Embrace Ch. 04

After a year, freedom comes in the shape of a baby boy in the Schönborn-Buchheim palace. He looks nothing like Franz of course. Guiltily, Amelia remembers her mother's last letter. Perhaps it would have been better to use some other man's seed. She'd be a happy mother herself, ignorant of all this madness. In any case, although what's left now is a strange kind of half life, destined for a bitter ending, Amelia will live it all the same.

On returning to the brothel she learns that Antonio the escort is long gone, moved on to another establishment, another town, who knows.

In her search for a truly willing victim, one who gladly gives body and blood to sate Amelia's passion, little by little she begins to know herself. Pain is the only human sensation the kindred body can experience. Her fear of pain is what keeps her compliant, her fear keeps her mouth shut when she hears distant screams in the night.

Amelia finds herself drawn to those who revel in their suffering, those that are open in their desires despite the consequences. To know these mortals is to be able to give the afterimages in their blood meaning. Most of her encounters are happy to escape their lives for a few short hours of physical pleasure. Amelia paints herself as the lonely young widow eager to bend the rules of mourning and propriety, eager to connect with other disillusioned souls.

A few of her chance encounters have tastes that resonate strongly with her own and become trusted allies. In her cherished time spent with what others call her growing herd, the blood carries ecstasy and euphoria alongside their suffering.

If Wolf-Dietrich knows or cares how deep her feelings are for these people, he doesn't show it. If he sees the true end of her innocence, he makes no sign. The girl that was once so afraid of damnation she could not slake her own lust is gone. She is sure there is no justice, no damnation.

*

Disturbing changes rattle the court. Late one night, three foreign kindred appear at the palace seeking succour and protection from Paracida. All three are fleeing some trouble in Jerusalem. A dark skinned lasombra, an oddly pretty African nosferatu and a pale plain looking woman called Meryem, said to be one of the last old clan cappadocian kindred in Europe. Rumour has it that she is a Methuselah of the fifth generation.

Elizabeth, childe of Eleanor, is ordered to house them all. And in a brief and surreal moment, Paracida takes Amelia aside and orders her to provide vessels for them, much to Wolf-Dietrich's amusement. As soon as the prince is out of earshot, her sire hints in no uncertain terms that Amelia herself will be the vessel for the Methuselah. And that such a monstrous elder will happily dispose of her afterwards to avoid any complications.

At the clan meeting the following night, Paracida openly thanks her for her service in disturbingly final language. Amelia breaks with her sire's instructions to avoid unsolicited conversation, and approaches Elizabeth once the others have dispersed.

"Please forgive my impertinence, Madame. I must beg for your advice."

The kindred turns to her and raises an eyebrow.

"What? Advice that your sire can't give?" Elizabeth smirks. But then something in her sharp face changes. Perhaps she sees Amelia's genuine distress. Perhaps she takes pity. "Walk with me then. I must have everything ready tonight."

Amelia keeps pace with Elizabeth and they hurry away from the meeting room. "I have pored through the records on blood rights and feeding domains for months at my sire's insistence and I already know there is nothing in the protocol for something like this. What if... How appropriate is it to use clan resources to, you know, provide for them? And if I were to need..." she wrings her handkerchief nervously as she struggles to frame her need without offending. "Could I perhaps..." Amelia's nerves stop her tongue, which is probably for the best.

"I would." Elizabeth smiles. "I must draw on clan resources myself to fulfil the prince's decree. Truly, do I appear wealthy enough to conjure three secure havens out of thin air in days? Feel free to flatter me. Still, keep a tally in mind and return something to clan coffers the sooner the better."

"What tally for my own flesh?" Amelia says miserably. "And what if she doesn't even want me?"

Elizabeth stops dead and appears to pay attention for the first time. "Oh no." Her sympathy seems genuine. "What a thing to say. Of course she'll want you dear, you're a peach. And if any of these elders act with cruelty or violence it would insult the prince's hospitality. Use this all to your advantage, make the most of palace resources to keep yourself prepared if you know what I mean? For the good of the clan, of course."

Amelia is uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "Will she destroy me? Wouldn't it be foolish to use me more than twice anyhow?"

Elizabeth looks uncomfortable for a split second. "You are torturing yourself. Stay well fed, make the most of clan resources. Appreciate that no opportunity comes without risk." She rests a comforting hand on Amelia's. "I can imagine who put that small minded idea in your head. If she actually does like you?" Elizabeth smiles mischievously. "Wouldn't that make him green with envy?"

