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llondonfog · 6 months

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MILK & HONEY. + dazzling fic art by @suntails <3 (also available on ao3)

“It will be alright, darling boy, I promise— everything will be alright.”

There’s no response, but Lilia doesn’t mind. His son has always been the quiet, thoughtful sort. Humming faint snatches of a lullaby long forgotten, he threads a hand through the boy’s moonlit strands, apathetic to the copper rust smears left behind. The child’s bangs have grown, he notes idly, fussing with the strands that have fallen over the boy’s face. Lilia ought to cut them soon.

“There will be time for that later,” he finishes his thought out loud, bending forward to press his lips benevolently to his son’s cool forehead— a blessing, Lilia thinks privately with a smile, examining the faint crimson outline of his lips against that pale skin. Blood of the father, blood of the son; sacrament and all that.

“But for now, my dear,” he gently strokes the backs of stained claws against the side of his boy’s face, leaving a virginal blush behind on a bloodless cheek. “It is time for you to wake up.”

Silver is five years old and held at knifepoint when he first meets his father.

There is a man holding his small arms behind his back, another grasping at his feet, while a third laughs grimly down at his rapidly watering eyes and traces the blade delicately against his temple.

“You’ve been a burden on our village for far too long, brat,” he sneers while Silver’s rabbit heart beats fast and panicked within his heaving chest. “No mother, no father, cared for out of the kindness of our hearts, and you have the nerve to go about stealing our scraps to feed the animals?”

They’re hungry too! Silver wants to cry out, if opening his mouth wouldn’t drag the blade against his hairline. And they’re his friends, when no one else would be.

The man, unfortunately, is right.

He has no family to speak of; an abandoned babe with odd-colored eyes, silkspun hair, and a debilitating tendency to sleep without cause like the dead themselves that had everyone in the village whispering fearful tales of curses and changelings. It didn’t help that the spring of his arrival had marked the beginning of a painful famine that would relentlessly grip the decaying land, crops failing out of a barren and cracked landscape as rivers began to bleed thin and dry. Changeling or not, it hardly took much time at all for any sympathetic feeling towards the foundling child to metamorphosize into bitter resentment at an extra mouth to feed when their own fevered children were crying out for more. Was it any wonder that he had turned to the few remaining woodland creatures for comfort, saving meager portions of his already miniscule meal to share in gratitude for their simple acceptance and affection?

The man with the knife doesn’t wait for any answering explanation, merely smacks the blade pointedly against his cheek with a cruel, hungry gleam in those dead fish eyes, and the other two holding him still trade malicious grins.

“It’s only fair that you pay for what you stole,” the man continues, almost kind and patient in his rationale— (I didn’t steal! Silver wants to shout, mouth dry and empty with fear. I only ever gave them food from my portion!)— and he hums with a terrifying softness at the way Silver’s frightened gaze tracks the knife’s every teasing glide about his forehead and his limbs tremble in their brutish hold. “Oh, not with your life— not at first, anyways. We’re going to scalp you; I can only imagine the price your pretty hair will fetch when we tell the traders that it's woven out of pure silver. It’s a start for what you owe us all for taking care of your worthless and lazy hide for the past five years, and then—”

He pauses as if for some grand operatic effect, savoring the way the tears helplessly gather and bubble at the edge of Silver’s lashes with a wicked smile.

“Then, we’ll kill you and plate you tonight as dinner. I think there’s enough to go around for the rest of the village, don’t you?”

Two things happen: First, Silver bursts into tears. Second, a dark shape drops from the trees above and latches onto the man’s throat, tearing it open in one fluid movement and soaking the entire scene, Silver included, in a hot spray of blood.

The entire woodland clearing erupts into chaotic, frenzied screaming. The other two men violently shove him forward in a futile attempt to use him as a shield and escape, and he falls numbly to the ground, limbs frozen in place out of dumb shock as shadows leap effortlessly over his head. The knife that had been so sinister just moments ago lies dull and dirtied in the forest floor by the now nearly headless corpse, and in the dim reflection of its blade, Silver can make out the similar gruesome demise of his other captors. The shrieking fearful sounds are silenced just as abruptly as they began; in less than thirty seconds, the forest has returned to its quiet, sedative self, at peace with the justice that has been served.

Who . . ?

Quiet, gentle footsteps sound from behind him, their stride unhurried and at ease as they round his quivering, prostrate frame, and something hysterically yells in his mind that it’s poor manners to not at least look his rescuer in the eyes.

“Hello, child,” the angel (for surely that must be, he fell from the heavens, did he not?) smiles down at him through dripping fangs.

Silver stares up through blood-splattered lashes at his savior and wonders if this is what it’s like to be stricken with love.

The vampire takes him home.

