volkarin | SALTBURNT

[ It's the sound of pages turning that alerts Emmrich to his visitor before he actually sees him, pausing by the door, his hand on the light switch — and looking only mildly surprised — before closing it behind him. ]

One learns to adapt, [ he says, schooling his expression into a polite smile.

A part of him wonders if he ought to have expected this to happen sooner. He's hardly unaware of the fact that he's made himself somewhat unpopular, and though he's giving Armand the benefit of the doubt as to why he's here ... benign encounters typically don't begin with breaking and entering. ]

I wasn't expecting guests.

[ The air of predatory control in Armand's body language is anything but benign, lacking only a tail to twitch in anticipation, but he remains where he is, amber eyes catching the light for a moment before he glances back at Emmrich. His fingers spread across the book in his hands, almost caressing the page. ]

Yes, well. As I recall, your recent adventures have sorely tested the adaptability of the population of this house. I thought it might be prudent to return the favor.

[ He snaps the book shut -- then is abruptly on the other side of the study, a sharp breeze briefly ruffling pages and loose paper the only indicator of movement. Showing off for Emmrich; as always a victim of his species' love of melodrama. Almost idly, he picks up another book and starts to leaf through it. ]

You mentioned in your message that you believe our souls are trapped in this place. For centuries, I have believed myself to be damned, my soul destined for the deepest pits of Hell to atone for the acts committed in life. Yet you claim it has been.. waylaid here. I'd like to know more.

[ The only comfort Emmrich can really find is in the fact that, were his guest's intention solely to kill him, he'd have attempted it already. Granted, there's still time — he hardly seems happy — but, as the line of Emmrich's jaw goes tense, his brow pinched as Armand flits from one side of the room to the other, he doesn't move in pursuit or in retaliation. Rather, he moves — slowly, slowly — to his desk, taking a seat in his chair as though this were any other visit or consultation. ]

You were ... adversely affected, [ he states rather than guesses, his expression betraying more sorrow than anything else. ] I'm sorry, despite how little that may be worth to you.

[ And though he draws in a breath to further explain himself, he stops short of actually doing so — intention hadn't prevented what had followed, nor will it ease the man's pain, such as it is. Instead, he folds his hands on top of his desk, allowing himself only the briefest consideration of his companion's invocation of Hell. ]

All I know is what the Sibling chose to divulge to me. She described a "ceiling" over this place, one that prevents souls from finding rest. Atonement, I'm afraid, hardly factors into it.

[ His hands lift, then, mimicking a barrier and an enterprising spirit. ]

My order believes that a soul, when separated from the body that had once housed it by death, will then pass into the Fade. Others believe in Heaven or, as you've alluded to, Hell. Such a system of belief might designate this place as Purgatory, but I'm inclined to think that's not quite the case. We're living, breathing, and moreover, our souls remain tethered to our bodies except for when the process of death begins.

[ It's a troubling idea, but nothing that Armand hasn't already considered. The power of the forces at work is unmistakable, having cowed devils and gods in their control -- he can't see any other explanation than being trapped somewhere beyond the veil.

He remains where he is, watching Emmrich from across the room, glass-sharp nails resting lightly on the pages of the book in his hand. After a moment, he nods, carefully closes the book, sets it on a nearby stack, making sure it aligns exactly with the book beneath it. ]

We're not all living and breathing. [ He spans his hand lightly on top of the stack of books, trailing his fingertips over the leather as he approaches Emmrich's desk. ] I am dead, yet my soul remains. A quandary for your order. When I was turned, I was already at the gates of death, poisoned and sickened. Because of you, as I lay dying once more, my mortal life was restored to me. Your mistake meant that I was able to taste mortal food for the first time in five hundred years. I felt my heart beat, my lungs fill with air. I was able to remember..

[ He pauses, glancing away from Emmrich, hands fidgeting closed and open again, clearly lingering over his words. When he looks back at him, there's a fragile resolve in his expression. ]

You killed me and you gave me life. I wanted to thank you.