Her 'sire' does not envy her. He sees this duty of hers as little more than prostitution to the ancient foreign kindred.

"It is fitting," he says. "You must realise by now that there is no better place for you."

Amelia scolds herself for putting weight on Wolf-Dietrich's opinion of her.

"I often wonder why you embraced me in the first place, sire." It's a poor taunt. He knows nothing of Felix.

"Ignorance is bliss. If you had proven your worth by now perhaps things would be different, but you are happiest on a lead like the spoiled pet you are. I do hope you survive long enough to at least attempt a career or Catherine will be so disappointed. Do you even remember why I offered you this existence? Was that insufferable popinjay so easily forgotten?"

"It... Arabella had no soul. Nothing but her murderous desire." Amelia says. "You offered me a chance to shepherd the mortals, a sacred duty..."

Wolf-Dietrich shakes his head and sighs. "Some night, not so far from this, Arabella's sire, Therese de l'Alsace will come blazing into court demanding retribution. All these hours you study, you never read between the lines. What was the bitch's crime? To break the masquerade? To trample on my domain? Paracida struck off her head as she wept, far too merciful for crimes of such gravity."

"I always ask you to teach me. I beg you for guidance, but you don't..." She flinches as he lifts his hand to stroke her cheek.

"You're in no danger from the methuselah, girl. You have but a single purpose. Arabella's grandsire is a founder of the camarilla. Such a stain cannot mar his reputation for long. Come conclave, no doubt the judgement will be rescinded. And how will we placate those harpies without fresh meat?"

"Sire, I..."

"Shh, enough now. You were never cut out for eternity, girl. Enjoy the pleasures of service while they last."

*

The royal carriage feels small. Amelia tries not to stare at the methuselah in the opposite seat as they rumble through the midnight streets. The stranger looks so ordinary, nothing like one would expect of a hoary elder older than christendom. But what does Amelia know of the cappadocian clan? What does she really know of her own?

At this very moment, seven young women are accompanying Diallo Mambe to his new haven. So many vessels, for company as much for sustenance, at the lasombra elder's request. The Nosferatu, Sophia, declined ventrue resources after all. Rumour has it that she will not drink human blood. She is certain to be welcomed by her own clan.

Amelia travels alone with the cappadocian, ostensibly to discuss Lady Meryem's needs in private. Between the legacy of the inquisition and the depredations of the tremere in Palestine, there are precious few cappadocian kindred in Europe. Lady Meryem is the only one among the cities of Austria. What a tragedy, to be uprooted from your home and everything you have known after so many years. Where do you even begin rebuilding after that?

Court was extremely formal tonight. A large number of kindred attended; Amelia recognised a few of the malkavians but thankfully they paid her no mind. The elders of Jerusalem presented themselves and Paracida gave the word of acceptance, Eleanor translated between german and arabic for Lady Meryem.

Amelia knows no arabic at all, though her lessons in latin are coming on well, perhaps she could make a passable effort to communicate in the scholar's tongue, that's if she can think of a single damn word to say. Her sire's backhanded reassurances ring hollow. Literally the only thing that qualifies Amelia for this task is how expendable she is. Perhaps the other elders of Vienna have finally uncovered the truth about her embrace and are using this opportunity to kick the cuckoo discretely out of the nest.

"I know enough of your barbarian tongue to get by." Meryem speaks in fluent german.

Amelia meets her elder's gaze as she has been taught but struggles to politely mask her shock.

"Besides." the woman continues with a half smile. "My mother tongue is a dead language, and I favour greek over latin for serious work." She turns to the window and briefly contemplates the gloomy city outside before pulling down the blind to shut out the drizzle. "I feel that the present has become so removed from the past, so alien, childe. That makes all hoary elders nomads, does it not?"

Amelia is mortified, then terrified. She can have no secrets from this woman.

"Forgive my prattling." Amelia says, though she barely said a word. "Why have Lady Eleanor speak for you if..."

Meryem lifts her chin very subtly and smiles. "I don't know if anyone here in Vienna will appreciate the ironic spectacle of the grandmother of Ferdinand and Isabella eloquently plying the moorish tongue, so that an ignorant semite such as myself can feel more welcome in the land of her exile. Perhaps raise it with your uncle Rudolphus if it's still unclear."