He laughs uproariously when Silver so shyly and seriously wonders aloud if he was truly an angel, with hands as kind and gentle as the spring sun upon the muddy bruises and dried wounds from the knife split across his face.

He laughs at a lot of things that Silver says. It’s uncannily loud and booming for such a small man, but Silver instantly decides that he likes it.

The vampire explains that he is, well, a vampire. He even lets Silver curiously brush tiny fingers over his fangs once they’ve been cleaned of blood and gristle, smiling down at him all the while without a trace of malice that he’s grown so used to seeing.

He tells Silver that his name is Lilia, Lilia Vanrouge. It’s a difficult name, a weighty name for Silver’s tongue to pronounce, but he rolls it softly in his mouth to savor it all the same, marveling at how much it feels like royalty.

Lilia explains to him by the light of the fire that he’s lived for a very long time, that he’s enjoyed a life rich beyond anyone’s comprehension from all of the sights he’s seen and the wonders he’s traveled. But no creature is immortal, not even vampires, as long-lived as they may be— the years are heavier now, they ache and sting at his bones as if he’d soaked them in baptismal water. And in his many travels, he had so happened to stumble upon this empty cottage tucked away and abandoned inside this quiet, peaceful forest—

(“Like me,” Silver whispers solemnly. “Is that so?” says Lilia, summer-cherry eyes brilliant against the flames.)

—and so he had thought, what a nice place to relax and rest his weary soul, a place for him to enjoy a rare moment of serenity before the next grand adventure swept him back out to sea.

“How silly of me at my age to think that I could anticipate the future,” Lilia brushes his hand gently through Silver’s tangled hair, the knots easily coming undone from a mere sweep of his fingertips. Silver can’t quite recall how and when he had made his way onto the vampire’s lap, only that he is leaning his head adoringly against the man’s chest, staring up at him with bated breath.

“I didn’t expect to have to rescue my newest venture!”

There’s no need to discuss it after that: Lilia never asks him to leave, and Silver never thinks to do so.

It’s idyllic. Lilia feeds him, clothes him, lets him play with the forest animals for as long as he wishes. They take care of the little cottage together— Silver discovers a patch of land in the back that at one point might have been a sad attempt at a garden, but under the patient toil of the two of them, burgeons into life with all manner of flowers and vegetables. Lilia teaches him how to darn his socks and how to properly use a whetstone. He tucks Silver into the small bed alongside him and paints visions of faraway worlds upon the thin wooden walls, a better storyteller than any traveling bard that had come to the village before.

When Silver calls him ‘Father’ for the first time, he doesn’t laugh.

In return, Silver doesn’t complain when he helps Lilia mop up any traces of blood from the traveler he’s feasted upon for the night.

His father is not a monster, this Silver knows as truly as the sun travels through the sky. The weary men and women who wander across their little abode are treated with nothing but kindness— a warm seat by the fire, a fresh meal to eat, and a soft place to rest their heads. All that his father asks of them is to spare what little coin and wares that they are able to part with, a strange gleam in his eyes and a sincere smile on his face.

Without fail, the strangers comply. They always do.

And in the morning, if they’re a little more woozy than when they laid down to sleep, Silver reassures them that the small satchel of strong-smelling herbs and wrapped provisions for the road will do them a world of good. Together, father and son stand in the doorway of their humble home, hands raised in gestures of well wishes and farewell, as good hosts ought to do. Their visitors stumble down the chrysanthemum and lycoris-lined pathway back to the welcoming arms of the forest, and Silver flexes his toes in his new shoes while his father indulgently twirls his latest trinket around his fingertips, admiring the glint of it in the pale sunlight.

(“Not all vampires are as kind as I am, child,” his father explains to him as he tucks a sheathed blade into the drawer of their nightstand, under the pressed and faded flowers that Silver had brought for him over time. “There are those who would see longevity as the means to power instead of the humbling blessing that it truly is. There are those who have let their years sour their minds like fermented wine, who have only steeped in cruelty instead of basking in the innocence that still exists in this world. And I would not have you defenseless inside our own home.”

Silver looks at the dull sheen of the knife and thinks back to the cold sting of one flayed against his cheek, and he wonders if those who lurk in the shadows of the night are truly the ones he ought to fear.)

The years pass in this necessary fashion, seasons tumbling and turning over themselves with a prevailing peace that Silver had once believed could only exist in storybooks. He outgrows his sleeves faster than travelers pass by, and it isn’t long before he finds himself a whole head and a half taller than the vampire. His father laughs at his shaggy bangs, proclaiming Silver to be more sheep than boy, and attacks his hair with all the ferocity of a mad barber. The lasting effect leaves something to be desired and Silver could swear that the bluebirds by their window are chortling to themselves instead of singing.

