Arc 2: In Memoriam (Part 1)

The problem isn’t that I should be dead—completely dead, that is, not just undead. No; the problem is that I’m (as far as I can see) in a coffin and (judging by the feel of the air) also stuck under quite a bit of earth.

I remember how much I panicked over three decades ago on my first night as an immortal, when I’d woken up to this same situation. I had so few memories of my human life that even the knowledge I’d retained was minimal. I understood that I was a vampire, and I knew that my final test would be to emerge from my grave, but I barely remembered my own name, let alone how to get out.

At the time, my clearest memory was of transformation, a grotesque and painful experience that had left me mentally exhausted as well as physically weak. Now, however, though my latest memory is of literally burning to ashes, I’m slowly beginning to feel a growing sense of mental clarity. Maybe it’s just because I’ve been through so many dangerous situations that I’m now used to it, or perhaps it’s just that I apparently didn’t actually die.

Had I somehow been saved? Is there anyone in the city who might be able to take out a Desecrant as strong as Chryseus? Was Chryseus the one who spared me?

It’s strange—though I feel a rather terrible amount of thirst, I’m also far better off than I might have expected, especially after using up all of my reserves as I surely must have done to practise sorcery in the light of dawn, mere minutes away from sunrise proper. I burnt Canus’s heart, didn’t I? Surely I must have. I felt it dissolve in my hands, saw it dissipate into the wind. I have no Sire now. My wish has been granted, and I’m even alive to enjoy its effects.

Only, why don’t I feel happier about it?

Is it because I found out that Canus, for some reason, loved me?

I wonder how many nights ago all of this happened. It must have taken at least a week deep underground for me to recover the way I have. I breathe in the air and pay closer attention to the scents that surround me. It smells like wood polish and mortal blood. That explains it, then. Whoever saved me must have spared quite a bit of blood for me to have recovered so well.

I should focus on getting out.

It’s a bit of a hassle, but soon I manage to break a hole in the lid of my coffin large enough to start unpacking the layers of dirt above me. Afterwards, it’s easy enough (though thoroughly unpleasant) to make my way slowly through the loosening soil, keeping an ear out for what I might encounter on the surface.

I hear the hiss of light rain and of shoes squelching in mud. I hear two voices as they approach at a pace that is brisk for humans but languid for vampires.

‘Please, Miss, I don’t think it’ll be much longer,’ says the first voice. Human, female, and distantly familiar.

‘What am I supposed to do about it? Why didn’t you get my Sire?’ This second voice is far more familiar. Terribly familiar, even, but at the same time there’s something odd about it. Something fragile and innocent and oh so nostalgic. I don’t understand.

‘The master isn’t in, Miss,’ the first voice says again. ‘He left not two hours ago.’

‘But he’s back already. I can feel it.’

The first voice sounds a little panicked in response. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss, we can go inform—’

‘No, it’s fine. He must have just got in. And either way, it’s too late already—look; she’s coming out. You’d better leave now. Tell my Sire I’ll bring her to him once she’s cleaned up.’

That confirms it then. They’re talking about me after all. I tense as I slowly make my way through the final foot of dirt between myself and freedom.

The first thing I feel upon poking my hand out of its earthen prison is the splash of rain doing very little to wash my hand free of mud. The air is warmer than I expected, and it puts me on edge. Have I been recuperating for months? So long that the weather has already turned? Or is this just an aberrant reprieve from the bitter cold of waning winter?

‘Oh! You’re almost there!’ It’s said by the second voice, the voice that I’m not quite ready to name. Only, I don’t have to name it at all, because the next thing I hear is, ‘Hello. My name is Scintilla.’

I’ve barely made a hole big enough to see out of, but it’s more than big enough to show me a familiar pair of blue eyes staring down at me with characteristic curiosity.

Scintilla.

Scintilla is alive.

She’s alive and well and… introducing herself to me?

‘You’re so calm,’ she says in wonder. ‘I wasn’t nearly as quiet as you when I woke up. Or as fast. Did you remember how you were supposed to dig yourself out? Do you remember anything else?’

I remember you trying to kill me, I don’t say. I remember leaving you behind in that terrible little cellar, not realising that it would be the last time I saw you. Because I understand now: it had been the last time I saw her—my Scintilla, that is, because the one standing before me right now is not her. This Scintilla seems to have returned to her newborn self. She’s awkward and open and so very tentative. This isn’t my sister. This is the seed that my sister sprouted from.

I can only stare at her in horror.

She grimaces when it becomes clear that I can’t or won’t respond. ‘You should probably finish coming out,’ she says, then backs up.

I remember my task.

With difficulty, I reach my arms out of the ground and lever myself up far enough that the top half of my chest is free. Then, I pull myself forward, wriggling the rest of my body out. In the process, my pants slip from my hips, and I end up kneeling on all fours in the mud, trying to drag my waistband back up to preserve what little modesty I might have had. I’m not wearing knickers or a bra, but instead a vest and a pair of boxers—sleeping attire that I haven’t worn since I was a human.

It’s drizzling still, a light misting of rain that does little to disturb the thick layer of mud encrusting my every limb.

‘Do you know what you are?’ Scintilla asks. She’s much farther away now than when she last spoke, standing under a tree to keep out of the rain.

