Moonchild (BL)

Dangerous hope

BEFORE THAT DULL, LIFELESS period following Lockwood, I had always scoffed at the stories I read about maidens pining for their absent lovers whom they've hardly known for a week or so, and have no business falling for. I believed that beings were worth more than the ambiguous affections of silly dubious suitors.

Then, like a crude trick of Moria, it happened to me, and an understanding simply dawned that I had not been any different at all. Just as absurd and foolish. It was a human trait— absurdity— and half of me was in fact, human. Thus, my world was similarly small, and I could only bleed a little before finally faltering.

And so I let myself reel over the unknown hollow Luan Sainte had left within me. A hollow in which I found myself burying a fathomless pit, so empty yet so brimmed at the same time. I guess all I really wanted to say was that I missed him. And the pain of it was a yawning chasm, one which I yearned to let myself fall into.

WHEN WE ARRIVED FROM Lockwood, the sun was already high up in the sky and the birds sang sweetly. The house had been surrounded by the prickling heat of summer, and its halls were empty as vampire residents huddled in their beds for day-warm sleep.

It was as we predicted. No one even wondered where we had gone, or cared that we were gone at all. If some had noticed, they did not try to speak about it. Not one believed something good would come out from associating with ourselves. The House of Dusk lived smoothly with us, and even more so without us.

Our rooms were dusty, crowded with grime from a two-month-long cleaning negligence. No matter how tired we were from the half-day journey, we swept the floors, buffed the window pane and dusted our beds from the accumulated smut. We did not bother returning the swords and the clothing we stole back to the manor's armory. Instead, we stored them in our closets, pushing the tailcoats and sheaths further in the back of our usual garments. No one ever bothered to check our dull and beggarly belongings anyway.

"I did not expect a prince to be so nice," Norwin had said when we were gathered for breakfast the next day, our rest surpassing the usual amount of hours. The fatigue caught up to our system.

He and Herard had been talking about the events that transpired: the nights of skirmish, the rationed meals from villagers (which they truly missed), Caleb who they had grown close to in their conversations (that they expressed the regret of leaving without even saying goodbye), and most of all, my unorthodox closeness to the second prince.

"You were so inseparable, it's curious and revolting," our youngest would tease, not knowing the context behind our relationship. "That last day, he asked so much about us dhampirs as if he almost wanted to be one of us." Norwin chuckled, taking a bite off a stale bread he found lying on the nearly-empty pantry of the canteen.

Herard gave me a quick look of concern, which I caught right away. He then shifted to Norwin, entertaining his endless fascinations. "He's just interested," he'd reply.

"With Savius, I reckon." The youngster snickered to chaff at me who was already glowering. "He looked at you as though it would kill him to lose you," he added.

I forced myself to roll my eyes and groan in pretend disgust. I did not have the energy to banter, but if for the sake of my brothers not worrying about my self-inflicted pain, I would have to put in the effort. My pain should not be an imposition.

"Oh, c'mon. As he should! Savius is a powerful seer now. He can cast Invus! And you must've liked him at some point. He obviously wanted you to." I blushed at Norwin's sort-of-compliment. We really had not talked about my newfound ability— and with that, I was completely fine with. I did not know how to respond to commendations anyway.