it over to Martyn.
“I’m sure you’ve heard by now, but Jimmy has gone missing.” Grian summaries, “Though, despite what some think, we can’t be sure if he’s dead. Our trails turn cold before we can make proper conclusions.”
“So I've heard.” Martyn mumbles as he inspects the papers for himself. In an instant, a single photograph of the scene catches his eyes: a few, canary-like feathers scattered across the ground, doused in blood. He points to this, tilting his head to Grian, “These feathers tell you anything?”
“Yes,” Grian nods, soon up and pointing to the blood stains, “The trail was small, but we suspect they ran towards the western hills. It's the most we've been able to deduct this far.”
Martyn eyes could only fall onto a front-view image of Jimmy. This case, the absence of this mere man, insinuates something the people should never know.
For centuries, vampiric abductions have been the leading cause of death. It's been that way since Martyn was born, and will be that way long after he's dead. Warnings have become frequent from neighboring towns. Most children tales revolving around kidnappings, a tactic used to keep the youth on high alert.
Though, by some miracle, Martyn's hometown never suffered many losses. Scripture says the Watchers rain blessings here, a contribute for the Gods that fought throughout the beginning of time.
“They offer us protection in exchange for our experiences.” Scar shared with Martyn once before, “We stay here, in their sight, and they vow to be there when we're at our best and worst.”
But now, the tradition is broken. They've captured Jimmy, and something tells Martyn they'll capture more. The thought of him working double time had drawn in a headache. It's too much, even for someone like him—a veteran who's grown so familiar to death.
Because that's what a hunter does: they take in the lingering smell of death. Its smell haunts you, enough to become its own person in every room. You're unable to tell if its friend or foe—so mundane, yet still able to make you nauseous at a given intake.
So, why? What made Jimmy so special? What made him, of all people, break a decade long pattern? To think, his sole existence put the whole town in harm's way.
“So selfish…” Martyn spits out, clapping the file shut. No one seemed to pay him any attention.
“I just can't understand it…” Scar speaks in a stump, “Why was there not a body? Victims are either sucked dry, or tossed to suffer from their curse. To not locate a corpse, alive or dead, is unheard of.”
The three soak in the silence, all these unanswered questions enough to make the room melancholic.
What was once accusation turns into guilt trip. Martyn blames Jimmy, but what if he was the one responsible for the man's demise? There is a chance, though it holds no evidence, that they changed their tactics because of Martyn. They might have went with a more sly approach, knowing a vampire hunter resides here.
But a snap of Scar's fingers catch him off guard.
“Oh, I just remembered!” Scar perks, “Tango caught sight of Jimmy on the night of his disappearance!”
No one make a retort till Grian turns his head in Scar's direction at a slow place .“You mean to tell me that you’ve been withholding information this whole time?”
The urge for Martyn to excuse himself was coming back.
“No…? Well,” Scar thinks through his next set of words, “I had just got note of this, happened while I went out to fetch Martyn. I saw Tango, waved at him, and found myself making small talk. Apparently, according to him, Jimmy snuck out that night. He said Jimmy looked paranoid, didn't want anyone to catch sight of him.”
“Jimmy left our Gods' premises?” Grian's eyes went wide, his body stiff, “Surely, he acquired a cross, right? He wouldn't just up and leave, he can't be that stupid.”
Martyn turns away, disturbed by this new information. Everyone knew stepping off the Watchers' land was forbidden—only those who gain the church's blessing permitted to do so. Immediate relinquish from the Gods result in exile.
“So he may had held a death wish.” Martyn mutters, that thought able to provoke Grian.
Scar nods, pressing on, “Tango mentioned Jimmy running west, so it seems we're on the right path.”
“Could he have planned to have meet someone?” Martyn suggests, that enough to get Grian up and out of his seat.
“The hell are you implying?” He presses Martyn, not pleased by his implications, “You're saying this was planned? You're saying Jimmy left our Gods' land on his own volition? That's not possible! I mean, I know Jimmy is nowhere near a sharp tool, but he's not that idiotic!”
Neither answer back to that. No one wished to admit that this was a likely scenario.
