*kisskisskiss* to my betas, Vanessarae and Viola Cornuta, the most fuckawesome duo ever.
Disclaimer: All blah-blah-copyrights-blah-blah etc. don't belong to me.
~~This isn't going to make sense at all if you haven't read two important Dead Confederate outtakes, Crucible and Indian Red. And here's a warning: Don't turn out the lights ;)~~
Song (thanks Q!):
Rebelward Without a Cause
Three hundred and seventy-two years.
Revolving around myself.
Three hundred and seventy-two years, and I was still here, exiled.
I shed no more tears, though unlike my half-brothers, I was now able to do so.
I'd been waiting; I'd been watching.
For that specific alignment of man to furry beast to imprinted vampire, of planets and supernatural worlds.
The Lunar Eclipse on axis with the Summer Solstice.
The first go round, in 1638, I'd been reviled by my brother Aro because of my children… the immortal ones.
The twenty-first of June, two thousand and ten, I would be reunited with my kin.
My long banishment ended.
"Come. My darling pet… I can smell thy musky pelt." I lifted one hand to beckon the sleek black animal to me, "Do not wait out in the cold night of the plains."
Largely wet huffs and deep smoldering snorts, and the elegance of her pads sifting across the dim marbled floor, her approach caused a vibration through the rest of the vârcolac. "Settle now, my loves. It is only your sister, returned from the Americas."
Light yips were muffled under paws as they continued their dreamless sleep in heaping piles around the large room whose walls were carved from the heraldic insides of a long-dead Gryphon's cave. Formerly Assyria, where Babylon and Mesopotamia had spread around and stretched beyond me, I was locked up inside the depths of this mountain; the spoils of the fearsomely clawed, brightly-winged creature at my behest.
Treasures to surround me, in my travesty. The structure had been demolished and embellished as befitted a Queen of the very Damned. Luxurious fabrics, the richest adornments, columns and silver and gemstones and gold beyond count. But no windows. And no escape from this craggy garrison. Protected from daylight and sequestered from civilization through unapproachable terrain and the harshest weather of both extremes.
"Mmmm," I worked my fingers through her luscious, jet fur. Long, silken waves brushed my hand and shadowed the royal jewels whose heavy weight spilled in prismatic shatters when the tall, soot-black tapers' light flickered over me. Upon her haunches at my feet, my own pricolici princess soiled the midnight opulence of my lace-bedecked gown with her panting, but I cared not.
She had saved my life.
The moon was in them; it worked upon their long, muscled bodies as it had ever done from times before even I had known the earth. My beloved werewolves walked upright in human form for most of their lives, yet I adored them most as they were now. Wonderful, gargantuan Goliaths who would battle for me.
That glossy celestial orb that called the tides of the ocean, the currents of their bodies, was also in me. But being born as I was—a vampyre—it altered my essence in such a way that I myself could no longer see the day's light, for to do so would mean my death.
Not an instant succumbing to its mercurial burn; instead my demise would slowly infect me from inside… a scorching virus whose destructive path would wander languorously from the very least cardinal of my appendages, thence to my minor organs, lastly to my brain… after three or more days of agonizing affliction.
Relying upon my hell-borne hounds, I had eventually discovered the cipher to end my nightmarish existence in exile from the empire that belonged to me, from the ramparts I used to stroll about in unconcerned proprietorship.
I swept her gruff aside to look at her bared canines. The whites of her eyes were bleak and twisted over by diamond irises that knotted backwards into carnelian when I asked, "How fare your far-off brethren?"
Redolent of fire and ash, the sodden path of her incandescently wet breath steamed from wide, damp blackened nostrils and lolling tongue.
Her coat shook, and the timber wolf worked her way across the tiles, clacking her elongated sabers to the white stone.
Hackles risen, she returned and snuffed at my hand, her grim snout raised heavenward, cursing the Moon's blight.
The meaty contortions of Tamara's feral face were telling.
Her Paul had been spelled upon, as was portended.
I grabbed under her stout neck, purchased my fingers to her scruff, pressed our faces together, monster to mongrel, "And dear Katrina?"
The snorts of her exhalations were stallion-like. Displeasure had her back arched and her enlarged paws kneading the woven rug under my feet.
"I love how much you detest the succubus." Cumbersomely, I kneeled beside my heeled pet."It makes me thirsty for more and more blood, my beautiful bitch."
Snarls ripped from within her, harvesting the night.
"Hush, yes, I know, I know," I patted her flank, uncurled her quadruped claws. "Paul is to be yours… yes.
"But they must imprint for our bedlam to come into being."