Amelia hurriedly changes the subject.

"The house we are going to is a clan holding that's been empty for months. There is ample space to accommodate any retainers and guests should you desire."

"Yes. I am grateful for that." Meryem's eyes never leave Amelia's as she speaks. "But you will find that my desires are simple."

A warm blush creeps up Amelia's neck and she averts her own gaze. Wolf Dietrich bit her throat out. It was the most violent and purposeless cruelty. She is haunted by that last agony, that last true sensation. The way it melted away into a coldness, a numbness, that foreshadowed the half life that followed. The indignity of flopping about on the carpet, unable to even cry out, choking on her lifeblood as her torn throat burned; his indifference to her suffering characteristic of his attitude to her since; more worried about soiling his clothes than soiling her memory for a lifetime. A mercy then, if the lifetime is brief.

When the carriage finally stops, the drizzle has melted away revealing the beauty of a crescent moon veiled by a halo of clouds. Amelia fumbles for the house key with trembling fingers and concentrates on every step lest she stumble on the way to the gallows.

Inside, she hangs her mantle at the door and busies herself pulling the dust sheets off some furniture. There is no fire at all in the house from which to light a taper. The carriage is long gone.

"Leave the dust covers as they are. Goodness knows I don't need all this furniture."

Meryem sets her small bag down with a heavy thud. The elder draws a flint and steel from within and deftly sparks a little flame onto a single candle wick. Amelia sees her flinch as nearby cobwebs flare to ash. As quickly as Meryem's beast baulks, the elder regains control. She tosses the tool back onto the cloth bag with a satisfied sigh.

"Better, childe?"

"It's better. Thank you." Amelia stammers a second too late for politeness.

"Then come. Sit here, in the light."

This is it then. Amelia's feet are heavy as she obeys, sitting in the faded armchair, perching on the very edge of the seat. She freezes as Meryem kneels before her. The hand that comes to rest on her own is ice cold. This close, nothing but a breath between them, there's no mistaking Meryem for anything but an ancient kindred. Her flesh has a marble cast to it, and her eyes, although kind, lack the lustre of the living. Still, this is a mask after all. The clever use of the blood to cover a clan deformity that is said to rival the nosferatu curse.

"You're shaking, childe. Come now." Meryem gently takes her hand. "I will take nothing more than you give to me. You will not suffer."

Though she cannot still her trembling, Amelia unfastens her bodice and pulls aside the sheer muslin of her shawl. The thought of anything touching her throat at this moment has her on the edge of hysteria, but she will submit, nonetheless. Meryem is surely strong enough to force compliance.

Icy hands further loosen Amelia's gown and chemise until the neat ivory mounds of her breasts are gently exposed, the pale pink teats barely darker in the candlelight. Meryem brushes a thumb across one and smiles at Amelia's little gasp.

"So perfect," the elder marvels.

Maybe this won't be too bad after all. Their eyes meet and neither one of them moves until Amelia very subtly shifts to offer herself for Meryem to suckle. At last Amelia's soft breast is drawn into the cold hardness of Meryem's open mouth. As fangs extend into Amelia's flesh, lassitude overwhelms her. The beast within is just as mesmerised, caught like a mere pup in the jaws of its mother. Strong arms gather her in, pull her closer as Meryem begins to draw vitae.

Amelia whimpers helplessly in time with that unholy rhythm of suck and swallow. All those dead nerves in her lustful flesh awaken, pulsing in answer to each wave. Meryem draws her teat deeper still and milks vitae, pinching the hardened peak with her tongue. Amelia cries out her wordless pleasure then, snares her fingers in the thin curls of the elder's hair. Still, she cannot pull Meryem close enough to satisfy this base desire. It will only be fulfilled if she is utterly consumed. The elder moans her own bloodlust, deep in her throat in answer.

Amelia feels lighter than air when Meryem pulls away at last. She slumps back in the chair, clothes in disarray, laughing. To think she's been dreading this for days. Little aftershocks of pleasure zip through her flesh. Meryem collapses to the floor in her own reverie, but a quiet whimper of fear pulls Amelia out of her stupor.

"M... Meryem?" She pulls her loose clothes up to cover herself. "Are you alright?"