Devotee departure, a declaration used when a resident makes an attempt to run away. It's a choice you can never come back from.
Jimmy running away by choice changes everything about this case.
It was no longer a search party, it was a hunt. Martyn now finds himself required to bring back Jimmy's body, whether he finds the man dead or alive. It's standard protocol, a way they apologies to the Gods for housing a traitor.
“Seems I'll take my leave tomorrow, then.” Martyn concludes, keeping the front-view photo of Jimmy for future reference. He could feel how dense each step was while heading towards the door.
“Martyn,” Scar calls out, a voice nothing less than authoritative, “one more thing.”
He looks over his shoulder, silent so his superior can continue.
“Be careful,” the look in Scar’s eyes unnatural, “this canary is but a warning, a calm before the storm. To think what lies for us all… Makes me sick just thinking about it.”
Martyn nods, taking in the severity of the situation. He planned to leave it there, but a sudden, “Here.” Catches him off guard.
He catches the pectoral thrown at him, one with an eye carved in the center—the Watchers' eye.
“And when you find his corpse, you bring that body down here, right to me!” Grian demands, swinging his arm down to point at the ground, “I need to see that fool one last time! Need to tell how just how stupid he is before they incinerate him!”
The air lays thick, all so tense.
Though, with them here, Martyn can’t help but feel human. It’s here, under all their fronts, there's care for one another.
And, to think, he had the nerve to complain and insult Scar's integral authority just moments earlier.
“Yes, I'll do that.” Martyn obliges, holding the pectoral tight, “May the Gods watch down on you all.”
“And may the Gods offer you their protection when you roam out of their sight.” Scar bounces back, soon to turn and tend to Grian.
♰
A rat squeaks, getting Martyn's attention with a head scratch, “I know, Dennis,” he mutters, taking in the coniferous forest around him, “you're tired. We both are, aren’t we?”
He was running off of nothing but hunches and speculations, the information regarding Jimmy so limited. There were multiple times Martyn feared he had just been going in circles.
“Now, where could have Jimmy gone?” He asks his mount, only to get a soft squeak in reply.
For Jimmy to make it this far, all on his own two legs, is impossible. He’d wear himself out, become exhausted. So, he should have a camp near by, right? Somewhere to call it quits for the night. Martyn becomes diligent to the thought, hoping not to miss any hints or details.
But is Jimmy that resourceful? Martyn would be more convinced if the canary took up someone’s offer, residing in someone else’s home than built his own. Jimmy was… skillful at having others take pity on him.
Martyn only continues to moves forward, having grown accustomed to his new surroundings; how the pine cones being become crushed underfoot, the occasional squirrel scampering about, how the birds chirp, the evergreen trees towering over him, the more earthen aroma. All of it brought peace to Martyn. He wouldn't mind moving up here once he retires.
That thought gets a dry laugh out of him. Retirement made Martyn feel bittersweet, knowing that's all it'll ever be: an idea, a fantasy. But he swats the thought away, sure it be best to ignore it.
His attention turns back to his venture. How long has he been out here without a break? Looking up, it was evident that night was upon him. Might be best to set up camp, let Dennis get a long rest.
Yet, something holds him back, a part of him that's restless. What if his laxness lets Jimmy slip past him? Martyn deemed it be best he push his luck, but that would mean he'd have to overwork Dennis. The bits of sympathy in his heart pours onto his mount, a rat that's had his heart since he became a hunter.
“Alright, boy,” Martyn calls with a smile, propping off his saddle, “let’s call it quits for tonight, yeah? Maybe, we’ll catch sight of that canary tomorrow—”
Rising smoke catches Martyn's attention. What could that be?
Whatever it was brought out a delectable smell; one that had Dennis lifting up his nose, sure to find the cause of the fragrance.
“Wait, Dennis!” Martyn rushes after, not wanting to lose track of his mount, “Don't run off like that!”
Still, as he took in the smell, he grew curious himself. What could emit something so fresh, so sugarlike, in a forest like this? He let Dennis wander as he stays close.
It wasn't long before they stumbled upon a small cabin—one quaint, but cared for. Martyn never got to experience that of a childhood home, but if he did, this is what would come to mind.