[ As Armand speaks, Emmrich's expression doesn't fall, exactly, but grows more open, his brows knitting, his eyes round and searching. His face is a clear canvas for the surprise that thank you provokes, his breast filling with— guilt? Grief? Gladness? (He's never been the sort to really hide his feelings, especially not in a context like this.) It's enough emotion, regardless, to suppress his natural curiosity at Armand's claim at a living death, bypassing his usual inclination toward inquiry. ]

I don't believe I deserve your gratitude, [ he says carefully, passing a hand over his forehead. ] But I ... I'm glad that death — that life — brought you some measure of peace.

[ He stops short of saying more, uncharacteristically soft-spoken in the face of the consequences of his actions, so clearly and earnestly presented. He'd known people had died — had seen them bleed out and perish — but there's something uniquely painful about the idea of succumbing not because of the revenants, arguably not his doing, but because of an illness he'd allowed to finish its terrible work.

He hesitates before speaking next, aware that what he's asking is deeply personal, but they've arguably crossed that confiding line already. ]

—Do you wish it? To be mortal again?

[ The welling of surprise and bittersweet gratitude is as clear in Emmrich's mind and heart as it is in his face; Armand reads each with the same opaque expression, as if having made his confession, he's been forced to retreat back behind a necessary wall. Only his hands betray him; he brings them together to fiddle with the ring on his left hand, restlessly.

Does he wish to be mortal again? A question every vampire asks himself over and over down the advancing years. Armand has no easy answer. He'd begged for the Dark Gift before being turned, even before his illness, wanting to be as beautiful and eternal as the master he loved more than anything. Mortal life had only ever brought him pain and sorrow -- life as a vampire could surely not be worse.

How wrong he had been. ]

No. [ He says it softly, after a long moments of silence. ] No, I could not. Even if I could somehow survive the disease in my body -- the world I left behind as a mortal no longer exists. That boy no longer exists. I only know how to survive as I am now. The only reason I would seek mortality would be to seek a final end, the death that Amadeo survived. And I now know I cannot achieve that here.

[ He would enter the jaws of death only to be spat out again, perhaps growing worse and less himself with each attempt. ]

No, Professor. I am a vampire. I will always be a vampire. My kind are not meant to find absolution.

[ A shadow passes over Emmrich's brow — the shape of a skull flickering over the gaunt set of the necromancer's features. Perhaps inevitably, he thinks of the immortality that awaits him, of the latent promise of lichdom. For years, he has feared the cost of it, brought to a standstill that he might simply die before achieving it. He fears that less, now, but he'd be lying if he said he hasn't considered the fundamental shift the vampire describes to him. Who will he become, when the man Emmrich Volkarin no longer exists?

But this isn't the time nor the place for him to wallow. (And he has one point of certainty, besides: he has promised Parisa his eternal devotion, and in that, he knows, he'll never waver.) ]

You believe you are all damned?

[ He picks his words carefully, thinking not just of the teachings of the various faiths throughout Thedas but of the rather different natures of vampires as he understands them and as he's encountered here.

(He doesn't put much stock in the ideas of salvation or damnation, largely because of the proximity he's had to death for nearly his entire life, but— he understands the appeal of it, the reason for it. After all, forgiveness is one of those rare things that cannot be bought. Wouldn't it be a comfort, to be absolved by an all-knowing and merciful god?) ]

Or do you believe it solely of yourself?

[ Like fragments of rock falling through the upper atmosphere, Armand tracks the bright flare and fade of thoughts through Emmrich's mind. No tedious mortal considerations here -- he recognises the shape of the necromancer's worries from the edges of John Gaius' influence. A shame that the god of death hadn't lingered much longer; Armand wonders what Emmrich could have learned at that man's knee. How to cope with eternity, surely.

Also: Parisa. Interesting, but not unexpected. She is a collector of interesting subjects, after all. ]

Vampires are monsters. [ Armand offers his answer as he moves back across the study, back to the armchair he recently deserted. He folds himself into it as he continues: ]

Killers, defilers, abominations before God. If we are not damned, what hope is there for mortality? To become a vampire is the greatest sin, a rejection of God's plan, desire and hunger made flesh for -- what reason? To prey on the innocent and the weak, culling them like sickened animals? To provide a lesson to mortal men? I was once taught it was so. We exist as the shadow of evil, to prove God's goodness in reflection. Therefore we must be evil, we must be shadows. We must not know joy, or simple pleasures. We must be beautiful horrors. So I learned.

