Stone Gray for Blood Red

TW: Blood, blood consumption (vampirism) (not sure if this counts as gore)

The sun was visible, glinting off of the snow as Commander Pyrope entered the palace. It stung his eyes, but the visor of his helmet blocked most of it from reaching him, though it also hindered his sight of the graceful arches and swirling pillars of the home of Pyrope’s lord. The palace gleamed in the light; the white marble walls veined with gold a testament to the prosperity of the Kingdom of the Eternal Sovereign. Coniferous trees dusted with frost lined the entryway, appearing as silver encrusted with diamonds. These Pyrope saw in his memory, for the glare hid the beauty from his eyes during the day.

Striding up the entryway stairs, which were broad and shallow, Pyrope’s steps were silent. At a glance, one might think it of no notice, but for an armored knight walking across stone floors, it was strange indeed.

Pyrope hoped it would be disregarded, as it usually was, as he made his way to the throne room.

The throne room was behind two doors of warm brown wood set with gold designs that dazzled the eye with their graceful beauty. The door warden saluted the commander and hauled the door open for him. The chamber within was octagonal with a domed ceiling decorated with the history of the KES. In the beginning, there was the Sovereign, gifted with immortality by the deities beyond the walls of the world. He had turned the frozen wastes of the north into the thriving empire it was now. The wars against evil he led in his days of youth were of legend as he had driven back the hordes of evil that the supernaturals dwelling in the shuddering cold. Pyrope shut the door of his mind that wondered if they were evil, or driven from their homes. He turned away from the murals, walking to the throne and kneeling before the Sovereign.

“I have come as you have requested, Lord Sovereign. What can I do for you sire?”

A lisp still plagued his words, but it was a minor thing most have overlooked for the last few months. He made sure of it ere he spoke to others.

The Sovereign turned to face Pyrope, his face unreadable.

Draped in white and gold, the Sovereign’s appearance was regal and yet restrained. The aura of his reputation was enough to show his majesty. His face was ageless; young and old, and a ceremonial spear was in his hand as he remained seated on his throne set with pearls and gold.

“Commander,” he said, “You may rise.”

Pyrope stood, inclining his head respectfully to the shorter man.

“It has been brought to my attention that there are several discrepancies with your behavior of late,” the Sovereign said. “I would like to hear your arguments on the matter.”

Pyrope felt his neck prickle with apprehension. “Could you be more specific my liege? I have heard nothing of these rumors.” A necessary lie.

The Sovereign stood and walked around Pyrope, studying him with golden eyes of scrutiny. The prickle spread along Pyrope’s shoulders and back, and he was glad for the armor that hid the cause of it.

“Small things, mostly,” the Sovereign said. “Records show that in the last three months, you have shown a preference for night shifts, and that you never remove your helmet around others. I have heard tell that you drink from a canteen you always carry now. Two canteens I believe is it not? The contents you are careful to keep hidden from the eyes of your comrades. You have never violated the dress code until recently, when you removed the silver embellishments from your armor. You no longer seem burdened by its weight either, walking and running hither and thither without a sound or gasp of effort.”

Anxiety sped the slow heart of Pyrope, and he clasped his hands behind his back to maintain an air of calm.

“I have simply grown used to the armor sir, and technically a soldier is not to remove his helmet while on duty. I carry canteens to keep myself hydrated, to better maintain my health. And the night shifts have been more convenient for me of late, and there is no rule or law against such preferences.”

The Sovereign stopped circling Pyrope, standing in front of him and speaking with a weary voice. “Your claims are believable, but I do not believe them. I have lived and learned and watched all for a few centuries now, and I can see things in the small motions and little words. Each symptom in of itself is alone, minor and insignificant. But together?”

He snapped his fingers and two guards step forward from where they were hidden in alcoves by the door. They restrain Pyrope, each one pinning one of the commander’s arms. It would have been easy for Pyrope to throw them aside, to toss them without difficulty away from himself, but he did not. It would give him away. Clinging to the hope that he could talk his way out of this, Pyrope spoke in a calm, professional tone.

“Sire, this is unnecessary. I have served you for over twenty years; is your faith in me so poor as to think that I must be held in place?”

The Sovereign regarded Pyrope, and it struck fear in Pyrope when he could not tell what emotion was in them.

“I do not take chances,” the Sovereign said. “Chaunce, take his canteen and see what is inside.”

Pyrope kept still as the guard took it from his belt. He cast his gaze down as Chaunce opened it. The guard tipped the liquid inside onto his fingers, staining the pale gauntlet scarlet. Crimson dripped to the polished stone tiles of the floor, its silent testimony a few drops of red upon white.

“Blood, sire. It is full of blood.”

“Human?” asked the Sovereign.

“Cow,” Pyrope specified, his voice humbled, and shamed.

“An interesting choice for hydration,” the Sovereign said.

“It’s for health reasons.”

The Sovereign’s eyes narrowed. “And what would those reasons be?”

“I can’t tell you sire. I promise, it poses no threat to the kingdom or to you.”

“You do not need to tell me anything. I suspect the truth already. Trucer, remove his helmet.”