The door opens, a man of a taller stature stepping out. “Well, hello, m’lad!” He greets with a sprightly tone.
His look matched the feel of his cabin, someone who radiated warmth. He wore a ruffled top—one that teased bits of his chest—and baggy, earth-green pants that tucked into his leather boots. It all worked with the dark red fur coat that hung from his shoulders, bits of it lug behind him. Nevertheless, the detail that strikes Martyn the most is the man's hair, being quite unshorn. It all reminds you of the pelage found on a large dog.
“Care to tell me what someone like you is doing here, at this hour?” The homeowner questions, stepping off his front porch.
Martyn could only blink, unprepared for this late-night interaction. “Oh, just here for business and happened to pass by.” He establishes, motioning for Dennis to turn back around. “Sorry to intrude, we'll be leaving now.”
“Now, hold on there, lass! You seem worse for wear…” The stranger points out. Given his tone, he was either the type who was overly inviting, or below desperate for company, “Why not take a step inside, make some blether? Idle chat?”
It was a tempting offer. Martyn was lured by the man's incense, holding that saccharine smell from earlier. It was strong, meaning the food inside was fresh out of the oven.
Dennis, a curious type, steps up and sniffs the man. The stranger didn't seem bothered, holding Dennis' face in the palm of his hands. “And, hello to you as well, lass.” He whispers, won over by the creature, “Might you have a name?”
It took a moment for Martyn to register this as his cue to talk. “Oh, he doesn't have one.” He lies, “Don’t want to get too attached with my line of work, you know?”
The stranger frowns upon hearing this, Martyn felt that the man preferred the opposite. “Is that so?” The homeowner hums, “What work do you do that has you keeping all parts of yourself in the dark?”
“Vampires.” Martyn spills out, not someone to sugarcoat, “I locate missing townsfolk, handle dishonest believers. Tell me, you wouldn't happen to come across any of the three as of recent, have you?”
The man thinks on it, tilting his head in thought as he mutters, “Missing folk? Ill believers?” Despite his best efforts, he shakes his head, “No, don’t believe I have.”
Martyn couldn't stop himself from clicking his tongue, looking away in frustration. This was his best bet of getting a lead, and he turns up empty.
“Are you sure?” Martyn reaffirms, curious if the pressure will have the stranger cave in. “Any information will be beneficial. I am expected to bring a body back home.”
But the man is just as stubborn, so sure when he says, “Aye, I assure.”
What a peculiar accent, one so prevalent yet comprehensible. Was he Scottish? Martyn didn't have much time to think on it, as the man progresses their conversation.
“Now, will you come in?” He invites, early to escort Dennis up to the front porch, “Seems as if you two need the rest.”
“We really can't…” Martyn declines, keeping to his formalities. He'd like to stay on protocol.
Vampire hunters are told to refrain from any and all forms of help. Rest is not a basic need, but a luxury you gain through the work found on your blood-soaked hands. Only those who must rest away the spirits they've killed shall be rewarded.
But the man before him doesn't know when to quit, pleading once more, “At least stay for the scran? The food? If not for you, then for the little guy. He seems warn out.”
Martyn looks down at Dennis, who shuts his eyes in a peaceful slumber. In such short time, he's already curled himself up into a snug ball.
How unfortunate, the sight being enough for Martyn to cave in.
“Fine,” Martyn follows the stranger inside, “I'll see it that I stay for dinner.”
Inside, the decor is just as pleasant, making the most out of a small space. Bits resemble that of a shop, items hung up behind a small desk. other ends, such as the stove and table, mimic more of a house kitchen.
For someone living all alone, the man managed to make do with what he had. It was enough to make Martyn feel shameful, knowing his living space was nothing compared to this.
“You said you were handling work, m'lad.” The stranger mentions, grabbing dining utensils, “One of those hunters?
Martyn sets himself down at the table placed against the wall, “Yes, I happen to be one of those.”
Should he stay quiet, or continue on? Martyn holds no intent to wear out his welcome, so this conversation shall hold no weight to him. “I'm in search for a man named Jimmy, one of the local residents; went missing a while ago.”