In less than a second the cappadocian's mask is back in place. But Amelia saw it. Meryem saw that she saw it. A macabre vision of a dessicated corpse dead a thousand years. Amelia is fascinated to see Meryem's true face. She smiles shyly at the methuselah. Perhaps now they are even for all the secrets Meryem reads so plainly from Amelia's mind.

Blood rims the elder's eyes then, and for a moment Amelia is troubled by her memory of Arabella, such is the desire them. No, Meryem is not like Montessi. Meryem's passion is fitting and welcome after all. Amelia politely averts her eyes and concentrates on refastening her clothes more discreetly.

Meryem pulls herself upright and sits shakily on a still covered chair. "I lost myself for a moment."

This must be what an insect feels like under glass. Meryem is staring at her, through her, at her aura most likely. Amelia hopes it's not this obvious when she's observing the auras of kindred at court.

Meryem shakes her head, as though trying to shift water from her ears.

Amelia's heart sinks as she realises.

"It's like an echo, isn't it? My emotions alongside yours?"

"It's maddening." Meryem answers at last. "Do you experience this each and every time you feed?"

"I guess so." It dawns on Amelia that this is not something other kindred have to deal with after all. And that it's probably not the most desired trait in a regular vessel. "I try to make sure I have no need to concentrate. Or I feed very late on the nights that I... Lady Meryem, please believe that if I had realised this could happen to us, I would have warned you. It will fade with the dawn, at least I expect it will. I have tried to raise it with Wolf Dietrich but..."

"I can imagine he dismissed it as a weak-minded fantasy. It is only the spirit of the blood, your own vitae carries its pathos. Like my late grandsire."

Finally, the elder shifts her scrutiny elsewhere and Amelia breathes a sigh of relief.

"If only we had met years ago. What might have been."

Meryem takes her leave and Amelia sits foolishly for a few minutes before seeing herself out.

It's still early enough for Amelia to pay a visit to one of her herd but she chooses instead to retire to her old cell beneath the palace. No one will make demands of her tonight. She will know soon enough if she has displeased anyone. These hours she spends playing her way through one gentle sonata after another, consciously banishing all the habitual anxiety and fear from her mind. I owe Meryem that much at least, she muses.

There was a night not long ago when she and three of her intimate friends enjoyed half a night of utter debauchery. Amelia had tasted each of them, and as they drove each other to ever more extreme pleasures it almost drove Amelia to frenzy.

Just before dawn the loyal clan ghouls bring all Amelia needs to slake her considerable thirst, vessel after vessel filled with the warm blood of at least three different donors. Her dreams are fitful that day.

*

Behind the immaculate manners and intricate display of every courtier there is a deep well of repression, often of resentment too. Sometimes there is nothing more than thinly veiled despair. The higher one rises in service to a royal personage, the more regimented one's dress, one's manner, one's behaviour must necessarily become. One's opinion is always second to the next most senior person present. The customs of the dead Habsburgs are not much different to the living Habsburgs. It is debatable who mirrors whom.

Amelia calls on her ventrue sire early each evening as protocol demands and finds him as cold as ever. A nod and a smile from the likes of Leopoldine are worth more than Amelia can ever say, but it is unwise to seek succour there. The threads of the cobwebs are a transient reminder that she is never truly alone, but Felix is so far away.

In Meryem's presence, in Meryem's arms, Amelia is given a physical anchor for her troubled mind. She finds purpose in giving comfort and sustenance to another, the pleasure, though intense, is so fleeting in comparison.

The price of this new found purpose is that she must feed well every night or become dangerously hungry. Every little thing troubles the beast when she hungers. Taking care of her friends and lovers means spreading the burden among many so as not to sicken them. With so many little feedings her own emotions become difficult to separate from the clamour of the "pathos" in the blood. There are times when this is a welcome distraction but more than three of four donors and the sensation becomes torturous.

When serving as Meryem's vessel, Amelia keeps her own activities to a minimum to protect her mistress from all that. Inevitably this keeps the palace ghouls busy in the last hour of the night.

Meryem is deeply involved in her work. She prepares some great Necromantic undertaking that will be her magnum opus. Amelia give two or three times a week to keep up with the heavy demand. Sometimes these meetings are frustratingly brief and Amelia is left feeling like nothing more than a servant. Other times Meryem seems to notice Amelia's loneliness and offers a connection, a level of understanding that no-one in her life has offered before.