Her howl mirrored all the spines of lances shoved into the enemy's throat at battle! Her neck craned upwards, and her sinews were trapped amidst the long, unending, gluttonous growl exiting the narrowed aperture of her throat.
Enraptured, hungry, I haughtily stroked the quiver-shakes that threatened to rip her apart.
Paul and Katrina had mated.
I, too, trembled with ferocity to be set free from the musty cell, from the chains of non-light, from the assassination that had been done me—almost—by my favored brother.
"Have they?" I attempted docility and softness and charm, yet my fangs bit out beyond my lips and my pronunciations ended with cobra-hisses. All my insouciance was shed like snakeskin. To be this close. I trebled with ferocity to be freed. I trembled.
"Have they become one unto the other? Paul and Katarina? Lupen to valkyrie?"
Unleashed, like my glorious vagr. To commit chaos and killing and death and destruction and…my REIGN!
Yes, I was unutterably excited.
The most atrocious act my brother, the Chosen One, had perpetuated against me was the unjust carnage of my children.
A Halfling in every sense, Seraphiel my dam, Zeboul my sire, I alone had been granted regeneration, through my womb.
Sent off to the deserts of Babylonia, I was to procreate with many, to ensure our line remained intact.
Even mated to Marcus, I had pined for my groveling lovers, each chosen from indelible heir-istocracy.
My garments ever undone, my arms gathering the males, my lips kissing, my love trounced and denounced as year after year I procreated in the name of my true liege. Zeboul.
His lineage was continued through me.
But they were mine alone.
Only Aro knew the reason for my sequestering.
He confessed to Marcus.
Caius, that useless hindrance with the face of a donkey's ass, knew nothing.
Marcus brought himself to my gruesome birth chamber.
His strong grasp helped me through the pains of life-giving.
Each time I laid, waiting, Marcus stayed beside me.
He held me blameless while he railed against his own biological uselessness—the studs whose bodies serviced mine were bred solely for that purpose; unparalleled power, cunning and pulchritude were the precepts by which they were created, for me.
"I would give you this!" Marcus's bellow blew fast and cold as a glacial gale.
"I know, my love."
I named and coddled and dandled and delighted in each babe; the effortlessness of maternal love replacing the pains of grueling labor that left me retching and robbed of my… strength.
Sanity shattered each time, anew, when anonymous nursemaids carried the young away to a far-off settlement where they were to be raised by the hands of others as warriors for the future of our race.
One child per season.
The Immortal Children grew.
In the 1500s, Aro ordered my presence during his inaugural voyage to the New World.
In one of the southern states on a balmy night that was familiar with screams and splatters and screeching flesh and bone, hoofs flew and our nightmarish cadre coalesced into one haunting parade.
Our flags raised; the red an emblem of blood spilled, and more to be had.
My throat dried.
My cries extinguished into unheard screams; I had not prepared for this!
In front of me, my hundreds of children were tied to one another, and every child in each stage of life was bound to my neverending soul.
Spiritually, they begged me to save them from the surrounding blaze that jumped closer and closer until their skin turned into a reeking ooze. My young, my children, my beauties!
Aro gave no quarter.
I listened to their keening screams for all my centuries: Mother! Mother! It burns! My skin, my face… My EYES! I cannot see you, Mother. Please, help us!
I bridled my mare and implored. I grabbed my hair, the ground, and the ashes that fell around me smote me and took my race's fertility with them, into the mud of the earth.
My throat too tight to speak, my legs incapable of holding me upright, I'd crawled towards Aro over the patchy scorched ground, "Were we such a threat?"
He ignored me, but to sneer, "This is how it should be, sister mine… you, on your knees before me."
Ignobly, he scattered the ashen plumes that had been my offspring, even laughing a little.
The massacre of my young was only the beginning.
Time had all but forgotten me.
My children had been disintegrated by The Son.
I was interred by my bereavement.
Invisibly, I went about the castle; that which had happened was never mentioned, so my mourning was seen as mere insanity by all except Marcus, who vowed to avenge my loss.
Secrets passed liked silk veils among the servants, and I became nothing more than gossip for entertainment.
Two things my brother and that tool of his, Caius, should have learned.
Perhaps three, or four, more.
Caius believed he had wreaked havoc upon the wolves.
He had not.
Caius thought me happily dim.
Every time he turned his back to take up a new plaything, I mocked him.
I was never that canonized female they took me for.
Aro overestimated the laws of the firstborn.
Fool. It was about to bite him in the arse.
By sororicide, they thought I was dead.
It had happened as such not much more than a century after the razing of my young ones.
Unto a European village whose citizens were thick as timbers; our brigands rounded up the peasants, making them circuit to the drumbeat of our steeds' bass bruises o'er soil.