For a moment, and only a moment, the man halts. Or did he? His recovery was so quick that it left Martyn second guessing himself. Is he just desperate to get a lead, so desperate he's beginning to make stuff up from thin air?
“Well, I do hope you find him.” The man gestures, “I can't imagine being out there, all alone.”
Once the stranger sets the table, he picks the food up, off the kitchen counter, and place in the center of the table. Before Martyn was a fresh pie, one filled with strawberries.
“Or, maybe, it’s best he remains forever lost…” The man shifts his tone, Martyn looking up to see bits of a smirk, “You did say you'd hope to bring back a body.”
He's perspective. Martyn notes, rather pleased at this reveal. He'd assume the man to be more naive upon first impressions.
“It’s merely part of my work.” Martyn explains, bringing a slice of food to his plate, “It's required of me.”
The stranger sits across from him, soon to take his own slice, “Well, if you ever grow hopeless, I'm willing to offer my body to you.”
Martyn chuckles, waiting for the other to laugh back.
But there is no reciprocated laugh. There only remained silence.
Martyn's face drops, bewildered, “You’re serious? You're just… willing to offer your life to some stranger and his work?”
The other nods, taking a bite of his food with an earnest smile, “Aye.”
Who was Martyn dealing with here? Who could be so willing, so accommodative? He's never met a man like this in his life, it left him intrigued. He couldn't stop the smile that builds on the edge of his lips.
“Maybe, I will,” Martyn entertains before taking a bite out of his dish—relishing in the blend of outer crust and inner filling, “And, if I were to, what name shall I give the corpse?”
That gets a laugh out of the stranger. “My name is Rendog, but I ask that you name the body Ren.” He admits, “My friends would respond more to that nickname.”
“Friends?” Martyn jabs, his smile turning coy, “You've managed to make friends, even when you’re off living in the middle of nowhere?”
But he reels back regret immediately after the words slip from his mouth. How shameful of him, unraveling himself in front of a total stranger. He apologies to Ren, embarrassed by his harsh words.
Yet, Ren does not seem insulted. To Martyn's surprise, Ren begins to play along. “Somehow… I've been able to come across a few people up here, near the ben.”
“Do you frequent in business?” Martyn asks while taking another bite of his food, “I noticed you have some things on sale.”
Ren sways his head side to side, unsure himself, “Something of the sorts. I’m interested in running a shop, but… I struggle to believe I am made for marketing, I’m not the most persuasive type.”
Martyn looks over at the small collection of goods, taking note of a wooden sign with the name Renchanting carved into it.
Ren. Renchanting. How innovative.
“So, what about you, vampire hunter?” Ren forms a more rivet expression, “I've had so much of the spotlight that I've heard nothing about yourself.”
It's best that way. Martyn thinks, not one who liked getting close with others. He had work to thank for that, witnessing many forms of betrayal over the years. He knows how detrimental it can be to open yourself up to someone, offer them your heart, just for them to yank it out of your chest and leave you dead on the floor.
“I’m afraid that must remain private.” He refrains, the next bite of his food tasting more sour, “I’m not here to be friendly, I'm on the job.”
Ren nods, respectful of Martyn's boundary, “I understand, Do forgive me if I appear pushy, it's established how little human contact is for me.”
Even as Ren laughs, Martyn can only go on to feel guilty. Every word he said, every action he took, towards Ren felt wrong.
“Do tell me, why did you move up here? Why this place to run a shop?” He changes topic, wanting a redo.
Ren takes his time to think on it, sipping on his mug, “Moved for the convenience, the former owner gracious enough to lend it to me. Stayed for the lifestyle,” he looks out the window to take in the night sky, “It’s cramped for some, but it’s cozy to me.”
“It’s noiseless.” Martyn mutters, fond over that particular detail. The idea of living in the middle of nowhere, of having no one aware of your existence, sounds like paradise. He wants this—to be free of these shackles.
He reaches out to grab another slice, his plate empty, but he hesitates. Martyn didn't want to come off as a pig in front of Ren.
