Archive of Our Own

The forest around Oakhurst was deep, and dark.

Owen remembered a time when he hadn't found solace in the forest at night. He had been a human, but he never felt like one, truly. Even when he had a beating heart and hot blood flowing through his veins, he had felt more akin to the creatures of the earth than any of the people behind the walls of Oakhurst.

But when he was young, he would be frightened, of course. The forest was large, and mysterious, with sounds he did not recognize— although it did not matter when he was with his father, who knew the forest as well as the back of his hand.

His parents had passed away when Owen was seven, and his sister far before that. By the time he was old enough to walk the forest himself, without his father, Owen no longer had the shelter of his parents protecting him— little as that was for the son of a wood cutter and seamstress. The constable came before the bodies were cold and turned Owen out of their home, and told him that he was sick, and that the city had to make sacrifices in order to keep the peace, and keep everyone safe.

He'd said their belongings were contaminated with the the fever that had ravaged his parents, and that had left Owen merely disfigured, and weak. He told him that Owen could not take anything out of the house, besides the clothes on his back, and his fathers axe.

Owen wished he was an animal then. An animal would not be sick with grief, and a rage too great to contain in such a small, starved body. An animal could burrow beneath the leaves of the forest, and eat the sweet grass, and not be cold, and hungry.

An animal could have leapt on the constable and torn him to shreds.

Instead Owen was dragged by the arm out of town, the constable wearing gloves and holding a cloth against his face to keep himself from being contaminated.

He threw Owen down onto the ground outside of the gate. It hurt, and he skinned his palms, his cheeks shamefully sticky with tears, his mouth dry and cracked because he had not been drinking anything as he sat beside his parents dead bodies. It had taken three days for the smell to alert their bitch of a neighbor, and then Owen was being torn loose like a broken tooth and cast away.

Owen got shakily to his feet, staring at the constable. His limbs hurt— there were still pockmark wounds on his arms, his legs, his face. It hurt to walk, daggers digging into every crease of his skin where the illness had bloomed like an ugly rotten flower, and failed to kill him when it had killed his parents.

"Go on," the constable said coldly, rag still held over his face. To keep out the sick, and the stink. "Get out of here before I get one of my men to make you."

Owen stared at him, and then at the guard holding the large gates open.

Owen worked his mouth a moment— as if holding back tears. The constable stared expressionlessly, until Owen spat at him. The gummy yellow wad splattered against the mans front, and dripped down over his badge.

The constable gave a bellow of rage and swung at Owen, but he was too quick, and was gone into the tree line before any of them could catch him again.

The constable died two weeks later. Turns out the constable was too slow, and Owen too contagious.

By then the worst of Owen's pustules had scabbed over. He did not die, like he wished to, in a childlike kind of way. He thought that maybe he'd go to heaven if he did, before the nasty, rotten, dark thoughts he had sunk their roots too deep into his heart. God was supposed to love all the little children, but he didn't feel much like a child— even though he was almost too small to pick up his axe, the boots he stole large on his feet.

He'd probably go to hell anyway, for killing his parents, and the constable as well.

He was scared at first, of the forest. He knew of a meadow he could stay at, where his father had taken him and shown him where to find wild onion and sorrel. Where there were silvery birch trees with their paper bark for tinder, and bee hives hanging far up in the boughs, where only a small starved boy would be able to climb and get them without snapping the branches.

At night it was cold, and damp. The wind was so loud that it shook the trees, and made twigs snap, and branches fall down occasionally with distant crashes that sounded like monsters, coming to get him.

The constable, in revenge. Maybe the townsfolk, if they thought he was still too close to the town.

He thought maybe his dead parents would come back to life, only instead of coming and sweeping him into their arms they would see what a nasty rotten thing he had become, and try to smother him like they should have done in the crib.

Owen had nightmares about it. People chasing him, and hurting him. He dreamed about the scabbed over markings on him spreading again, and spreading, and spreading, until he was nothing but an open wound that bled out sickness until someone cauterized him and burned him away.

But eventually the nightmares came less and less, and Owen did not starve to death. He found soft places to sleep, and set the snares his father had taught him to. He ate small sweet carrots from the ground, barely brushing the dirt off before he was crunching them between his teeth, even the soil tasting good because he was so hungry. He ate the rabbits, barely cooking the meat before picking it hot and bloody off the bones, and stuffing it into his mouth so fast that he almost made himself sick.

Owen thought of leaving, of course. But he did not know the forest anywhere else. There was nowhere to go.

And so Owen became a creature of the forest, and the death of the constable and the death of his family became a distant memory within the town, and Owen was simply a boy, and then a man, who lived in the woods.

Just another animal.

The forest was no longer dark, and mysterious. Owen saw with a vampire's eyes now, and they turned everything silver, and bright, and clean.

He was following the Doctor through the forest. The man was an odd sort— he smelled strongly of herbs, so much so that Owen had to fight the urge to sneeze when he was around him. Hellebore, and lambs ear, and ginger.

He was dressed in long dark surgical robes, with small dark tinted lenses on his face that hid his eyes. He would have looked friendly, and handsome, if there wasn't a cold look to him that made Owen wary. He did not like Doctors at the best of times, and Doctor Legundo was a hard man to like regardless.

Still, Owen had enjoyed the way Legundo had put Avid down, in front of the other villagers. Avid had been so loud about his conviction that there were vampires in the woods, in the town, everywhere. Even being a vampire himself, Owen found it hard to believe Avid, so manic was his energy.

It helped his purposes of course, and the Doctor helped even further when he quietly took Avid aside, within the first week of the villagers settling in Oakhurst.

'There are no such thing as monsters,' Legundo had said, gently. Like he was giving someone a terminal diagnosis. Avid had stared up at him with wide, wet angry eyes, pinned in place by the Doctor's large gloved hand on his shoulder. Owen should not have been able to overhear with human ears, but he had and it had been so sweet he could not help but grin behind his hand where he was pretending to carve a roofing joist. 'There are only people Avid, and you are going to drive people away if you keep up with this delusion.'

