Frozen Heart [One-Shot]
So here I am, for the first time in ages, actually posting to this journal! It's been a while since I last wrote something for Vampire Saga, so it feels strange to be posting here, but I had the urge to write in this world the other night, and finished it yesterday. The idea is one I thought of at Christmas, actually. It's another Kircheis story, and more of a scene than anything else, but I hope it's enjoyable. The tense is one I'm not accustomed to writing, so please bear with me if the narrative runs a little thin at times.
Frozen Heart
The world is more beautiful when it's frozen.
Huge towers of ice, glittering as they catch the rays of moonlight and reflect them to create whole cities within themselves. Or maybe snowflakes, the tears of clouds that are all but lost to the eye in their size. I've seen them all. I suppose you could say that they make up a part of what I am.
Winter has always been my favourite time of year. Even when it's not snowing, there's something strangely beautiful about walking along a moonlit path, the droplets of breath casting a pale fog over the night. It's the kind of sensation a summer's day will never equate to. I breathe in, then expel a small sigh. Indeed, nothing can match this feeling. It is as if I have become the very season itself.
Around me, the town is silent. Well, that is to the regular ear, anyway. I, on the other hand, can pick out certain sounds: laughter from the nearby tavern, the horses snorting in their stables, a lover's whisper behind locked doors. The lights from the buildings cast faint orange glows upon the paths, breaking up the darkness. I walk gradually onwards, my footsteps silent in comparison to the noise around. There is a leisurely feel to my pace: the pace of a man who has no purpose but to wander, so wanders until he can walk no more.
It isn't long before I arrive at the tavern, though instead of going in, my attention is drawn to a figure who sits outside. A child. I smell him before I see him: unlike the men who roam these parts, his is a scent that has not yet been tainted by alcohol or desire. Innocence has its own flavour. That is something I have come to learn over the years.
I approach slowly so as not to startle him. He's a small boy, fair of hair, perhaps ten years old at the most. His head turns as I make my way across the path to meet him.
“Good evening,” I say.
He stares at me for a few seconds, then turns his eyes downwards. Surrounding us is a small patch of grass that borders the edge of the tavern. A shallow puddle lies at his knees; I can tell from the moisture on his fingers that he has been playing with it.
“My father's told me not to talk to strangers,” he mumbles.
“Oh, really? And I take it that is the same father who left you out here in the late hours of night?”
The boy raises his head to look at me again, eyes full of criticism. I wonder whether he finds me strange, what with my dark cloak and hood. I drop to my knees beside him.
He turns away again. “My father doesn't allow me in his tavern when other people are there. He says it's no place for a child.”
And he speaks as if the outside is. I'm beginning to question this father figure, but say no more on the subject. Instead, I ask the boy his name. He stares at me and frowns. “You first.”
“If you wish.” Slowly, I reach up, take hold of my hood and slide it back. The boy's eyes widen slightly; clearly, I am not how he expected. Tonight, I have chosen to braid my blond hair at the front so as to keep it from my face. I wonder if he notices my eyes, a vivid blue, like droplets from a frozen lake.
“My name is Kircheis,” I say.
“Oh,” says the boy. “I'm Dan.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Dan?”
“It's short for Danius, but everyone calls me by it.”
“I see. My name is Kircheis.”
“Kircheis?” This time, it is the boy who frowns. “That's a strange name.”
“I suppose it is, isn't it?” I laugh softly, then sigh. “But it was the name I was given.” I pause. “That's the funny thing with names. They're given to you by someone else, and you can't change them, yet they end up defining you.”
“I don't know about that,” says the boy. “One of my father's friends used to be called Dertrich. Now his name's Dragor, and everyone sings his praises over mead.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” The boy turns back to the puddle in front of him. “He's a hunter, and a warrior at that. And besides, I don't think a person's name 'defines' them.”
I take a seat on a nearby flat-topped stone. The worn ground either side suggests it has seen its fair share of use for this purpose. “Care to explain your reasoning?”
“Well take the king, for example. He has his crown and everything, but I bet he doesn't act like a king all the time. It'd wear him out.”
I jolt at the mention of Dreizehn. My instincts tell me to defend the monarch straight away, but I decide to follow the boy through on his point. “Indeed, I am sure the king has his moments of solidarity.”