[ He drags himself back from reflection to look at Emmrich. ]

For what reason do you practise your magic, necromancer? For whose benefit do you profane the dead?

[ As Emmrich listens, his hand finds his temple, the point of one long finger going back and forth above his brow, visible evidence of an unsettled mind. He straightens only at that last question, a breath of laughter escaping him at the word profane. ]

You're hardly alone in thinking of a necromancer's work as blasphemy, [ he begins, his thoughts still caught on the edges of Armand's answer. ] But our work — my work — is not to disturb nor raise the dead but to ensure their peaceful rest. Much of the Mourn Watch is dedicated to funerary rites, to settling the affairs of wayward souls.

[ There's more to it — the spirits that death attracts, the distinction between spirits and souls — but that's not really what Armand has asked. Hesitation plays out in a pause, a fractured breath, the shape of his thoughts breaking and reforming as he changes his track. ]

There are ways to truly profane the dead — and the living. I would do all that is within my power to prevent it, to protect those who cannot protect themselves from the abuse of the occult.

[ His gaze falls, then levels in the vampire's direction. ]

If I may be so bold — what we are taught is not always the entire truth. Were you a servant of evil, truly, I expect I would already be dead.

[ The complexities aren't unexpected. Armand watches Emmrich with equal amounts of fascination, though a sullen brooding look remains on his face, as if he's still wondering if he shouldn't meet Emmrich's expectations after all. ]

Your actions last month lead to the deaths of innocents, yet you still attempt to protect them. More than anything, you wish to atone for what you have done. Even now, you would accept your fate at my hand, should I decide to take my vengeance. [ Armand lifts one of the hands in question, spreading his glass-tipped fingers before curling them back into his palm. ]

Do the dead ask you to speak for them? Or do you simply assume that you know best, that you are the one who must settle their soul's account? [ Armand tilts his head thoughtfully, finding unexpectedly that he's enjoying himself a little. He hasn't had a chance to engage in philosophy like this for a long time, not since leaving Paris and her crowded little cafes and salons, where he would spend long hours debating love, suffering, the nature of God. ]

We are all servants of evil, Professor, and therefore we must also be servants of good, for they cannot exist without one another. The vampire is cursed to take the lives of mortals in order to survive. Yet we are not soulless. Some choose to end themselves rather than continue such an existence. They are driven mad by horror at themselves. Should I do so as well, and save those who would suffer because of me? Perhaps. Should you take up your art against me, to save them instead? You claim to want to help those who cannot help themselves, yet you allow me to sit before you, unharmed. What does it say about you, that you have not attempted it? Would you commit to evil, in order to save the world from evil?

It is less that we are asked, [ Emmrich says, careful in his choice of words, ] than that we are the only ones capable of it. Who will listen, when the dead call.

[ His head cocks as he considers the next questions posed, Johanna's visage flashing before his eyes. He's more of a mess of contradictions than he appears: a necromancer with a fear of death, a soft heart matched with steely determination. ]

Must you kill? Can you not drink from another without draining them completely? To take blood is not to take a life.

[ His hand falls away from his face, curling into a fist atop his desk. ]

You have a soul. You are as touched by suffering as those you would claim to inflict it upon. Are you, too, not deserving of my time and my attention?

—I would, if it was what was demanded of me. Commit to evil, in order to save others from it. Is that not a small price to pay? One soul — mine, not that of another — exchanged for many. I fear it less than I fear the veil that separates us from the dead, and even that, I fear less than I once did.

A thin veil, these days.

[ Pensive words from the dead man in the chair, before he lapses into silence for a few moments, considering Emmrich with his tea-coloured gaze. Darker, when he's not exercising his power, closer to the shade they were as a human. ]

We can drink without killing. But it requires control, which can only be gained with experience. By the time a vampire reaches that point, they have already been killing, one or perhaps two a day, for many years. Hundreds of deaths. And even if we leave our victims alive, who can say if they will survive our attention? It requires care and time to recover. Some never do. Who can say that it is the better option, to fade slowly away?

