[A short story. Set in bk7. Rated PG. Referenced canon character death. Canon-plausible if not compliant.]

Keeping this piece short enough to be suitable for a zine was genuinely excruciating for me. Anyway please head over to Kokoroklongly's page on Twitter or Tumblr to find your link to the 2023 zine! There's good shit in there. Source: trust me.

PS Bloodline ch35 coming soon!

If things go irreparably off the rails in the War of the Scars, Mika thought darkly to himself, at least I have a backup career.

That wasn't to imply he'd abandon his post. Like a good captain goes down with his ship, a good Prince goes down with his mountain. It's just not nearly as glamorous. But Mika didn't get into this line of work for the glamour — he supplies his own. Which is why he could make an absolute killing (how ironic) running a funeral attire rental business.

With less than an hour to go before Paris Skyle's funeral, Vancha and Arrow had come to the unfortunate realization they'd neglected to properly store their formal black cloaks after Chok Yamada's royal sendoff over fifty years ago. The things were so dusty and moth-eaten they looked more like burlap now. Neither owned an appropriate backup. Luckily they knew a guy.

Mika's spare cloaks were too short for Arrow and too long for Vancha, but they'd do. At least Mika got a chuckle out of watching his friends preen in his mirror. That fleeting moment of amusement would have to be enough to carry him through the arduous ceremony ahead.

Don't get him wrong. Even in death may you be triumphant and whatnot. Maybe if the clan hadn't been neck-deep in the war for their future, this might feel more like the triumphant celebration of life Paris deserved. But the War of the Scars had been raging for almost seven years. Nothing felt normal, much less triumphant. It was a testament to Paris's legacy how many vampires had rushed back to the mountain. Or maybe they felt compelled to gather among friends within these sacred halls in case it ended up being the last time. Statistically, Mika's fallback plan was looking more promising by the night. So he cracked these dark little jokes that nobody else would hear. It made him feel better.

Almost time to head down. Mika took a sip of blood from his flask and dragged a comb through his hair. Paris would've appreciated the effort. And Mika could afford to spare an extra minute on his hair because he already knew what he was going to wear. If unwavering loyalty to one colour meant one less thing to think about while he carried a mountain on his shoulders on any given night — especially the hard nights — that was a damn good trade-off.

Paris never understood. As Mika turned to his glossy mahogany wardrobe in search of his funeral cloak, he heard his late colleague's voice so clearly he almost turned around.

"I've always wondered... why black?" Paris inquired casually one night as they sat in their thrones decompressing from a long conference, mere weeks after Mika's investiture.

"Why not?" Mika retorted. "Everything matches. Saves time. Looks professional — not that anyone in this mountain seems to care. And I like it. Is that reason enough?"

Present-day Mika cringed at how defensive his tone had been. Just because you're sitting beside him doesn't make you his equal, he longed to chastise his younger self.

Paris took him in stride and responded with more patience than Mika felt he deserved — "Ah. I always assumed you weaponized your wardrobe as a subtle intimidation tactic. My mistake."

Mika couldn't remember if he'd managed to smile at that. Surely a comeback that clever deserved a smile. On top of being honourable, intelligent, and courageous, Paris was so damn witty. Had he known that? Had anyone ever told him?

"Believe it or not, that part was a happy coincidence." Mika said.

"Well, if you ever decide you want to give off the illusion of being approachable, I do think a nice deep blue would suit you." Paris remarked, peering over at Mika with a lethal blend of mischief and sarcasm in those twinkling blues.

"Don't you have work to do?" Younger Mika scoffed back, rolling his eyes as he refocused on whatever document he'd been reading at the time.

Present-day Mika shook it all off. Enough of that. There were far better, fresher memories to reflect on. Why did his mind land on that one? No time to wonder. He opened his wardrobe and the question was answered for him. All he saw was retina-blistering white.

Damn. He'd forgotten about the new-to-him cloak.

Vampires don't have much use for legal wills, but Paris had left a short list of earthly possessions he wished to rehome. That was how Mika acquired this snow-white cloak with arctic fox fur trim several nights ago. He'd barely had time to look at it. He hadn't even bothered to unpin the note from the collar. It was eye-level with him now:

To my dear colleague Mika — I leave you my best cloak. I considered being cremated in it, but alas I couldn't bear the thought of it going up in flames. I know you will never wear it, but at least it will stay whole and clean in your wardrobe. May you remember me whenever you catch a glimpse of light amidst all that darkness. Take care of the others. You always were the smart one. — Paris

Mika exhaled a ghost of a chuckle. There was no time to overthink it. No point, either. The universe had handed him a golden opportunity to pay the ultimate homage to one of his greatest mentors. He removed the white cloak from the hanger with reverential care — and winced as he draped it around his shoulders. But the dent in his self-esteem only galvanized his conviction. Paris was somewhere up there right now, beaming with youthful enthusiasm, probably waving all the other dead Princes over to join him in pointing and laughing.

Have at it, then, Mika decided. Centuries from now — gods willing — the clan would be thriving and a new generation of Princes would be ready to take the helm and make sure Sire Ver Leth's funeral went off without a hitch. (He'd prepare an itemized list of instructions before he left, just to be helpful).

But tonight, if the sight of their stonefaced, infamously monochromatic leader showing up to the funeral of the century in this thing was enough to make even one battle-weary vampire forget the turmoil and uncertainty long enough to laugh in disbelief at Mika's expense, it was a price he was honoured to pay.

It was already working. Even as Mika roughly wiped his eyes one last time before putting on the invisible mask of steel and walking out the door, he saw his own smile for the first time in so long he'd stopped keeping track.

I've got it from here. Rest well, Sire Skyle. You've earned it.