“No need to restrain yourself, lass.” Ren implores, “Take as much as you'd like, I didn't see myself eating it all with just myself.”
There's ease in his shoulders, feeling bad as he takes another piece in his hand. He takes a bite, licking corners of his lips.
The food was riveting, pure heaven. Ren cooked the crust to at a perfect temperature, resulting in a solid texture that supported the strawberry paste. It all was enhanced by Martyn's hunger, nature's best seasoning. This outdid any food Martyn had back home, there was no doubt about it.
“How generous of you,” Martyn muffles through a mouthful of food, “Offering such food to someone you just met… Too kind, if you ask me; especially for someone with restricted socialization.”
Ren could only smile, happy to the sound of someone enjoying his food. “I am, aren’t I? I feel it only makes sense, such occurrences are rare for me. Is it not logical to treat it as something celebratory?”
Martyn hums, able to make sense of that logic. There was more he wished to say, but his senses were all pulled towards the food before him.
“Do tell me if the scran lacks anything.” Ren drums up, doubt looming over his abilities, “I’m new to the recipe. I had it on my shelf for a many, uh…”—he clears his throat—“a small set of years, and I worried that the instructions weren't up to par.”
“It's divine,” Martyn exclaims, humored by the idea of taking a third piece, “How the paste melts in your mouth, how the bits of strawberry break down with each chew. I've only had dreams of this back in my village.”
Ren's eyes widen, still at the compliments. The laugh he lets out is light, “What a relief to hear…”
It laid blissful for a while, the two making small talk while they eat. Martyn couldn't tell you the last time he felt like this—at peace, able to overlook all his worries.
“I’m in need of a business partner.” Ren opens up, their dishes long been empty by now, “Work is fine on its own, but I've grown tired of it all being so desolate.”
Martyn slouches back, arms crossed. The idea of working for Ren was favorable, it offered Martyn a glimpse into an easier lifestyle.
But he can't do that, he knows better.
“I’d love to, but I can't with my current position.” The rejection hurts, nothing able to be done about it. He made his promise, his oath, that he'll be in this role until he's no longer needed. Scar sure to be clear of there being no exceptions.
That gets a huff from Ren, who smirks in confidence—as if he planned this. “Is it really you leaving your job,” Ren counters, leaning forward, “or, is it you gathering intel? Is it you just doing your job? For all they know, you're doing what you must if you wish to track down Jimmy.”
He had a point. This position would benefit Martyn, offer him more than what he's been working with. Still, Martyn wanted to be sure that he isn't digging his own grave. “Am I responsible for any expenses? I haven't found myself indebt for eating some of the pie, have I?”
Ren seems appalled by the mere idea, waving his hand in reassurance. “Never would I entertain the thought, m'lad! I could never bring myself to do that, no matter how hard I tried. All your cares will fall under me, I promise.”
That cleared any distrust Martyn held against Ren. He pondered the offer once more, “Surely, working here for a few days won't hurt. Though, that will change if I feel that I haven't made any progress.”
“You’ll get something.” Ren reassures, rather too sure in his tone. “Something will reveal itself in due time, I'm sure of it.”
Ren then extends a hand to Martyn, “However, if we wish for it, I think I should know the name of my business partner.”
“Business partners, huh?” Martyn raises a brow, hesitant in his stare.
But he caves, taking Ren's hand in his, “Martyn. I look forward to working for you, Ren.”
“Working beside me, lass.” Ren corrects, gentle with his words, “It's an honor to know you, Martyn.”
Thus, a pact was made.
Martyn never thought he'd be offer Ren's bed.
Once they tidied the place, Martyn got a run down of the house—the main room, the kitchen, the workspace.
Not long after Martyn told Ren of Dennis' name, Ren pulled out cheese wheel he had tucked away and offered it to Dennis on the porch. “It's not like I'll ever finish it.” Ren downplays when asked if it was okay for him to share all this food.
After all had been taken care of, Martyn was then brought to the bedroom.
“My,” Martyn smirks, turning his eyes to Ren, “a bit early to escort me, wouldn't you say?”
Ren goes flushed, only now aware of his gesture having multiple implications, “While the image is flattering, I meant you will be having my bed throughout your visit.” He explains, “I'd hate for my business partner to work with a bad back.”