I nod. I stand up when I finish fixing my clothes.

Scintilla looks around awkwardly, then spots the small outbuilding where the gardening tools are kept. She rushes over, her speed betraying how anxious she is. She fiddles with the hose until a thin stream of water starts coming out of its spout.

I follow quietly, and she startles when she turns around to find me standing only two steps away from her. She stands there frozen for a very long moment before she holds the hose out to me. I still don’t trust myself to reach out to her, however, so I do nothing until she gives up and starts gently rinsing what mud she can from my skin and clothes.

As awkward as the situation is, it also gives me time to think. One thing is clear—I have returned to the past. If Scintilla is still a newborn, and if I just had to crawl out of a coffin, then it must be the night of my rebirth into unlife.

Only, it’s all different. I remember how I’d emerged into the eternal night, and it most certainly was not like this. I remember Canus waiting by my grave, greeting me stoically before using sorcery to clean most of the dirt and mud off of me. He’d lead me inside thereafter, showing me to the suite of rooms that would eventually become mine, leaving me to bathe and change and rest. It wasn’t until the next evening that Canus had introduced me to Scintilla.

‘Your hair,’ Scintilla says after a while, interrupting my thoughts.

I blink. Does she want me to wash my hair on my own? I’ve gathered myself enough now that I’m no longer afraid I might attack her on instinct, but I’m still half convinced that all this is some sort of a hallucination, that everything will vanish the moment I make contact with anything solid.

‘If you lean back…’ Scintilla offers.

I realise what she intends to do, and I thankfully tilt my head back. Water courses over my head. Scintilla’s fingers slot into my hair, carding through it and picking out the larger pieces of debris. I flinch at first, but then I lean into the touch.

On one hand, I know I shouldn’t trust Scintilla. I can’t trust her, not when she’s betrayed me. (Or rather, not when she will betray me some time between now and thirty years in the future.) Emotionally, however, and physically, I haven’t quite processed it yet, so seeking comfort from Scintilla’s touch feels far more natural than staying on guard.

‘It’s a lot, isn’t it?’ Scintilla says as she makes her way down my hair. ‘You’re doing much better than me. I was nearly insane with thirst when I first woke up, tore off for the closest thrall I could find and nearly killed myself on her before my—our Sire pulled me off.’

I swallow when she mentions thirst.

She winces. ‘Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that. I’m still new, you know. It’s been barely a week since I woke up. I barely remembered anything our Sire told me back when I was human, not at first. It came back after a couple days. Nights, I mean. But you must remember more. You came out of your grave faster than I got out of mine.’

Oh. That’s the difference, then. Canus wasn’t waiting outside my grave because he must have thought I wouldn’t get out until later in the night. I remember that it took me almost until dawn the first time around, but the sky is so dark right now that I can’t tell if we’re closer to sunset or sunrise.

Is it strange that I got out so quickly? Canus liked to preside over his progeny’s first nights on his own, so I don’t have any scale of reference beyond what Scintilla has mentioned. If what I’ve done is abnormal, I don’t know how I’d be able to explain it away.

Would anyone even believe me if I told them what had happened? I’ve never heard of any magic, sorcerous or arcane or priestly, that can change the course of time. No. They’d probably just think me insane instead. It’s better to keep it to myself.

‘I—’ I stop to clear my throat. ‘I don’t remember what happened,’ I say, ‘but I know things, I think.’

Scintilla’s hand freezes in my hair for a brief moment. It continues its attempts at detangling before she replies, ‘That makes sense.’ Her tone is far more careful now than earlier, when she was mostly babbling to chase away the awkward silence. ‘Knowledge is easier to retain across the transformation, especially if we’ve known something for a long time. Do you remember if you were a thrall before you turned?’

‘What’s a thrall?’ I ask, pretending to be confused.

‘Oh… I probably shouldn’t be the one to tell you,’ Scintilla says, deflecting.

I’m not sure why I’m playing dumb. I could have just said no, probably, but it might have made her suspicious that I remembered too much. It’s against vampiric law to tell a human about our existence without enthralling them, turning them, or killing them. (Exceptions exist in the case of humans with supernatural abilities, like witches and warlocks and hunters, of course, but it’d be immediately clear to her that I was none of those things.) If people suspected that Canus broke the rules for me, then it might be bad for him.

(Part of me wonders why I’m trying to protect him like this, and from Scintilla, no less. Another part of me remembers strong arms wrapped around my shoulders and a tense voice asking, why do you care? She betrayed you.)

‘Careful,’ Scintilla warns, ‘I’m going to wring out your hair now.’ The movement pulls at my scalp a little, but I hold back the instinctive wince.

‘Are you going to take me to someone who can tell me what’s going on?’

Scintilla’s grip on my hair tightens. ‘Yeah. He’s—’

‘Scintilla!’ a voice calls sternly from the distance.

Scintilla freezes as I turn my head towards the source of the voice, except that tears my hair enough that I can’t hold back a small cry.

A man is standing in the trellis walkway that stretches between the back door and the small graveyard where I emerged. Even from such a distance, even through the rain, I can see the shine of his bright silver eyes.

It’s Canus.