His father ruffles his sharp nails through the butchered mess of Silver’s hair and laughs again, proclaiming them to be matching lopsided twins, and Silver is unable to imagine a moment that he’s ever been happier.

What a shame it is then, that all good things cannot last.

The summer of Silver’s sixteenth year is a cruel, unforgiving one.

The August sun swelters the earth with a breathless heat, insidious like none before. It is relentless in its seething anger to drive the woodland creatures to the deepest burrows in search of shade, the birds to practically droop like molten taffy in their water bowls, and his father to haunt the shadows of their home, face flushed and eyes feverish in a way that no cool rag could soothe.

There could be no greater pain in Silver’s heart than this: the wilt in his father’s proud spine, the light tremors that seize his clever fingertips. He hovers over the vampire like a fretting maid, hands wringing uselessly as nothing short of the obvious will soothe his father’s condition, and travelers have been few and far between. Lilia conjures up smiles for him and swears that he’ll be alright, it’s simply a harsher season than before, and Silver cannot help but get the distinct feeling that he’s being placated. Even worse, it mostly works, the lonely and frightened child from the woods who sleeps deep in his soul comforted by that unsinkable paternal reassurance.

Still, Silver is unable to completely shake the feeling that something is amiss.

Lately, his rest at night has been disturbed. He wakes to the faint sounds of ruptured inhales so very close to his ear, of something in the clear throes of distress, with choked noises of desperately sought after air as if the deprived creature was suffocating. The noises are so frightening, so animalistic in nature that Silver can only think to associate them with his beloved woodland creatures, and yet when he hurries to his bedroom window and peers outside with his heart in his throat to find the poor animal that had been mauled by a predator— there is nothing but the silent gleam of moonlight, shining down upon his deflated flower beds.

His father merely purses his lips in worry when Silver brings these odd instances to him, and wonders aloud if these are queasy dreams brought on by the heat; with little else to explain, Silver’s inclined to believe him.

But these events are pushed out of his mind when salvation finally approaches one late afternoon in the weary figure of a man, clinging to the reins of a stumbling horse, at the end of their pathway.

His father must have sensed the newcomer’s presence too, for Lilia is at the door before Silver can even call for him, ever the gracious host and smiling beatifically at their wayward traveler as if Silver hadn’t needed to shake his shoulders thrice in mounting worry to wake him that very morning. The man eagerly accepts the offer of nightly shelter, passing the reins of his horse to Silver to tie to a post in the welcome shade of a nearby tree, and Silver watches over its broad shoulder as he gently rubs the creature down. His father, ever the effortless conversationalist even at the height of his malady, needs no reins with which to lead the man into the cool, womb-like darkness of their home, and Silver feels a rush of palpable relief at the familiarity of the old song and dance— perhaps at last, his father might finally take a turn for the better.

The next morning, Silver checks on his father first and smiles to see the vampire snoring away in what must have been his first blissful sleep in weeks, bedsheets haphazardly tangled about him in an ocean of white. With practiced motions, he leans down to straighten the blankets fondly around the slumbering figure, only to wrinkle his nose at the sharp scent of iron heavy on his father’s breath. After such a dry spell, the bitter tang scratches at his senses, and he can’t help but take a glance into their tiny living room where their guest yawns and shuffles in his borrowed blankets.

Perhaps a breakfast with a healthy side of dark, leafy greens was in order.

Morning is a quiet and simple affair— his father is sleeping in for once it seems, and Silver makes efficient work out of the early meal for their guest who must have had a rough night of tossing and turning judging by his wrinkled clothes and constant, belly-deep yawns. Silver even offers for the man to stay a while longer if he isn’t fit yet for travel, but their guest insists (rather strongly for his exhausted nature) that he could not impose on their goodwill much longer. With a mental shrug, Silver bows his head and allows the man privacy to retrieve his things, heading outside with the intent to bring the waiting horse to its owner.

Only, the horse is nowhere to be seen.

Silver’s heart falters in his chest, and he turns to their departing guest with a litany of apologies on his lips, for he had been so sure of tying the creature up safely for the night, but the man waves him off with an unsteady hand and a smile that keeps attempting to slip from his face as if greased, proclaiming that he had no need for what had been such an aging beast. He could continue his travels alone, and Silver can only watch and uneasily curl his fingers into his palms as the man cuts a wavering figure back down their pathway despite his bewildered protests.

(“We ought to warn those who stop by that there may be a bear in the woods,” he tells his father later, the vampire having woken long past their traveler’s departure. “The noises I’ve been hearing and now the horse’s disappearance. . . someone could get hurt.”