I followed a Siberian bear of a man… his only trespass was that he recognized our forces.
Craving the jump of his vein between my teeth, I'd lost all but my huntress' instincts until it was too late.
"Because you harbored your children, because you created from your womb… because you still prefer the love of Marcus in lieu of allegiance to me… you will die now, Sister."
Against my throat, Aro had gurgled, tackling me and taking me utterly by surprise.
His hands tilted my neck to an awkward angle so that he might shear my throat from my torso.
My venom was rain.
It sizzled his face and acidly cratered the sod 'neath me.
And as Aro's teeth took apart my neck, and jets of my life squirted up to the night, my head departed, leaving my body to collapse into a sinkhole that covered me over.
What found me next, my head severed free, aflame from without, my mind yet alive, were heavy treads unlike my own kind.
Snorts and shuffles and thick, rasping licks across my dismembered flesh, claws shredding my deathly shroud.
There were not shouts but earth-shattering growls puncturing the grabbing of darkness.
Saliva—great swathes of slimy sputum—took what was torn apart and mended it back together. Then a great throat came 'neath my teeth and renewed immortality took me over. The hanks of hair were parted by my tongue, the sinews of wolfish flesh sundered by my bite, the river of red ran in giant gulps from a thoroughly powerful anodyne vein pumping occult antidote into me.
The radial burst of beasts surrounding us gathered closer. Each lycan offering his or her place, tendering their race's own majestic blood to me.
The intervening nights that surpassed my intravenous cure made me know my novel hex: Fangs to teeth. Night to light. Feast to famishment. And centuries more waiting.
A simple feint of the Furies, my mother had watched o'er me. Her heiress, I was kept alive by her watchful eye that brought werewolf to vampire in a most unlikely fellowship.
Escaping Aro's death knell with my lycanthropes' blood inside me, I too watched from afar.
I sneered, they were so civilized now.
Battles were warned about in advance.
Subterfuge and palace intrigue had given way to a sprightly court o'er which Aro still opined.
The abhorrent swine.
They would never see me coming.
I'd made good and nice and played the part of princess, and what had that gained me? ME! The woman who should be Queen?
Death, by my own brother's hand.
Now, every test of dishonor would fall far short of my undertakings.
Sister, lover, the giver of undead life.
Beware the mother whose children had been murdered before her very eyes.
Imagine my derision, the very opposite of pleasure, upon learning an American upstart by the plebeian name of Bella Swan was being groomed to take my imperial place.
Handpicked by the messengers, sought out by the bestial, refashioned in half… I would neither be wasted nor waylaid.
Her fate was sealed as soon as the Volterra coup was put into action.
I did see their mistake clearly, but that was no excuse: the riddle had been told and told and told again until it was mangled so far beyond its origination anyone could make of it what they would.
On vellum, in an ancient leather bound tome, the calligraphy had leached from the pages like faded watercolors.
Yes, I could understand how they'd misinterpreted the message from devils and deities alike, but I would not stand for this deliverance.
They assumed, wrongly, that she was the successor.
That she was presaged to supplant me.
That I was dead.
As a vampire, a mixed breed, one of the firstborn amongst the Volturi… that was my fucking Castle!
I swept my skirts aside, the hooping nightingale fabric a curtain over my legs and down my arms. My bosom all but bared beneath the stricture of whalebone and ribbons cinching me in.
Could I have breathed, I would have splintered my carapace apart.
Could I have walked during the day, I would have rolled across the land like a tornado; leaving nothing more than dust and desert and cremations behind.
From this continent to hers.
But I was content, for a minute.
Tamara's strapping chest trapped my feet and ceased my pacing.
"Sleep, my dear one."
But for the voodoo, I would have gone more than maddened by now.
My sister of the southernmost realms had been sent to a jagged end; her body bombed from Earth to Hell like an arrow.
With a mystical connection, I'd seen her descent, the terror saddling her cheeks up to her eyes and lifting her skin and hair from her bones, the soucouyant gave me the answer to my long imprisonment, "She will be bound to you as you are to her, and when the Lamberts' eighth son lies with her, our revenge will come."
Her reprisal was mine; the time and place and… people preordained. Paul, Katrina. The loogaroo. Me. Tamara.
Paul's past, our present, and my wrathful rising.
Now there was no mistaking my gravitational pull to this… Bella.
I spat upon her name.
Yes, my lips curled back in a tight curve, my full mouth bared over the fangs I'd been presented with… unlike the others of my kind. A true daemon with the gift of creation… at the thought of the slight American girl who was to take my throne.
I would not let her desecrate my path to Glory.