There was a small tint in Martyn's cheeks as well, abashed by how bold his words were. “Yes, that is more sensible. My apologies for being so immodest.”
It's dismissed, Ren soon stepping away, “And, if you ever need me, just shout. I'll be lying on the couch.”
So, here Martyn was, resting on the other's bed, tuckered out from his long journey. He must admit, Ren’s bed is serene; nothing like the thing he calls a mattress back home. Even when wearing the clothes he ventured out in to bed, it felt like heaven. He hasn't been able to sleep this soundly in years.
All of it blinds him to the door that creaks open, a figure still at the frame—their eyes peering at Martyn.
But it was not in disgust or sacrifice, it was one of adoration.
They were careful with each step they took forward—controlling their breath, light on their toes—before they loom over Martyn's restful state. It takes everything out of them to look, to not touch.
Leaning forward, their head hovers right over Martyn's. He's managed to encapsulate their heart, wrap it up like ribbon with a gift box, and he doesn't even know.
“It's jarring,” they mutter to themself, “how your beauty is enough to make me enflame.”
If they laid next to him, matched his breathing to theirs, could they be one with him? Could they have him, in ways beyond mere physical realm?
Sweat rolls down their face, unable to control the urges. As they open their mouth, slick, sharp fangs turn exposed—shinning in the darken room like that of the star-filled sky.
But Martyn lets out a gasp, clutching his chest tight. He lays still, his breath shaky, as he fades through the last bits of his nightmare.
He turns to his other side; the spike in anxiety wearing him down, leaving his body heavy as he sinks back into the unconscious.
They watch it all unfold in the shadows, only to motion at the sound of Martyn's light snoring.
How much they yearn to hold him, to aid him of the pain. But they knew better, for their love goes as far as distant longing.
Ren takes his leave, Martyn on his own for the rest of the night.
♰
It had been some days since Martyn and Ren sought business together. Despite his initial thoughts, Martyn must admit he preferred Ren's company.
Ren offered Martyn a new perspective, one he once thought unachievable for someone such as him. It was through Ren he learned what it meant to be cared for, to be cherished. Everything done by Ren was done with pure charity, something he both came to love and hate. How could someone offer every bit of themself, their body nothing but a mold for others…
Still, he found himself caring for Ren.
Which is why it was foolish of him, to have hoped for things to last in the end.
Ren had stepped out, “It's a regular of mine,” he informed beforehand, “his name is Joel. I hope you'll meet him someday before your departure.” That meant Martyn was on his lonesome for the time being. He deemed now be best to tend to the few chores he assigned himself. Today, he turned his attention to the kitchen—wiping down the countertop and stove, washing the dishes. It all was become mindless work to him.
So much so that he's grown too careless when handling the knives.
The cut was minimal, something Martyn will forget about in some hours. Still, it would be best to keep it wrapped around a cloth, prevent any blood smears.
He shuffled through the drawers, skimming through them all till one caught his attention.
To Ren. It said on an envelope—one already open. It's condition was seamless, most likely recent.
It's odd, is it not? Someone so stranded receiving mail. All the time he's spent here, Martyn never recalled Ren heading out to fetch mail. Did Ren have a mailbox in the first place?
His curiosity ate at him, and he didn't hesitate to read what's inside.
“Hello Ren,
Though we have yet to meet, I hope you are doing well. I'm sending this in regard to me and Joel, thanking you for offering us this eternal life together. This wouldn't be possible without you, and for that, I am forever in your debt.
I fear my disappearance may cause an uproar in my hometown, so this is my warning to you. Martyn is a renown hunter, and I'm sure he'll be up in the forest looking for my body in the next coming days. If you come across him, refrain from speaking my name. If word gets out, it will cost all of us our lives.
He will be persistent, protocol enforcing him to bring back a body, but he must give up at some point. I'm sure of it.
It pains me to write this, as I want all of this behind us. Once Martyn is out the way, we may have a chance at happiness.
Until then, I will continue to reside with Joel and await my ascension. I raise a glass to you, a cheer for this eternal life I am blessed with.