His father doesn’t seem too concerned with Silver’s hypothesis, and he supposes that’s simply how one behaves after centuries of besting mortality. Still, he resolves to be more cautious in his time spent outdoors.)

The man’s arrival marks a turning point in the summer, the blistering dog days giving way to the cooler promise of autumn. It also marks a turning point in his father’s health, one that Silver is initially so incredibly grateful for as the vampire seems to perk up and become the very picture of rosy, energetic grace. The weakened figure of mere weeks prior haunts the corridors of his mind, and Silver finds himself making excuses as his father welcomes the oddly increasing number of strangers who have found themselves down their homely path with open arms and glittering eyes above a wide, gleaming smile. It had simply been a veritable drought of company, and his father, gregarious as he was, was in his element now, thriving off the attention almost as much as the blood that came with it.

And perhaps that is what itched at his nerves most of all. It was one thing to suddenly play house with the travelers that seemed to constantly appear on their doorstep—

(Silver had questioned them, a discomforting notion to learn that not only had they been told of the cottage’s existence by those who staggered off in the mornings, but almost fervently urged to visit.)

—but never before had he witnessed his father drink in such abandon. With such a slow, but steady, trickle of visitors, his father may have sampled another’s blood once or twice a month at most, always cautious enough to not take too much. His father is not a monster, and his kindness exceeds that of all the humanity that Silver had known in his short life— this he tells himself as he averts his gaze from the still-clotting punctures, glistening and accusatory over rumpled shirts.

His father is not a monster, and he still tells himself this as he stumbles out of his bedroom one cold winter’s night, awoken once more to that strange, garbled collection of sound. His father is not a monster, because it simply could not be his father crouched before him on the floor of their living room, an all too still and silent figure splayed out beneath him like a rag doll. He surely must be dreaming, as those muffled, wet noises pause in their desperate slurping and enlarged fangs draw up and away from a ruined shoulder, dripping in a dark, glutinous substance. His father is not a monster, because the creature hunched in the shadows of a dying fire looks nothing like the angel who had rescued him in the forest all those years ago— whatever this, this thing is, slavering wildly over a face locked in a euphoric death mask, it is not his dearest father.

They behold each other in the scant space of a fragile moment, a bewildered gaze still frozen before the onslaught of horror could possibly sink in opposite that of unmoored feral hunger. Silver thinks back to the knife hidden beneath the drawer of his nightstand, cloaked in dust and dried flowers and the somber protection of a father’s love. He thinks back to the incredible speed that had disposed of the men who had intended to kill him on such a similar frigid night, a speed unmatched to the naked eye.

The vampire utters his name like a prayer, smeared tenderly in lamb’s blood.

His father is not a monster.

Silver opens his arms, and waits for his angel to carry him home.

In response to the delicate graze of his father’s gore-drenched claws against his youthful face, the boy’s eyes flutter open at last. Lilia does not seem to notice the vibrancy that has vanished from them, leaving behind the dull haze of a mist-choked morn where once the dawn light soared; perhaps he simply does not care. “Oh, Silver,” he breathes in reverence, the miraculous wonder of a father witnessing his child’s (re)birth for the first time, and he throws his arms around the boy’s stiff shoulders. There is no response, but that is to be expected when one is missing a greater third of their tattered and torn esophagus, the mutilated remains of which are strewn across the floor or smeared over Lilia’s mouth. “My darling boy, my precious son, how perfect you are at last.”

Silver trembles in his arms like a newborn fawn, and Lilia coos reassurances to him, helps his boy to his feet and steadies his legs as he leads him over to where their meal now lay in a crumpled and tangled heap. It is always cumbersome, the first feeding, and Lilia had no one to guide him through the carnal, mindless greed of his own— no such fate shall befall his son. He will share with him the abundance of milk and honey, lift it to his frozen lips where those new, budding fangs peek innocently above, and watch with boundless pride as new life, a near eternal life, is bestowed upon the one timeless treasure he has coveted in over six hundred stolen centuries.

Later, they will bury the body together, sink the flesh deep within the garden where the others take their rest, a cluster of pearly white bones only disturbed by an odd set of larger, equine-shaped ones. Later still, when a young man approaches their home in the evening gloom to seek shelter on the long, arduous journey to his grandfather, Silver will greet him. He will smile enchantingly over his new high-necked shirt and take his hand, drawing him deep into the clutches of their wonderful little home, deep into the blessed darkness where his father waits. The table will stay barren, the bed unmade— there is no more need for pretense between the two of them. Not now, and not ever.

Lilia can see it all. And with pleasure, he smiles.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst fic #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #twst sebek #sebek zigvolt #happy belated halloween :)#everyone say thank you catriona for bringing my wild visions to life beyond anything i could possibly imagine <3 #lettie writes #art for lettie

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