For I was daughter of Serpahiel and Zeboul.
Sister to Aro.
Mother of many, whom I would still exhume.
Keeper of wolves.
Mate of Marcus.
Smelling my male before he appeared, I saw the cave's entrance black out o'er his broad shoulders.
His curling jet locks sat upon his shoulders, calling my hands to braid, and pet and stroke.
Rightfully a braggart in our own hellish home, he swaggered to me; the arch of his cock thoroughly visible inside his deep, black leathers.
His muscular jaw opened over erotic snarls to be with me once more.
Stopping once, he ran his hands down Tamara's furry back, his eyes glowing at me.
All the other whelps whimpered and made a path of pelts for him to stalk between.
He had always played his part pristinely: lovelorn, lost, comatose.
That feigned moroseness was left at the entrance.
For three days, each month, three hundred years and more.
"Come to me, Marcus."
But instead of instead of obeying my order, he commanded a large human forward.
Aroused, Marcus watched while I supped.
Pounced on me before even the flowing blood had a chance to run dry.
He threw me down, parted my gown from breast to thigh and had his face betwixt my legs so quickly I straddled his shoulders; his craving for my taste causing my breasts to jar and my legs to shake with the swarthy brush of his tongue inside my sex.
Heavy, panting, breathing, groaning, Marcus's gorgeous lips found my stomach, my nipples, my neck, and lastly my mouth.
I lashed him to me; his pelvis, his ass, his back and cock…
I flipped him down to the floor and wantonly fucked his face, sat on his chin, rode his thighs and then knew the masterpiece of his erection deep inside of me.
My orgasm was a forceful thing that rode throughout my body until I was stunned and held frozen, mid-scream!
Undaunted, Marcus toppled me over to my back, pushed my knees to breasts, and my feet arched, my toes curled.
My nipples between his fingers were hard and pink and so very ready for his steady sucking.
Cum drizzled between us like hot drops of slick wax that never cooled.
My fangs furrowed against his neck.
I screamed in climax again; my hips to his hilt, my breasts pressed down under his hands and my legs held up and apart with his cock lashing into my cunt!
Keening, crowing, drowning, dying…
Drops of cum made warm entrails between my legs.
The slatternly splits in my gown had Marcus's hands all over my ripeness.
He righted himself to his elbows, gained his velvety satchel in his palm.
The rich red musk from our bodies put shame to all the cavern's incense; I went back to my meal: the mortal whose veins were still running like a stream, awaiting me.
Marcus's smile became a leer as I lapped up and down the thick flume leaking across my tongue with the man's throat casually tossed aside to fit my hungering fangs.
My lover lifted his groin and captured his cock in both fists.
Panting for Marcus, I licked a fresh path up the other side of the neck… then I bit him hard.
Viscous, volcanic streams screamed from his artery.
Marcus came again, in his own hands.
My thighs were wet and slick.
My mouth an eel's suction.
My sex swollen.
Dropping the human, I needn't turn nor ask; Marcus was immediately at me, his forearms holding me up against the clammy cave wall.
I wallowed in his scent, his pounding rhythm.
I reveled in his long erection, steadily lunging into me, in the stern sensuality of his features, in the aching fucking that filled the chamber with moans and whispers and wet smacking noises.
Eventually, outside, that nemesis, dawn, dazzled.
Her dainty fingers pleading to be bitten off, knuckle by knuckle.
But Marcus was still with me.
His thighs twined with mine.
The black of our tresses plaited together, our heads side-by-side.
The pillow of his bicep curled and released, just like his cock.
His lustrous mouth plucked at mine, "You are certain? You have decided?"
"Yes, my love."
"You will not let sleeping dogs lie?"
I trounced on top of him, dropped my sex over his cock, "No, I think not."
Behind every spineless, sister-killing son-of-a-bitch…
There was me.
I fudged a bit. The cosmic phenomenon I've referred to is actually the Winter Solstice and Lunar Eclipse that we experienced in December 2010. I like to use extreme weather in my fics so most of them are set either in the dead of winter or the height of summer, and Dead Confederates is definitely a sweaty southern summer fic so I'm making it the Summer Solstice. And FYI, DC's is set in 2009, to give you a timeframe on what's going to happen (*coughs-sequel-coughs*).
A vârcolac in Romanian folklore may refer to several different figures. In some versions, a vârcolac is a wolf demon, which, like the Norse Hati and Sköll, occasionally swallows the moon and the sun, and is thus responsible for eclipses. It may also refer to a wizard that has the power to turn into a wolf for camouflage. This so-called vârcolac had magical powers that made him be feared by local men who thus called him a demon.
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