May the Gods forever turn a blind eye,
Jimmy.”
Martyn’s grip tightens, creasing the paper. “What is this?” He mutters, shaken by what he'd just read.
Ren knew of Jimmy? The thought made Martyn sick. Everything Ren presented, everything he offered, was it all him getting Martyn to shoo away? Was this partnership nothing but a decoy? He didn't want to belief it, to acknowledge it. He didn't want to see Ren as someone capable of betrayal.
But he reads the letter once more, then again. He's cursed at the knowledge, the result of him snooping too far into another's business.
Ren knew of Jimmy—he knew of Martyn's arrival, knew his intentions. This meeting was planned from the start.
But that is nothing compared to the bigger truth.
Jimmy talked of eternal life, something unobtainable to mortals. This wasn't a man talking, it was a lamia.
Everything was likely staged. That photograph of Jimmy's feathers laying amidst the blood-stained grass was nothing but a ruse. He threw everyone off, all so he could be with a lover.
And Ren knew every bit of this. He played a role in Jimmy's plan, providing aid. Hell, Ren was out talking to Joel, a lamia itself.
How could Martyn be so oblivious as to let Ren taunt his plans right in his face?
“Martyn?” Ren calls from the main room, his tone innocent, “Sorry about that, Joel can be pratsam, rather chatty.”
He was hit with fight or flight—unsure if he should run for it, or shoot Ren down from where he stands.
Martyn pulls his body into the living room, unable to make eye contact as he holds the letter to his chest.
“Oh, what's that in your hand?” Ren questions, blissfully ignorant as he talks to his business partner, “A letter? It's not often I get those… See, the mailman has to hand deliver it to me since I don't own a—”
“You lied to me.” Martyn's body turns tense.
Ren froze, his eyes wide, “What was that, lass?”
“You lied to me.” Martyn repeats, all his rage boiling into his voice. He reveals Jimmy's letter, “You lied! All this business you've gone on about is an act! A way to deceive me!”
Ren remains still.
“All of it was to cover for Jimmy!” Martyn calls out, pointing an accusing finger, “Said you've never heard of him—don't know of him—but you do, don't you?! You’re covering for him, as he asked you to!”
Ren remains still.
“It's the truth, isn't it, Ren? Say it's the truth! Say you let Jimmy turn into a vampire, say that Joel friend of yours is a vampire, say you’re a vampire! Because that's what you are, isn't it?! A sick cretin, a failure made by the Gods!”
His throat burns, but he doesn’t care. All he could see is red. Dark, violent red.
“I ought to kill you.” Martyn threatens, stepping forward, “I ought to bring them your corpse, just like you said. Crush your skull, tear your head off… It's what an abomination like you deserves! It's all you should know, all you should—”
He didn't have time to act, a pair of arms soon wrapped around him. As hard as he might, Martyn's arms could only hang at his side when Ren presses his head into Martyn's shoulder.
Ren couldn't stop shaking, tears falling as he fears for his life. His secret was out.
“I know, Martyn,” Ren whispers, tightening his hold “I know, I know, I know. I know I lied. I know I lied, and it hurts to know. It hurts to know this is what I am.”
“I planned on telling you,” the vampire admits, “I just needed time. I needed to have you to myself for a while, then I would've told you and let you go. It pains me, knowing I hurt the person I call a business partner, a friend. It was time, all I needed was just a little more time…”
Ren bawls out tears, his body shaken by the thought of their relation falling apart.
One emotion conflicts another for Martyn. He wanted to hurt as much as he wanted to hug, wanted to wrap and squeeze his hands around Ren's throat as he accepts his apology. How could he believe the words of a liar, a liar who didn't wish to be in this position to begin with?
Ren couldn't say anymore, overcome by his tears. This was a burden he long wished to burn.
Martyn lifts his arms, wrapping them around Ren. He holds him just as tight.
No matter how much he demands himself to finish the job, to spit an I hate you straight to Ren's face, all that leaves his lips is a simple, “I forgive you.”
The two held onto each other for a long time.
For here is when they unravel, strings of themselves forever entangled with the other.