fic rec
The Blood More Stirs, by gileonnen and speak_me_fair. 1 Henry IV, AU, the Percies et al. R for violence (some of which is sexualized); contains nasty animal death, general ickiness, and OH YES, VAMPIRES. SHAKESPEARE AND VAMPIRES. If you have ever wondered what 1H4 would be like if the Percies were vampires? THE ANSWER IS AWESOME. (My favorite thing about the fic, though? HAL. OMG.) THIS is how you do that "put the supernatural into classic literature" thing.
He was sometimes glad there were no dogs. He had loved them in his own way; had he cared to remember what had been before, when there had been a sun to relish, he would have thought of Harry as a child, asprawl amongst them, the endless curiosity of the young in his eyes as he listened to his elders.
Now he would note nothing of them but the rush of blood in their veins, and he could not, even knowing what he was, what he needed, what he must be, he could not take his past and the length of days that now seemed a kind of veiled paradise, and tear it asunder in such a way.
Now and then, a rumor found its way through networks of spies and captives, filtering in from the wild lands of Ireland or the Bohemian wastes; he caught the stories of fairies drinking milk mixed with blood and of the ill-buried who walked anew, listening to each tale with a queer hunger for a cure. The priests knew imprecations to cast out devils, and housewives spoke of hanging flowers at the windows and doors to keep evil out; rough men knew the virtue of cold iron and sharp wood.
There were other legends, too, of thirsts such as his -- but if he had hoped to quench his thirst with blood-royal, shutting the old king away in a castle in Yorkshire with his wrists and ankles chained ... that, too, had come to nothing.
He was sometimes glad there were no dogs. He had loved them in his own way; had he cared to remember what had been before, when there had been a sun to relish, he would have thought of Harry as a child, asprawl amongst them, the endless curiosity of the young in his eyes as he listened to his elders.
Now he would note nothing of them but the rush of blood in their veins, and he could not, even knowing what he was, what he needed, what he must be, he could not take his past and the length of days that now seemed a kind of veiled paradise, and tear it asunder in such a way.
Now and then, a rumor found its way through networks of spies and captives, filtering in from the wild lands of Ireland or the Bohemian wastes; he caught the stories of fairies drinking milk mixed with blood and of the ill-buried who walked anew, listening to each tale with a queer hunger for a cure. The priests knew imprecations to cast out devils, and housewives spoke of hanging flowers at the windows and doors to keep evil out; rough men knew the virtue of cold iron and sharp wood.
There were other legends, too, of thirsts such as his -- but if he had hoped to quench his thirst with blood-royal, shutting the old king away in a castle in Yorkshire with his wrists and ankles chained ... that, too, had come to nothing.