Owen had enjoyed that, immensely. He had still been smiling when he walked out of town with Pyro and Scott, although he had not been smiling for long.

Another damned vampire in town, and a Goldsmith at that. Just his luck.

And now Scott had a little whelp to fawn over as well. The last Owen had seen them, Scott had been wiping the blood and river mud off of Pyro's cold dead face, purring in satisfaction, and Owen had been watching with jealousy and hunger gnawing at his stomach.

He was still hungry now in fact.

It was the hunger, as well as that memory of the Doctor speaking to Avid that made him amenable to following Legundo out into the forest. He thought briefly of the danger— but wrote it off.

The Doctor had been nothing but cordial, and helpful to the villagers. Despite his cold demeanor and long silences, he had patched up knees, brewed medicine with surprising competence in spite of their limited supplies, and even stitched Martyn's hand up when the man had slipped with a carving knife.

Besides, Owen was not scared of any human. He was not some small boy, lost in the woods any more. He was the woods. He was what people told tales about, he was the thing that snatched you up. He would not be afraid again.

Besides, the doctor was so helpful, surely he would let Owen take a sip. Maybe Owen would take a fledgling of his own, and it would serve Scott right if he got the large strong Doctor, with his handsome face and wealth of medical knowledge. Scott could keep that wet rag of a rat.

"Thank you for helping me," the Doctor said, as he led the way down towards the river. "I know you enjoy your solitude. I appreciate you taking the time to escort an old man into the forest."

"Oh, you're not that old," Owen said, meaning it. Doctor Legundo could not be more than fifty, and that was being ungenerous. He had dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, and intelligent lines carved into the corners of his face. He was a large man, with shoulders near twice as large as Owen's, and wide hands that were surprisingly nimble and delicate at the work Owen had seen him at.

He also did not lose his breath as they walked. Owen did not bother to breathe— instead he stared up at the sky, at the red moon beginning to rise. There were distant specks of motion, and he could not tell if it was a bat colony scouting out their supper, or Scott and Pyro, on their way to that wretched castle on the hill.

"Older than you'd expect," Legundo said with some amusement. "I've seen quite a few wars Owen. Traveled to many places, seen a lot of things."

Owen rolled his eyes.

"You said you grew up around here however?" Legundo asked, after a few moments.

Owen looked askance at Legundo, who was picking his way carefully down the slope towards the river. The moon was starting to cast pink, bloody glimmers of light on the flowing water. The river wasn't quick here. There was the occasional splash of frogs fleeing the approach of footsteps, and the discordant buzz of insects. A chorus of crickets were singing nearby, and Owen's ears flicked to hear them.

"I did," He said, careful now. His story was flimsy, even he himself had to admit. He didn't particularly care if anyone believed it truly— they would simply think he was lying for mundane, human reasons, and not the truth. They'd think he was fleeing the law, or perhaps scared of some kind of persecution. "When I was a boy."

"How young were you? The town was abandoned an awful long time ago."

"Young," Owen said flatly, as they crunched along the shoreline. Legundo approached the water and crouched down, the width of his shoulder drawing the back of his surgical robes taut as he inspected some of the plant life at the waters edge. "Why Doctor, you want to hear my whole sad story?" His voice was taunting, a little bitter.

Legundo hummed in interest. "Yes, actually. After all, you are telling a very great many lies. Part of me wants to hear how you'd salvage them."

There was silence, but the chirping of insects, and the flow of water. Owen scowled, as Legundo started pulling a plant out by the roots without elaborating, swishing it clear of soil in the running water. His back was turned in unconcern to Owen, neck bent and vulnerable above the high neck of his coat. "I'm not lying."

Legundo finished with the plant, and tucked it in the pouch at his hip. "Perhaps not. But you're not telling the entire truth, are you Owen?"

Owen looked at Legundo's neck still, frowning, hungry. "What do you mean?"

Legundo stood, and Owen's eyes went up to those dark lenses on his face instead. "I think you know what I mean."

This was silly.

Owen turned to walk towards the treeline, rolling his eyes. Legundo made one step to follow him—

And then Owen turned, and opened the Doctor's throat with his claws.

It took one swipe— his claws were long, and sharp. Longer than Legundo was expecting for sure, since he staggered back and brought a gloved hand uselessly to his throat. He opened his mouth and blood bubbled out, a torrent of it. Owen's heart started beating again at the sight, the smell.

The smell that was… wrong.

Owen frowned, staring at Legundo as he took a step back from Owen, hand clasped to his neck, mouth spilling down his chin and bits of white showing between his fingers, and below the red and black blood. Owen brought those long sharp claws to his mouth and took a long dragging suck, curious.

It did not taste human.

"That… was rude," Legundo gurgled, and he still had not fallen. He was standing there looking back at Owen, hand clasped to his neck. His glasses had not come off. In the light of the red moon the blood turned invisible on his black robes— it was almost hard to tell he was wounded at all, except for the charnel house smell of it, and the splattering against the river stones as more blood fell from Legundo's mouth when he spoke.

Owen bared his claws again, uncertainly— he took another swipe, and Legundo grabbed his hand with his free one.

Owen strained against him, bewildered, the smell of those herbs strong and stinging in his nose, the smell of blood making his mouth fill with saliva, his hungry belly roar.

But Legundo bent him back, and Owen hissed frustration into his face.

Legundo took his hand away from his throat in order to catch Owen's other wrist with the wet hand, but not before Owen had managed to claw his coat to tatters, stripping down to flesh and bone below the surgical robes. More blood was leaking, but now that he was closer Owen could see it did not flow as fast as normal. It was dark, almost purple, and smelled different. Something more similar to Scott—

An elder vampire.

Owen felt a clench in his belly that he didn't want to recognize as fear, as he ceased trying to shred Legundo to ribbons, and instead focused his efforts on freeing his hands.