A chill settled on Pyrope’s bones, and for a moment he tensed, about to fight his way out. Then he relented, and let the moment pass in defeat. Chaunce took over restraining both of Pyrope’s arms as Trucer placed both of his hands on either side of his helm. Pulling it from Pyrope’s head, the man gasped as he beheld the commander’s appearance.

Pointed ears. Fangs. Yellow eyes with the pupil slit as a cat’s might be, and dark red feathers along his neck, back, and in his hair. Shame flushed the commander’s face, more pink than red due to how pale his skin had become.

He could not look at the Sovereign.

“I can explain.”

“You had better.” The Sovereign glared, returning to his throne. When it became clear that he would not be ordering his guards to release Pyrope, the commander began to speak.

“I was bitten during the ambush of the count a few months ago. It was accidental, for I did not realize he survived his wounds. He feigned death so he could infect me. Once I discovered what he had done to me, I spent every resource I had access to searching for a cure. I was unsuccessful, and learned to live with the condition. I keep my symptoms under control and I have never fed on another person, only livestock, blood from the local butcher, and what I can find hunting.”

The Sovereign frowned. “You know that a soldier in my army must disclose if they get involved in any sort of magic. This kingdom’s safety is dependent on how restricted magic is here.”

Pyrope sighed. “I did not want to risk my job sir; the army is my life. I’ve given everything I am to you, and I am willing to continue doing so.”

The Sovereign seemed to contemplate the offer. Minutes dragged in endless hours, and the Sovereign’s fingers drummed the armrest of his throne. In the end, he spoke.

“I cannot make exceptions. You will go to the Institute, with the others of your kind.”

Pyrope gaped, then hastened to speak, to appeal the dreadful fate appointed to him. “I have been a loyal soldier for the KES for decades. I am not a monster nor am I a threat that must be controlled. Please, reconsider.”

A sense of numb dread overcame Pyrope as the Sovereign regarded him and spoke only one syllable with the authority of a god.

“No.”

The guards locked heavy chains of silver alloy around Pyrope’s wrists. This could not be. “Your highness, please, don’t do this.” Feathers raced along the back of Pyrope’s neck, betraying his anxiety. His fearful, acrid yellow eyes sought for mercy on the face of the man he swore to serve to his dying breath.

“You will be held in a cell until the next shipment of prisoners to the Institution,” the Sovereign said, compassion locked away, leaving only a barren void of emotion. Nothing was in those eyes of gold, and Pyrope’s search for understanding was vain. “In the meantime, I must appoint a new commander to take your place.”

The throne room doors closed, and Pyrope’s hopes shattered.

Time seemed to become a suspended, dangling line from which Pyrope swung, heedless of the passage and only of the tumult he felt. The guards dragged him into the hidden bowels of the palace before divesting him of his armor with rough yanks and tugs. He did not fight them. Clad now only in a plain linen shirt and trousers normally worn under his armor, Pyrope was driven into a cell.

How does one defy an impossible outcome?

Not one word, protest, complaint, plea, or otherwise was heard from Pyrope since enduring the rejection of the Sovereign, but when they tried to take his canteens, his silence was broken.

“I need those.” Urgency was in his tone.

Chaunce shook his head, his gaze cold. “All belongings must be confiscated.”

“These are different,” Pyrope insisted. “Without the sustenance I need, my condition will deteriorate—”

“Your dietary needs are understood by the Sovereign. You will be brought blood for mealtimes.”

“I need it, please, I do not wish to risk losing control to hunger.”

“That is for the sovereign to decide.”

“But—”

Trucer leaned on the bars, coming to stand beside Chauncer. “Do we have a problem here?”

“I need this blood to stifle any symptoms of hunger before they can escalate. I urge you to leave them to me. I cannot escape through their means and the risk is too great to go without.”

Trucer shook his head, fingering a flog woven with silver braid. The man’s intention of cruelty set Pyrope’s fists to clench.

“You’re not the commander now,” the guard said in a slow drawl, a smile glinting in his eyes. “Your rules don’t matter here, so I suggest keeping your head down if you don’t want to be relieved of it sooner than it may.”

Pyrope was silent, but did not protest again when Chauncer took the two canteens. However, the guard paused, and handed one back.

“Might be a good time to chug what you have. I don’t know when you will get more.”

Pyrope took the canteen, despising that they would witness this but choosing to be practical, and he drank. Red poured in, taking away the haze of hunger that was always present, soothing the needs of his condition with its vile taste. Animal blood was sustaining, but was as a rotting corpse made liquid compared to the bliss of human blood. A bliss he never intended to discover. Chauncer allowed him to consume the second canteen also, before both were taken from him.

The guards departed, a heavy door clanging shut, sealing off his cell block from the rest of the world. Alone in his cell, Pyrope sat on the bed, his empty stare on the gray stone wall across from him. This didn’t make sense. He believed in the law. Upheld it. Protected his people. And this was the reward? Stone walls, a barred window, and a shattered future.

A drop from the remains of his last, hurried meal fell and splashed the gray stone with blood red, and he wept.