game of thrones vampire au ficathon

[bronson]

game of thrones
vampire au ficathon
a ficathon. for game of thrones. but they're vampires. plot twist!
anything goes.
except sparkly vampires, because that's not cool.
yay have fun.

Comments

[bronson]

drive-by sequel.

I cannot live forever.

"But I want you to."

Pity tinges the warmth of Elia's smile and Rhaegar keeps even that, deep in his heart.

In the next year, in the next decade, in the millenia that would come long after Elia had died, Rhaegar would remember it still. Flashing in his memory. Vivid as storm clouds, at first, then fleeting, like wisps of smoke carrying into the wind as the last of his humanity withered away by time.

Too much time.

He closes his eyes, some seven hundred years later, like how he always did when he wants to remember Elia's hand in his, the softness of her lips, the comfort in her embrace. He closes his eyes and tries, very hard, and it gets harder and harder as each year passes.

It's close to the Third World War, and he tries to remember it still.

Shells rain down around him as he stands in the middle of Trafalgar Square, the ruins of England crunching underneath his boots.

The only solace he finds is the death that surrounds him. Every pained cry as close to the piercing in his heart that he'd felt when Elia had died. He never came close to it again.

His skin has become numb against pinpricks. His mind dead against the idea of pain. The blood that wells underneath his skin are not his anymore, and even the redness of it, that had once been vivid, has now become black as the soul it nourishes.

He remembers much of Elia.

He sees her in the nurse that carries in the wounded. Perhaps her hands were as soft as Elia's. He'd wanted to know, so he joined the army, he'd allowed a bullet to plant itself in his ribs. When the nurse finally attended to him, she smoothed back the hair on his brow, and he closes his eyes again.

Wake up, you idiot, Elia would've laughed in his ear.

The wound at his side closed much too quickly; the nurse only screamed.

Rhaegar had ran away, found himself in France where the war had done its part.

There he found another, an Elia close to the throes of death. She'd grabbed at his torn coat and pleaded with her eyes.

Please, Elia had said, but she'd been quiet in her begging. Please, Rhaegar, let me go.

The hand in his coat tightened, bringing him down close to the ground. The woman had little strength left in her, and when she begged, when she said Please, please, please, in a gasping breath, Rhaegar closed his eyes again and reveled in the memory, replenishing the vague edges until the image was once again alive in his head.

When he opens his eyes, the last of the woman's life dimmed her eyes. Her mouth parted, her head turned against the crook of his elbow.

Rhaegar cupped her cheek, presses a kiss to her lips.

No.

He should've said that, centuries ago, when it truly mattered.

But this was all he had left.

So he kissed her neck, and let his teeth sink solid and deep.

When the woman awoke, she told him her name. It was not Elia.

It's not enough, but it's all he has.