For thatwasanorder: Blood shed

[mrsharker]

When she arrives in Jackson, the estate is in chaos. Her taxi drives unhindered to the open door, and Mina pays the driver with a growing sense of worry. (Her Dracul blood has, from time to time, given her an instinct for danger -- and now she's running directly towards it

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[thatwasanorder]

The room is directly across the foyer, the door thrown open in Eric's haste to leave the scene. In the center of room is a pool of blood and guts, thrown into sharp relief by the light emanating from the fireplace, and by its edge lies Russell, blood on his hands and staining the front of his clothes. There's no blood on his face save a few drops about his lips; he's too stunned to cry. The panic in his chest has turned into a sort of numbness, the silence in his head broken by the reopening of the cracks in his mental state that it had always been Talbot's place to close.

"He's dead," he murmurs, not even glancing up when he hears Mina's voice. "I should never -- I shouldn't have --"

The decreasing stability of his thoughts is traceable in his voice; his breath is shaky, a million and one emotions all pent up in his tone.

"-- Talbot." He lets out another cry, reaching out a hand to the mass of entrails on the floor as if anything he could do might reverse what happened.

[mrsharker]

The puddle of gore is, of course, the smell that had curled around her senses upon approaching the open doorway, but it's not the sight that chills her to the bone. No, it's not Talbot's sorry state that concerns her (she'd never met the Prince Consort; it hadn't seemed prudent after being taken to bed by the King), it's Russell's.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, coming to his side and crouching down. (Fortunately, she's not wearing the sort of tight skirt that would impede such a movement.) Her small, gloved hands come to rest on his upper arms, offering what little comfort can be extended.

He's so unlike the poised vampire she's gotten to know, with the quick wit and the deep awareness of the wry absurdity of existence. The change is as shocking as the disintegration of the royal consort into a stain upon the carpet.

[thatwasanorder]

How in control of his emotions he is has always been a delicate balance. It's not a fact that he makes privy to many people these days (all of those who knew him before Talbot are dead now -- dead or gone), if any at all. When it comes down to the line, he is not a stable person to be around, ruled by emotion rather than real thought, his base still that of an ancient Celt rather than a modern-day man - nature over science. Just as a leopard is said to be unable to change its spots, he is unable to change who he really is

[mrsharker]

As he turns, she moves to draw him closer. She's lost people -- so many people -- over the years, Lucy, Jonathan, Quincey, so many more, and she knows what despair looks like from the inside out. Her lips brush his forehead and she draws him back from the puddle that once had been Talbot.

"Shhh," she urges. "Shhhh, Russell. You're not making sense, dear. Shhh... You need to feed, clear your head."