Legundo held him fast although he writhed, looking down through those lenses. Owen could not see his own reflection in them— vampires did not have reflections. But he saw the red moon, and the black forest, and it looked like eyes.

"I find you very fascinating Owen. As I said, I've traveled very far and seen many things, but you're a bit of an oddity. Goldsmith, now there's a dime a dozen. If I had am obol for every noble vampire with a penchant for massacre, why, I'd be a very rich man."

Legundo sounded conversational, voice fractured through the damage to his neck, but without a hint of pain in his tone. The bastard was as strong as a granite cliff side— Owen yanked as hard as he could and although Legundo's mouth pursed with effort, there was no breaking loose. Owen was smaller, and weak from hunger besides.

"I had hoped to study your sire, Louis," and Owen had to acknowledge the fear now, ice cold in his stomach where the hunger nested with it. "But it seems he is no longer with us. You have my condolences, of course—"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Owen snarled, and then screamed in fury when Legundo sighed, and started pressing Owen down to the ground.

He did not— he did not like this, he did not like feeling helpless.

There were many terrible things that happened, to lost boys in the woods. That had happened once upon a time.

Owen came to life like a wild thing, an animal, not a boy, not a human. He lunged forward and caught Legundo's throat in his teeth and tore it open again, the blood hot and bright and ancient as he swallowed, desperate. He thrashed so hard he near broke his arms, feeling something tear in the ligaments.

It did nothing but knock Legundo's glasses loose, and that was almost worse, because Owen could see the gentle reproach there in his single bright red eye, the other glassy and green.

"I will be gentle, of course, but this is for science. I'm sure you understand— you seem like a smart young gentleman."

Owen was beyond arguing with him. He made a— a noise he barely recognized, a high pleading chirp.

Finally fear over rode sense, and Owen wrenched his wings from his back.

Legundo made a surprised sound, and Owen took the opportunity to flap his wings wildly, like a bird pinned beneath a cat. They were powerful, each one like getting hit with a spar of wood, only with the strength and bone of a vampire behind the blow. There were dagger-like claws on the thumb at the front, and Owen brought the limbs forward to pierce into Legundo, joining his teeth into the effort, desperate now.

"See now, that is interesting. A mutation I have not see before, except through the Montaigne line. Did you know it was possible for vampires to cross breed? An interesting subject, and one your sire was a product of. Dear Lord Goldsmith would know all about that, but I am reluctant to work with him if I can help it," Legundo said, conversationally in that wet blood-drowned voice, as he held Owen out far enough that his teeth could no longer keep tearing at the remains of Legundo's throat, trying to shut him up, to stop that cold and clinical lecturing. "Ah well, nothing for it. This is going to hurt."

Legundo surged forward, releasing one of Owen's hands only to grab the bridge of his wing, and Owen was making that high pleading noise again he could not control, sick with fear and slashing out with his free hand now to dig his claws in—

Legundo broke his wing with a snap.

Owen screamed, the pain bright and shocking, going limp. His breath was coming in jagged pants, the smell of river water and wet dark mud filling his nose, so close to the dark smell of Legundo's blood.

"Ah, yes, I apologize it's come to this," Legundo said in that same even conversational tone, raising it only slightly to be heard over Owen's screaming— he released Owen, who slumped to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut. His arms hurt— Legundo had near broken them in his struggling.

Owen tried to shut his mouth on the noises but could not seemed to stop, eyes wet with furious tears. He stumbled back, dragging himself on the river shore, but just jostling the wing hurt so badly that he gagged and retched his empty stomach onto the ground, turning over to do it. All that came out was thin bile, his stomach aching.

"There there, I'll be able to fix it," Legundo said, and Owen heard his footsteps approaching again, heavy and slow. Owen growled furiously, rage eating a pit in his stomach. He was blind from it, and turned so he was not showing his back and neck to the predator bearing down on him.

Legundo knelt down, dodging the kick to the face Owen aimed at him. He grabbed Owen's other foot by the ankle and dragged him back, Owen's claws digging furrows into the ground. He almost fainted at the pain of his wing being dragged, something grinding in the splintered edge of it.

It was crooked, a hot molten ball of pain that was like the sun— but he could feel where it was bent when it should not be.

He was sobbing now, so angry, but Legundo was simply making shushing noises, like he was a fussing child.

"I'm going to kill you, I'm going to tear your guts out and feast on them," Owen sobbed, putting his knees up to drive Legundo off of him, although it was like trying to push on a mountain. Legundo's eyes were the same flat calm, face stained with what looked like all the blood in his body, one single lick of hair knocked forward onto his forehead from Owen's efforts. "What do you want?"

"I want to know things, Owen, and I find you very interesting."

Legundo pinned Owen down beneath his knees, drawing a cloth and bottle from his satchel, still damp from river water. Owen felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, his good wing twitching in fitful starts— he thought perhaps he could draw it back into himself, change back to that almost human shape that must be harder to hurt than this, anything would be better than this—

But he couldn't. He was too afraid, and his wing hurt too badly besides.

"You know, if you take this willingly the pain will stop," Legundo said in a dry tone, as if he didn't truly expect Owen to accept the offer. He was uncapping the bottle, tipping it into the cloth, and even from here Owen could smell it, harsh and chemical. Like ethanol, or tanning fluid. Even from a distance it went into his lungs and Owen stopped breathing in a panic, holding his breath. He could hold his breath for centuries, but not— not if he was making sound. He grit his teeth together and furrowed his brow, cold sweat slicking his forehead, trying to stop his own noise.

"I'm not going to kill you Owen, I find that I like you in fact," Legundo said, sighing. "You are fascinating, and I find your conversation rather stimulating."

'I like talking to you,' Louis had told him once, when Owen had asked why the man bothered speaking to him, bothered scheduling their talks, or meeting him out in the woods. 'You're far more intelligent than you give yourself credit for. You're interesting.'

Owen gagged again but there was nothing in his stomach. He grabbed on to Legundo's wrists as he brought the cloth down to Owen's face, growling and hissing and spitting so loud that the racket could probably be heard halfway back to the village.

Fear gave him strength he did not have before, and he held Legundo's hands just barely away from his face. The smell was so strong it was choking, even without inhaling it burned the sensitive tissue inside his nose, and he could feel it prickling the skin of his face.

Legundo grunted in effort— then sighed. He let his knee slip to the side, off of Owen's chest, and onto his broken wing.

Owen opened his mouth and howled, so loud his voice broke, claws tearing into Legundo— but the cloth was coming down and he was muffled, the chemical smell burning his nose and throat. He tried to inhale to scream again, couldn't stop himself any more than he could pluck the moon from the sky—

But he was slower now, voice coming out in a loud groaning whimper.

"There, it's fine, I'm going to take care of you, Owen, you're very valuable."

'You're very precious to me,' Louis told him in a confessional whisper, his cold hand holding Owen's own.

"I only regret I did not come to Oakhurst sooner— although I suppose the magical walls are convenient."

'I wish I'd met you sooner,' Louis said, sounding sad, and broken.

Owen's eyes were slipping shut, his arms limp, held up only by the fact that they were dug deep into Legundo's flesh, and the heavy cloth of his sleeves. There was wet gore splattered across Owen from his efforts to escape, Legundo's face and front torn apart, although the Doctor did not appear to concern himself, or notice. There was a glint of bone in his cheek, but not even that could make the man appear to smile.

Owen's vision was darkening, and he felt cold, and frightened, and his wing hurt worse than any pain he had felt in his life. There was high pitched, pleading chirping somewhere, and his throat was aching.

He wished whoever it was would stop.

Owen fell asleep.

When Owen awoke, he was in a cell.

It was made of silver, and the feeling of it around him made his head pound far worse than the chemical remains did. He didn't have to open his eyes and see his surroundings to know it was there— he could feel it draining his strength, keeping him from turning into a bat, from drawing his poor damaged wing back into himself even if he could.

It still hurt… quite badly.

Owen opened his eyes, staring at the stone roof.

He was laying on a rough wooden frame, a mattress of straw and wool beneath him. There was no blanket, nor anything else in the cell besides.

It was ten feet by ten feet perhaps, and the bed was in the center of the back wall, providing nowhere to hide. Owen sat up, fighting the urge to whimper at the pain in his wing, and the sore bruising on his chest. Vampires were sturdy, but not against the same titanic strength as their own. Loathe as he was to admit it, elder vampires like Scott— and apparently Legundo— had a far better chance of besting him.

Outside of the cell was what looked like a cave of some sort, turned into a room. There were any number of caves and tunnels criss-crossing the earth beneath Oakhurst, all abandoned after the town fell to ruin. The mines were still laden with silver, but transporting it had been difficult even when the town was populated and flourishing. No one probably bothered now, and the ore sat unclaimed, the tunnels vacant.

Legundo had put in a series of work benches across the far wall outside the cell, hewn from dark oak and pieced together with old iron nails. There were crates of supplies stacked atop them that looked as if they had been put there recently— cloth and bottles, wood and rope and boxes packed with fresh straw that Owen could smell from here.

In the center of the room was a long flat table with a raised edge, sat on what looked like wheels, with pegs driven into them to keep them from moving. Beneath the table were a series of buckets, as well as cloth, and tubing, and other things that Owen avoided looking at, uncertain as to their use. It reminded him of a butcher, or perhaps a dentist, and the implications had him focusing his gaze to the other side of the room instead.

There was an extensive chemistry set sat cold and unlit to the left side of the room, as well as a few large tomes bristling with annotated notes, and small markers between the pages in colored thread. They were sat between two large geode halves as bookends, the crystal glittering purple and white and deep smooth slate.

Owen could smell Legundo on the place— he had been inhabiting it for a while. Perhaps longer than they had been in Oakhurst, although not much before that judging by the fresh appearance of the bars, and the work benches. The man's herbal stink was all over Owen's clothing as well, which he now realized covered the scent of vampirism, on the Doctor. The same scent that had helped Owen pick Scott out so quickly from the humans, when they had taken Pyro out to the lake.

Owen wondered if Scott knew.

'I'm going to slit the Doctor open and make him eat his own entrails,' Owen thought with an icy sort of calm, standing up from the bed on wobbly legs.

Human drugs did not normally effect vampires so drastically. Owen did not know how he had been rendered insensate, but it would not happen again.

Owen was not alone in the room, of course. Legundo had remained, no doubt to see him wake, and gloat, or threaten, or some other repulsive thing, although he was currently somewhere Owen could not see, with his limited view from the cell. There was no sound beyond that of quiet reading, and the shuffle of paper, beyond the bars. No exhale of breath, and when Owen focused, there was no beat of a heart either. How he had not noticed before, he did not know— perhaps he had been more distracted than he thought.

There was a single lamp lit where Owen could not see it, casting warm flickering light across the floor, making shadows dance right up to the edge of the bars. His cell was dark, which was much better than the alternative. Owen did not want to be seen in the light, he wanted to be in the forest, he wanted to be gone.

He felt a pain beyond his wing now, small in comparison, and looked down at his arm to see a small bandage there.

Feeling sick, he sliced through it with a claw to reveal the small bruise the size of a thumbprint, with a small dot of a wound in the center.

"You know, I have to tilt your entire body to get any blood. It would be much easier if you were conscious, to make your heart beat."

Owen stepped back away from the bars despite himself, bowing his shoulders. He tried to draw his wings about himself but flinched at the pain.

Legundo stepped into view, holding a journal and looking down at it in quiet contemplation. He was dressed in new robes, any mess cleaned away, his face nearly completely healed. Owen burned with jealousy— he must have fed while Owen was unconscious.

"How is your wing?" Legundo asked, shutting his journal to look at Owen, those dark lenses back in place.

Owen said nothing, standing in the middle of the cell, flexing his claws.

"I need to inspect it now that you're awake, and make sure it won't heal wrong. If that happens, then I will have to break it again. Neither of us want that, I'm sure."

Owen said nothing again. If he was lucky, Legundo would walk in, and he could kill him.

Legundo stared at him longer, and then sighed. "Owen, you could help me solve quite a few advancements for vampire-kind— for human kind even. The fact that your morphology can maintain a halfway state is quite fascinating. The claws of course, are from the Montaigne line, and little as Goldsmith would like to admit it you do have some of his line in you as well, from your sire. It is interesting it's been diluted of course, and genetic mutations are already so new of a concept to modern science."

Owen licked his dry lips. "…Let me go."

"No," Legundo said, setting the journal to the side, on one of the work benches. He had a bag at his side, and a key which he pulled out if his pocket.

Legundo walked up to the bars and unlocked the door. Owen eyed him warily, pacing to the side, seeing if there was an angle he could get to slip through— but Legundo faced him, looking faintly amused, and unconcerned. Owen hissed displeasure, and growled. The effort made him dizzy, still weak from whatever Legundo had dosed him with, still burning with the pressure of the silver all around him, the weight of so much more of it above him, raw and studding the walls of the mine shaft.

He had to get out that door.

Legundo came towards him. Owen threw himself to the side, and when Legundo went to grab him, darted the other way, ignoring the blinding pain in his dragging wing, and the weakness still spotting his vision. He got a hand on the bars, stinging against the bare skin of his palm.

He hissed at the pain but grabbed it tight as he could, as Legundo grabbed him by the back of the neck with one of those huge hands, and attempted to tear him back into the cell.

Owen did not go, stubbornly holding on to the doorway with all his might, to keep himself from being dragged in. If he could only get out of this cell—

Legundo reeled himself closer and Owen hissed in spitting fury, snapping his teeth at him, which Legundo ignored. He reached over instead, and started to peel Owen's fingers off of the bar, one by one. Owen swore at him, lunging down and burying his teeth into Legundo's arm, but the man was unconcerned.

It hurt, although Legundo was not purposefully trying to hurt him. He was simply being firm, barely breathing hard as he pried Owen's hands loose, and then caught his other hand when Owen lashed out with it to try and punish him for it, teeth sticky with blood now.

Legundo kicked the cell door shut, and Owen heard the lock snick with both of them now inside.

"What are you some kind of pervert?" Owen demanded as Legundo dragged him away from the bars of the cell, and towards the bed, his feet dragging. He'd had shoes, the last he remembered, but now they were gone. "What do you get off from this? Drugging people, kidnapping them—"

"Don't be vulgar," Legundo said unflinchingly, pushing Owen back until the mattress his the back of his knees. "Besides, it's not kidnapping if it is requisitioning necessary resources."

Owen tried to rise up and stand, fighting Legundo as he was moved as easily as someone might move a doll, or a sheep along a paddock. It was like trying to fight the tide— Legundo was too strong, he was far too strong, stronger than Scott or Louis had been certainly. Anxiety and uncertainty was starting to take root in his belly, made all the more nauseous by his headache, by the chemical stink still burning his nose, and the herbal scent off of Legundo.

Owen hadn't actually thought that sex was Legundo's purpose, but at being pushed down to sitting on the bare mattress Owen felt sick with sudden fear, shaking. He tried to draw his wings in again, and when that sent a molten hot shock of pain through him, he chirped instead—

A noise he had not made in two centuries.

The last time Owen had made those noises he had been freshly woken, looking for Louis. He had stumbled from the coffin in Louis' basement, and it had been cold, and dark. He had felt raw, and weak— a caterpillar, not done with it's chrysalis. A worm, not yet a moth.

He had wanted Louis so badly that it had been a physical pain. The thought of Louis holding him, of being there, made tears come to his eyes. Louis had said he'd be there, and Louis had never broken promises lightly. He had never been late for one of their meetings.

Owen had gone looking, and those chirps had gone out of him, confusing him. He did not concern himself with it at the time, more worried about finding Louis, finding his sire.

He had found him, of course. Being burned at the stake.

Owen had not made the noises since, and never had time to puzzle them out besides. They sounded like a cats sound, but many times bigger, and with an insectile dryness to them.

Legundo started purring as soon as he heard the noise, seemingly involuntary, and Owen tried to lunge forward and bite him with a snarl.

"If you don't stop, I'll break the other one," Legundo said calmly, and Owen subsided, shivering and shaking and sick with fury. He chirped again, and Legundo purred again, and Owen could not stop, felt sick to his stomach.

Legundo reached down into his pocket and withdrew a small glass implement. It was a canister, with a long narrow end like a needle, and an additional flat piece on a peg inserted on the opposite end. The inside was filled with fluid, which swished back and forth as Legundo held it up to his eye, and gave it a couple of taps with his finger.

Owen stared at it in confusion, brow furrowed, but when he saw Legundo observing him, he smoothed his face back out to plain fury.

There was a cap on it the sharp end. Owen had to fight the urge to try and escape again— if this was meant to kill him, Legundo would have done it already. Or injected him while he was asleep.

Legundo removed the cap, and pressed on the flat piece, until Owen could make out a bead of liquid on the very end of the needle, before it dripped down and onto the cell floor. He could smell it of course— it smelled like chemicals. Not like the ones on the cloth, but he eyed the liquid mistrustfully all the same.

Legundo looked at him sitting there, and smiled in reward. Owen had to fight the urge to claw it off of his face, trembling with the self control it took. "There, that's not so hard, is it?" Legundo murmured soothingly, taking Owen's arm in his hand, and looking down at the small bruise in the crook of it. The leather of his gloves was cold, and soft.

'Like the wings of a bat,' Owen thought, shivering uncontrollably. He had not stopped, his wings trembling behind him, his mouth thin and teeth clenched shut so tight he was afraid he'd crack them.

"This should not hurt— you know, it's nice to work on a vampire patient for once. I don't have to worry about sterilization," Legundo explained, sounding amused, as he slid the needle into Owen's arm.

He was right. It did not hurt— if Owen hadn't been watching, he would hardly have known it had happened. As it was, he saw the plunger depress, watched the small clear liquid go into his arm. He shivered harder, the hand not hanging loose in Legundo's grip digging so hard into the mattress beneath him that it tore beneath his claws.

And then, he wasn't shivering. He felt warm actually. Very warm.

He stared past Legundo, waiting, afraid still, although there was this languid warmth starting to flow through him. It felt nice, but Owen could not let himself sink into it. Not with the predator standing so close to him, still holding one of Owen's arms, and rubbing soothingly on the small wound there he had laid over the old one. A tiny pinprick, dark red.

Owen blinked at the dot on his arm, and then back up at Legundo. He did not know that was possible— to put something in someone with a needle. He did not understand many things, in this day and age, and he felt misery pulling at him to know that he was so misplaced, so far from home, and alone.

"There we are," Legundo murmured, looking at him, and Owen blinked slowly in return, frowning. "There's no need for unnecessary pain— I'm not inhumane. Honestly, I'm not as bad as the humans Owen."

Owen remembered a fire. Blood running in the streets, so deep that the gutters had been overflowing. 'That is true,' Owen thought blearily, his head nodding. Legundo kept bobbing in and out of view— Owen's eyelids were heavy, and he had to struggle to keep them open.

He wished he could go back to that day. If not to save Louis, kill them all again. He understood that, he did not understand this modern day, with it's modern things, and confusing people.

The room a round him seemed to smear, the shadows formed by the bars wavering like a heat mirage.

Legundo appeared again in his vision, and Owen scowled at him blearily.

"Hm," Legundo's hand came up to his face and Owen hissed uncertainly— Legundo ignored him, cupping his face, one large thumb pulling Owen's eyelid down to look at his pupil. Owen could feel the blunt claws beneath the leather— whether Legundo filed them or not, Owen did not know, but there was no way he himself would be able to wear gloves with the sharp talons he bore. "You seem to metabolize narcotics faster than most. Either the ingredients I am able to distill in Oakhurst aren't as effective, or you're particularly resistant… maybe I'll see if I can borrow Goldsmith's fledgling, see what the difference is."

Owen pulled slightly at the word, shutting his eyes, head pounding.

"Oh, yes, fledgling. The word is familiar to you, I hope. I have my theories Owen. There was no reports of vampires in Oakhurst since the massacre, and you do not know what a syringe is besides. You hibernated, didn't you?"

Owen shook his head, but Legundo had already left his view, moving behind him. "A dangerous endeavor, but one I doubt you knew the hazards of. There was every chance you would not have woken up, but I'm glad you did. I would not be able to do nearly as much with just your bones, and that was if I had managed to find wherever you had holed yourself up at all."

Owen's wings were exposed— he tried to get up, but his legs were so wobbly that it only took a gentle hand on his shoulder from behind, to press him back down to sitting on the mattress. His heart started beating faster, and it made a wave of dizziness wash through him, head drooping like a long stemmed flower in summer.

"Ah, there we go. You know our hearts beat only when blood flow is necessary— during hunts, turnings… intercourse."

Owen flinched, and chirped in distress again, as Legundo put a hand to his good wing. He held it firmly at the wrist, the second bend before the long graceful bones of the fingers.

"It means medicine has a very uncertain effect when administered. I find that it's either easier to keep vampire patients in a state of heightened anxiety so as to ensure measurable response, or a state of sedation. It keeps their heart beats regular, but I am going to have a time with you I can tell. Too much, and your poor heart will explode. Too little, and I may risk you slipping into hibernation again. Ah well."

Owen's wings were softly furred the same color as his hair— a deep chestnut brown, glimmering ocher in the sunlight. The skin stretched between was only a shade lighter, making them look almost black in the dim light of the forest.

'Louis' wings had been a lovely pale,' Owen thought, mournful.

Legundo began to stretch his wing out for him and Owen hissed, struggling against the pull. Even that felt weak though, his limbs clumsy. His face felt numb, and he was unable to tell whether he was even making any kind of expression, or just staring blankly at the bars of the cell, while Legundo did whatever he liked behind him.

"Hm," There was the a shuffle, and then Owen started thrashing at the feel of cold metal on his wing, shocked and frightened.

"Calm down Owen, I should have warned you— it's just a caliper,"

Owen shook his head, struggling against the hands Legundo had pressed on his shoulders, his good wing flapping hard enough that he heard Legundo grunt in pain behind him. His bad wing flapped as well, and Owen felt a surge of triumph— whatever Legundo had given him had numbed the pain. He felt it distantly, like something happening to someone else.

"Stop," Doctor Legundo said, and his voice was so foreboding, and he had stopped touching Owen with the cold metal, so he subsided, heart pounding, arms clasped around himself and wings shuddering in fitful movements.

"If you do that again," Legundo said slowly. "I will have to restrain you. Do you understand?"

Owen shook his head, and Legundo's hands tightened where they were on his shoulders.

"Yes you do. Nod your head."

Owen's head felt fuzzy. He nodded, and then shut his eyes.

He felt sick.

The cold metal returned, and Owen tensed so much that he felt blood, where his claws dug into his own arms, where his own teeth were digging into his lip. He was shaking— but nothing happened.

There was the touch of cold metal on either side of the arm of his wing, below the wrist. Then soft fingers running along the skin— it was so sensitive that Owen felt it all the way up to his scalp, prickling in revulsion at the feeling.

Legundo wrote something down behind him— he could hear the scratch of the quill, and the shuffle of parchment.

"I wish I had scales. I carried you from the river, and you're far lighter than you should be…" Legundo said musingly, seemingly half to himself, and half to Owen.

Owen did not respond, and eventually Legundo shut the book, and the hands returned. "Alright. I have blood for you."

Owne turned, his drowsy eyes lowering to Legundo's neck again.

"No, not there," Legundo said gently, and Owen scowled as Legundo took his chin in one hand. With the other, he retrieved a bottle from his satchel, and Owen's eyes focused on the blood sloshing with in. Thick, and red, the waves of it being jostled causing red to coat the neck of it beneath the cork.

Owen opened his mouth, and Legundo smiled.

He took the cork out with one thumb— and Owen liked the cork the best, enjoyed inhaling the thick meaty scent of it, the one time he had managed to get a blood bottle. He had filled it himself, of course. Gorged on a sheep, and when his stomach had protested and he had seen how much was left, he had remembered something he had seen Louis do.

They had walked the fields and forests around Oakhurst many times, when Owen's illness allowed him to. At first Owen had taken Louis directly to the location of the mill he had wished to build, angry and resentful, and moving straight through the quickest paths he'd known.

But Louis had spoke so charmingly, and Owen had reluctantly enjoyed his company. They had needed many surveys to decide on a location, and Owen took slower and slower routes, until finally they had not needed the excuse of the mill at all. Instead, he and Louis had walked through the meadows, past the broken toothless castle, and along the rivers and lakes, simply enjoying each others company.

They had gone out more at night, after Louis had revealed the truth, and his offer.

Owen had seen him fill a bottle on these walks. Louis would walk soothingly up to a sheep, speaking low and quiet, and not even the shepherd himself could get the animal to come so sweetly and calmly to his hand. He would stroke it's ears, it's velvety snout, and Owen would look on with burning jealousy as Louis would bend down, and drink.

When he was done he would take a bottle, and hold it under the wound until it had naturally stopped bleeding. The entire time the sheep would look at Owen with it's dark, placid eyes, unafraid, the rest of the sheep dotted across the field behind it like a handful of scattered clouds.

Louis would take the bottle with them on the rest of their walk, and would drink it when they paused to allow Owen a rest— drinking from it like they were two lovers, sharing a bottle of wine, sat on the grass or stone, heedless of his expensive clothes.

Legundo tilted the bottle to his mouth, and Owen drank greedily, feeling the blood settle in his stomach, feeling his wing buzz and itch as it healed— flexing out with an involuntary spasm that made him wince, and then stretching and smoothing itself.

He was so thirsty, he would have drank too fast, if Legundo was not giving it to him slowly, still holding his chin in that iron grip, both of Owen's hands wrapped around his wrist, although he was unable to make Legundo pour any faster.

Then the bottle was gone, and Legundo took it away before Owen could drowsily try to stick his tongue down the neck.

He still felt too languid. He wanted to shut his eyes and sleep, but kept reminding himself that he was a prisoner, he was trapped. Legundo was going to kill him for certain, the only question was how much torture and indignity Owen would have to suffer before hand.

He lost track of Legundo, looking down at his hands, at the healing bruises on his wrists. The silver around him was still an irritating buzz on his senses, an ache like that of a sore tooth, or a head cold.

Legundo was back then. He pressed down on Owen again, and Owen blearily allowed it, blinking when Legundo's face wavered slightly in his vision. He didn't understand why the ceiling was tilting up, until he was finally laying flat on his back.

He flexed his wings uncertainly where they were pinned beneath him.

"Get some rest," Legundo said, as Owen blinked slowly.

Legundo left, and Owen heard the cell door shut again. Heard the snick of the lock, and then the gentle hiss of the gas lamp being extinguished.

And then he didn't hear anything else.

Legundo did not come back for three days.

The first day Owen had searched for a way out.

He had woken wrapped in his wings for lieu of a blanket, curled on the bare mattress, in the soothing pitch dark. His head ached, and he felt hunger already tapping at him like an impatient solicitor. The bottle had been enough to heal him, but not much more than that.

He finally tried to fold his wings away— a sort of halfway feeling in his back, like stretching to reach something off of a high shelf, or the extension you felt when hanging from your fingertips. He did not know where the wings went, besides the fact that it was probably the same magical mechanics that allowed him to turn into a bat. Where did the mass go?

Legundo probably had some idea, but Owen spit on the ground at the mere idea of asking that man anything. He'd made a mistake, he'd been stupid, and now he was suffering for it. Owen did not care if he died, but the town had to suffer first, and that would not happen if he was locked in here like some kind of toy in a chest.

His wings would not fold into him no matter how long he tried— they remained out and vulnerable, where before Owen had been so proud of them. Now he touched the point his wing had been snapped so effortlessly, shivering at the new vulnerability this allowed him.

He started inspecting his cell.

Owen tried the bars first, although they hurt him even to go near, a small silvery wound still on his hand from the day before when he had grabbed them. Legundo did not seem as bothered by the silver, or perhaps he was bothered and had grown used to it.

Owen crouched and scratched his claws at the base of them, but they were seated solidly into the rock, some kind of mortar poured around that dried as hard as the original stone. His claws stung like insects were biting them, so he withdrew, but only so he could inspect the door.

He tore the mattress off the bed and laid it against the bars, and then beat himself against it as hard as he could. Until his body protested, and he was sore and aching, and could not bring himself to ram his shoulder into it any longer.

The door did not budge. The lock was heavy, and immovable.

Owen shredded the mattress for lack of anything else to destroy, snarling fury, and trying to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. He immediately regretted it however, seeing the straw and wool laid about in his cage, like he was an animal at the zoo.

He piled the straw and blankets in the corner, and curled there in a sulk, counting the seconds that went by with the same perfect, unceasing precision that he had counted two hundred and six years, fifteen days, twelve hours, two minutes, and three seconds.

He wished he could fall into a slumber like he did before, but the cell was too bare— not like the close warm feel of the earth, and the insects. Nor the comfort of a high tree, where Owen liked to perch as a bat and sleep, on occasion.

The second day Owen spent pacing, thinking.

His options were thus— he kill Legundo.

Unlikely. The man was a freakish monster, and Owen was weak now besides. He would have to get the advantage, and so far the man had been very careful. He seemed to value Owen though… perhaps there was a way to threaten his own safety, get the Doctor off-footed? An option, but one Owen was reluctant to consider.

Another option was wait for rescue.

Slightly more likely. The villagers had all been disgustingly helpful for the most part, contributing lumber, and goods to the betterment of the town they were all stuck in. As far as they were concerned Owen was a friendly local lumberjack, who had gone out into the woods with the Doctor and not returned.

The only issues with that idea was that Owen had been very careful not to let anyone see him leave with Legundo, undecided still if he had wanted to kill the man or not. (In retrospect, Legundo had been very accommodating.) In addition Owen would have to explain himself, and the idea of humans finding him captive here, trapped in silver, weak, made him so afraid that cold over took him, and he had to bury himself in the straw until he stopped shaking.

There was plenty of wood in Oakhurst still, for a pyre.

His last option was to go along, until he had a moment for escape.

He did not like this option, but by the time the third day came, his belly was cramping in hunger, and he was unable to rouse himself much from his nest of straw and wool, too tired to pace, or count.

It was probably the reason Legundo left for so long. That, and perhaps he was spinning some tale to the villagers about what happened to Owen. Telling them how Owen had fallen off a cliff and broke his neck, was torn apart by wolves. Maybe he had even brought them some bloody thing wrapped in cloth to show them— a cow, carved down, with no need to inspect the body because after all the Doctor had already inspected it, best to simply bury it and be done, and not mourn the lumberjack they had hardly known for longer than a week.

'Although,' Owen thought hopefully. 'Maybe Legundo is killing them all instead.'

That would make him feel somewhat better about his circumstances, although fantasizing about slaughtering the village brought thoughts of blood to the forefront, and Owen moaned in hunger, curling around his empty stomach, wrapping his wings about himself for comfort.

Finally there was the sound of footsteps.

Owen didn't move from his huddle, glaring out at the bars as Legundo came down what sounded like stairs, out of view. There was a pause and the catch of metal on metal, and then a door was creaking open, and lamplight was poured into the room.

"You can see in the dark, I don't know why you bother with the lamp," Owen sneered, surprising himself by how cracked, and dry his voice was.

"Good evening, Owen. An astute observation— I cannot see color without it, and color is a very important for my work. It helps to see the color of the ink I use, for anatomical diagrams, and annotations," and Legundo came into view now, carrying a large bag, as well as a stack of his journals.

He looked the same as before— tall and broad, although he looked more well fed, his cheeks flush with a hint of color, his steps slow as he turned his back to Owen's cell.

"Let me out."

"No," Legundo responded, sounding much the same as he had before, his shoulders moving as he put the bag in front of him, out of Owen's view. He began removing things from it, and Owen tried not to shiver when he heard the sound of more metal, and the clink of glass bottles against each other. "Are you hungry?"

Owen did not respond, glaring out from his place in the straw, arms clutching himself. He did not trust his voice not to shake if he answered— although his stomach answered for him, gurgling at the sight of Legundo turning, holding a bottle of blood in his hand.

Owen's eyes fixed on it, so focused for a moment that he did not see the table behind Legundo.

But then Legundo came near, and Owen saw what he had brought.

A series of scalpels, unrolled in their oiled cloth and gleaming in the lamplight Legundo had left. Bottles filled with clear liquid, tubing, and more of those syringes. There were restraints— silver manacles, secured to chains, that had been the clinking he had heard. Owen realized that there were loops on the table he had disregarded before, where the restraints could be fixed. He felt his breath quickening at the sight, at the feeling of the walls closing in around him.

There were glass jars as well, and Owen felt sick when he saw one already had an eye in it— sightless with threading of nerves still attached at the back, the pupil lopsided and tilted to where it floated in the amber fluid. It was red, and not with blood, but with pigment.

Owen looked up again, horror creeping up his spine, and stared into Legundo's red and glass green eyes.

He was not wearing his lenses today.

Legundo held the glass bottle up. Blood sloshed inside, and Owen could not help the way he looked at it, so hungry that he was nauseous, hands trembling where he clutched himself. That was the thing Louis had not wanted him to suffer, about vampirism. The constant, unceasing hunger, truly a curse.

In Legundo's other hand, he held the syringe from the other day, with the clear liquid in it.

"I hope you make this easy Owen. I'm not doing this to hurt you— in fact, I think you'll probably come to enjoy our time together eventually. I know I do," Legundo said, in an even, conversational tone. "I like hurting people certainly, but not unnecessarily. There has to be some kind of gain to it, otherwise we're nothing more than animals, nothing more than human, do you understand?"

"…You're insane," Owen whispered, his voice trembling.

"Perhaps," Legundo considered, coming closer to the bars. Owen did not even bother hiding the way he pressed himself back, the way he chirped in fearful misery. Legundo was not purring now, looking stern, and solemn. As if he was prescribing a difficult treatment. "Owen, come here, and I will feed you, and we can get this over with. You'll need your strength."

Owen shook his head, wordless, and frightened. He wished he'd never woken up. He wished he'd died in that hole.

Legundo stared at him, tilting his head. "I am going to give you one last chance Owen, not to make this difficult. If you do, it will not be pleasant. I have sedation far less pleasurable than what I gave you before— there's nothing I will do to you that will kill a vampire. But I can make this more unpleasant than it has to be, so you understand. So you know how important my work is."

Owen tried to stop the pleading chirping noises, but couldn't, miserable and wretched, and staring at Legundo as he explained, calm and without a hint of anger or irritation on his face.

"So," Legundo said finally, looking at Owen with those hard, cold eyes. "Owen, come here."

Owen slowly, tremblingly got to his feet. His teeth were aching in hunger— he focused on the bottle, on the blood in there. Perhaps… perhaps he could go away from his body. He had done it before. Be somewhere else, and bear what he had to, until he was killed, or managed to free himself.

Whatever came first.

Owen went to him. Legundo opened the cell door with the key on his belt, smiling in gentle reward, and Owen stepped through.