“That's what I'm saying. But they still call him king, don't they? Even when he's in his room, thinking about what the cooks are making for supper, he's the king. He's just not acting royal.”
My lips twist into a smile. “I'll make sure to tell him that later.”
I hear Dan's heartbeat quicken, and his shoulders tense. He turns to stare at me with wide eyes. “You work for the king?”
I find myself amused by his shock. “I do.”
“Oh. I meant no disrespect, honest! Please don't tell him-”
“Tell him what? That a little boy dared to question his authority?” I'm playing with Dan, but my voice comes out with more conviction than I'd have hoped. I try to soften it with my next words: “If I know the king well, then such a thing will amuse him. You needn't worry about it.”
The boy seems somewhat lost for words, so we sit in silence for a short while. To pass the seconds, I concentrate on the individual pulses of his heart, like a drum against the night. I've fed recently, and been alive long enough to hold myself back from attacking young children; yet even so, there is no denying the alluring sensation it draws out for me.
At last, it is I who breaks the quiet by standing. I gather my hood around my shoulders, but Dan assaults me with a look that takes me aback. It's close to longing, as if he is sad to see me go.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He looks down. “Why don't you go to the tavern? There's still some time before closing, and father charges a very reasonable rate for beds.”
I lift my head to glance across at the building. A warm yellow glow spills from the window, and the sound of laughing and drinking is heavy in the air. Even from behind closed doors, I can smell the alcohol like bad perfume.
I'm forced to refuse his offer. “As strange as it sounds, the night is my home. Farewell, Danius.”
Pulling my hood up to hide my face, I turn and take my first step. Before I cross the fence, however, I pause. The boy is still staring at me; it is as though he expects something more. I smile to myself.
At once, the water in front of him begins to stir. Small needles rise up from the pool and solidify, and these are in turn followed by yet more needles, spiralling upwards like the towers of a castle. They capture the moonlight and seal it within icy walls; within a few seconds, the boy has his own kingdom in his puddle.
I don't stop to acknowledge his expression. In one moment, I pass through the gate and slip silently into the night.
The world is more beautiful when it's frozen: scenes present themselves in full, and time stops altogether.
Such is the life of the Knight of Water.
[Author's Note]
Yep, definitely reads more like a Christmas story. Happy April!
Frozen Heart
The world is more beautiful when it's frozen.
Huge towers of ice, glittering as they catch the rays of moonlight and reflect them to create whole cities within themselves. Or maybe snowflakes, the tears of clouds that are all but lost to the eye in their size. I've seen them all. I suppose you could say that they make up a part of what I am.
Winter has always been my favourite time of year. Even when it's not snowing, there's something strangely beautiful about walking along a moonlit path, the droplets of breath casting a pale fog over the night. It's the kind of sensation a summer's day will never equate to. I breathe in, then expel a small sigh. Indeed, nothing can match this feeling. It is as if I have become the very season itself.
Around me, the town is silent. Well, that is to the regular ear, anyway. I, on the other hand, can pick out certain sounds: laughter from the nearby tavern, the horses snorting in their stables, a lover's whisper behind locked doors. The lights from the buildings cast faint orange glows upon the paths, breaking up the darkness. I walk gradually onwards, my footsteps silent in comparison to the noise around. There is a leisurely feel to my pace: the pace of a man who has no purpose but to wander, so wanders until he can walk no more.
It isn't long before I arrive at the tavern, though instead of going in, my attention is drawn to a figure who sits outside. A child. I smell him before I see him: unlike the men who roam these parts, his is a scent that has not yet been tainted by alcohol or desire. Innocence has its own flavour. That is something I have come to learn over the years.
I approach slowly so as not to startle him. He's a small boy, fair of hair, perhaps ten years old at the most. His head turns as I make my way across the path to meet him.
“Good evening,” I say.
He stares at me for a few seconds, then turns his eyes downwards. Surrounding us is a small patch of grass that borders the edge of the tavern. A shallow puddle lies at his knees; I can tell from the moisture on his fingers that he has been playing with it.
“My father's told me not to talk to strangers,” he mumbles.
“Oh, really? And I take it that is the same father who left you out here in the late hours of night?”
The boy raises his head to look at me again, eyes full of criticism. I wonder whether he finds me strange, what with my dark cloak and hood. I drop to my knees beside him.
He turns away again. “My father doesn't allow me in his tavern when other people are there. He says it's no place for a child.”
And he speaks as if the outside is. I'm beginning to question this father figure, but say no more on the subject. Instead, I ask the boy his name. He stares at me and frowns. “You first.”
“If you wish.” Slowly, I reach up, take hold of my hood and slide it back. The boy's eyes widen slightly; clearly, I am not how he expected. Tonight, I have chosen to braid my blond hair at the front so as to keep it from my face. I wonder if he notices my eyes, a vivid blue, like droplets from a frozen lake.
“My name is Kircheis,” I say.
“Oh,” says the boy. “I'm Dan.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Dan?”
“It's short for Danius, but everyone calls me by it.”
“I see. My name is Kircheis.”
“Kircheis?” This time, it is the boy who frowns. “That's a strange name.”
“I suppose it is, isn't it?” I laugh softly, then sigh. “But it was the name I was given.” I pause. “That's the funny thing with names. They're given to you by someone else, and you can't change them, yet they end up defining you.”
“I don't know about that,” says the boy. “One of my father's friends used to be called Dertrich. Now his name's Dragor, and everyone sings his praises over mead.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” The boy turns back to the puddle in front of him. “He's a hunter, and a warrior at that. And besides, I don't think a person's name 'defines' them.”
I take a seat on a nearby flat-topped stone. The worn ground either side suggests it has seen its fair share of use for this purpose. “Care to explain your reasoning?”
“Well take the king, for example. He has his crown and everything, but I bet he doesn't act like a king all the time. It'd wear him out.”
I jolt at the mention of Dreizehn. My instincts tell me to defend the monarch straight away, but I decide to follow the boy through on his point. “Indeed, I am sure the king has his moments of solidarity.”
“That's what I'm saying. But they still call him king, don't they? Even when he's in his room, thinking about what the cooks are making for supper, he's the king. He's just not acting royal.”
My lips twist into a smile. “I'll make sure to tell him that later.”
I hear Dan's heartbeat quicken, and his shoulders tense. He turns to stare at me with wide eyes. “You work for the king?”
I find myself amused by his shock. “I do.”
“Oh. I meant no disrespect, honest! Please don't tell him-”
“Tell him what? That a little boy dared to question his authority?” I'm playing with Dan, but my voice comes out with more conviction than I'd have hoped. I try to soften it with my next words: “If I know the king well, then such a thing will amuse him. You needn't worry about it.”
The boy seems somewhat lost for words, so we sit in silence for a short while. To pass the seconds, I concentrate on the individual pulses of his heart, like a drum against the night. I've fed recently, and been alive long enough to hold myself back from attacking young children; yet even so, there is no denying the alluring sensation it draws out for me.
At last, it is I who breaks the quiet by standing. I gather my hood around my shoulders, but Dan assaults me with a look that takes me aback. It's close to longing, as if he is sad to see me go.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He looks down. “Why don't you go to the tavern? There's still some time before closing, and father charges a very reasonable rate for beds.”
I lift my head to glance across at the building. A warm yellow glow spills from the window, and the sound of laughing and drinking is heavy in the air. Even from behind closed doors, I can smell the alcohol like bad perfume.
I'm forced to refuse his offer. “As strange as it sounds, the night is my home. Farewell, Danius.”
Pulling my hood up to hide my face, I turn and take my first step. Before I cross the fence, however, I pause. The boy is still staring at me; it is as though he expects something more. I smile to myself.
At once, the water in front of him begins to stir. Small needles rise up from the pool and solidify, and these are in turn followed by yet more needles, spiralling upwards like the towers of a castle. They capture the moonlight and seal it within icy walls; within a few seconds, the boy has his own kingdom in his puddle.
I don't stop to acknowledge his expression. In one moment, I pass through the gate and slip silently into the night.
The world is more beautiful when it's frozen: scenes present themselves in full, and time stops altogether.
Such is the life of the Knight of Water.
[Author's Note]
Yep, definitely reads more like a Christmas story. Happy April!