[ He pauses again, considering his words. Glances away, then back again. ]

What is it you would do with me, given your time and attention?

[ It's so much — so much more than Emmrich had expected given the relative ease with which the vampires here seem to exist. Maybe he ought to have expected it; they're all, by his understanding, well into their years, no longer fledgings and used to controlling their hunger. But one or two a day, for years—

To have another question to ponder is a blessing, muscling past Emmrich's natural instinct to try to find a solution to the problem that's been posed to him. His gaze re-finds its focus, returning from the nebulous distance past the rise of Armand's shoulder. ]

What would you ask of me?

[ Simply put, in contrast with his usual penchant for spooling on. And he could go on, but they've suggested the shape of whatever words might follow already: unlike many of the souls and spirits that Emmrich deals with, Armand requires no interpreter. ]

[ A good question. Armand weighs it carefully for a few beats, holding the necromancer's inscrutable gaze. What does he want? Vengeance on such a man seems unnecessary, not to mention pointless. He's already got what he came for -- as close to an explanation as he's likely to get, as well as some interesting insight into Emmrich's personal philosophy. So, what's left?

After a moment, the air shivers where he used to be, pages ruffling in a sharp breeze. Armand is abruptly on the other side of the desk, standing beside Emmrich and looking down at him. He raises a hand, slowly, drawing his fingertips through the air close to the necromancer's jaw. His expression is pensive, a little distracted. ]

Honesty. Your order cares for the dead. Could you come to care for someone like me?

[ Armand's question seems to startle Emmrich more than the quickness with which he flits across the room, suddenly so close, his skin buzzing under the phantom of the vampire's touch. He blinks, but manages not to flinch or tense — his brow furrows as though he hasn't understood what's been said, lashes fluttering as he vies for clarity. But there's only a beat of silence that passes between them, instinct pulling two plaintive syllables forth from Emmrich's chest. ]

Of course.

[ As though he couldn't imagine why Armand would ask, despite the preceding conversation, all their talk of good and evil and monsters in the world. But— that's his nature, to be so in love with the world despite his place in the kingdom of death.

And then, suddenly, his expression breaks, a breath of laughter escaping his parted lips. ]

—We might begin by your sharing your name.

[ A temptation to sketch that firm jawline with the points of his fingernails, to draw him up and sink into the steady pulse. What would his blood taste like, full of death magic? Sweeter, or fouled by the touch of ghosts? Armand decides to find out. But not today.

He lowers his hand and allows himself a bashful smile of his own, a flutter of his eyelashes as he folds his fingers together, like a child caught reaching into the cookie jar. ]

Ah, well. Yes. [ He looks down at Emmrich. Tilts his head a little. ] Armand. My name is Armand.

[ It occurs to Emmrich, not for the first time, that Armand wields his beauty like a weapon. The principle is one he's familiar with, given his proximity to Parisa. (Would Armand consider it a curse, too?) ]

I'm glad you sought me out, Armand.

[ His tone is earnest, almost painfully so. There's no pretense, no disingenuity. No sense that there's a soul in this world he couldn't learn to care for, in time. ]

You needn't call me professor, unless you so prefer it. Emmrich would do.

Emmrich, then.

[ It's not entirely conscious, taught to him young and still a habit all through his years as grub in the shadows and Master of the Coven. Control, at the core, no more difficult than holding a pose for hours for an artist and his visiting patron. Always ready to serve, to please, to offer a beautiful object for the wandering eye or hand. He can no more stop himself from doing it than he can stop himself needing blood to drink. Useful for the hunting vampire and for the lonely boy who smiles softly at being allowed to call the necromancer by his name.

He glances around, taking in the room, as if just now becoming aware of his intrusion into a private space. ]

I should leave you to your evening. And I will look forward to calling on you again. Goodnight, Emmrich.

[ A bow, and a blink -- and, with shameless theatricality, he's gone, as if he was never there at all. ]

SALTBURNT | inbox.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: suicide talk

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject