Die a Hero

Wherefore Art Though So Curious?

It was well past midnight when I finished my story. We’d taken several breaks during so he could keep up with the timeline and ask any questions he had:
“How long was he suffering before he died?” when I told him about my dad’s cancer. 
Not long, it was discovered at a late stage, and there was nothing much we could do at that point. Not much could be done at that point, radiotherapy was still being developed, and it couldn’t be removed.
“Your mom didn’t turn him?” a valid question. 
He didn’t want to be turned, he wanted to know what it was to live and die as a human. Besides, it was a massive brain tumor, it impaired some of his cognitive functions. Vamp healing can do a lot, but once the brain starts to go, there’s nothing much that can be done. Turning someone at that point is almost cruel.
“Do you know what became of your house?” after I told him what I did with it when I left home. 
Not exactly, I know that it’s now a high-rise and that many of the descendants of the household staff that I was able to track down seem to be doing well for themselves. I still had my family’s home in Britain, though, which is where the majority of my funds come from.
Upon hearing that, he wondered aloud, “Why did you leave Britain?” to which I shot him a dirty glance, not wanting to talk about that.
“How many old ‘friends’ does your mom have? Should I be worried, holding you captive and all?” when I mentioned what happened in Finland. 
My mom has more old friends and acquaintances than even I know, she was around a long time before I was born. I’ve run into a few here and there, mostly during my time in Asia, but they tend not to be troublesome if they don’t want something from you. They also tend to mind their own if you don’t give them a reason not to. The one that showed up in Finland was a known shit-stirrer, and last I heard he was crucified underground for his part in overthrowing the tsar and his family during the Russian Revolution, as well as seducing his wife.
This prompted a follow-up question about Rasputin, to which I answered that I genuinely didn’t know, but wouldn’t be surprised.
“You cook?” when I started talking about my culinary tour around Europe.
Quite a lot, actually.
It was at this point he insisted we take a break from the story for some food. I had no objection, I was starving, but to my surprise he started dragging me with him when he headed towards the kitchen. We reached the ice wall, which dissolved as he approached, as it always did, and I took my first step outside of the repurposed office I had called my room in weeks. I followed him into the kitchen, looking back and noticing a new ice wall forming in a doorway I had never seen before, while the doorway to my own room remained open. His kitchen wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small either, and you could tell there was a lot of love in there. It seemed doctor Charlie and I shared a passion for the culinary arts. His spice shelves were stocked with an impressive array from various different cultures and regions, and almost more impressive than that was how meticulously they were arranged. The pantry had an impressive collection of various different types of rice and noodles, all neatly labeled. There were ingredients for various dishes, soups and sauces to be found in the pantry as well, along with in the fridge. The cupboards had everything from your basic cheese grater to a meat infuser to a pasta extruder with every extruder tip I knew of and then some. There were pots and pans, for both cooking and baking, double boilers, and frosting bags and tips. He had a cast iron skillet hung on the side of one cabinet, and an array of knives and other cooking utensils beside the stove. This place was paradise, I never wanted to leave.
Then he said, “Why don’t you teach me one of your favorite recipes?” and I nearly cried, or kissed him. After weeks being sick and cooped up looking at the same four walls day in and day out, this was a welcome relief. I didn’t think it was his intent to drive me insane by subjecting me to the same dull monotony day after day, but that was the effect it's had. I taught him how to cook bibimbap, with a less-spicy version of the traditional gochujang sauce, a recipe taught to me by a succubus in South Korea that I very temporarily dated, who was very well aware, and would frequently complain about, my “western sensitivity to spice”. We laughed and talked about arbitrary things and our interests and opinions on things happening in the world as the mouthwatering scent of the seasoned meat and vegetables for the bibimbap filled the kitchen. Then we sat at the dining table I didn’t even know he had and ate together. It was very pleasant. After we finished our meal he went about tidying up the kitchen, and I got up to help him, but he insisted I rest since I was still in recovery. He got no arguments from me, my foot was still killing me. Then he suggested I continue with my story as he was cleaning, and, after double checking he was sure, as up to that point he had been ardently taking notes, I continued on with my story, and he with his questions as I went on:
“Did you and the banshee ever, you know?” after I mentioned my beautiful harp-playing temporary companion.
 That one I had a bit of trouble with, because I think he meant it to be suggestive, but it just ended up being open-ended. Did we ever what? Fuck? Date? Murder an entire village together? The answers to those, by the way, were once, no, and almost; on several occasions. They deserved it, though.
“Why would you try to kill a man who was teaching you what you want to know?” when I talked about Dumuzid.
Because he was doing a shit job, he’d deliberately leave things out and make me perform tasks for him to get that information, and he was a massive pervert.
When I told him about how Dumuzid likened me to the goddess Inanna, he was taken aback for a second, before asking, “Goddess?”
“I never met her, nor any other goddesses below her, but I did find her stories and the stories of her priests and other followers fascinating,” was my response, knowing full well that wasn’t what he was asking.
“No, I mean he likened you to a goddess,” he said in puzzled tone.
“I looked much different back then, and hey!” I said, glaring at him, slightly offended at something I knew I very well shouldn’t be.
Surprisingly he had no other questions about the comments I made in regard to Sumerian religion about the rest of my time in Mesopotamia. I guess he just assumed that was some knowledge that I had that he didn’t, and he put it low on his list of things he needed to know, or maybe he even already knew.
“What kinds of creatures and in what kinds of ways?” when I mentioned the beings I encountered in China, a slightly amused look on his face. I shot him a dirty look and didn’t even dignify that question with a response.
“Why did you decide to start combat training after running from fights and war for so long,” after I mentioned when I had started my training.
I ran because it was what I was used to. It was what I was taught to do to keep myself safe and to survive, but I got tired of living like that. I realized that I had no real skills to defend myself if I was attacked other than being fast, strong and durable. After coming across so many beings with the same advantages as me and more, I realized that that wouldn’t always be enough. Especially after the ninth or tenth time a regular human member of the Mongolian People’s Army handed me my ass, even with all those skills.
When I started talking about how some of the experiments I underwent would make me sick he asked, “Why didn’t you just stop the experiments? Being sick for so long seems absolutely awful.”
It was, indeed, miserable, but I genuinely hadn’t thought to until he asked that question. The pursuit of knowledge in a safe and controlled environment seemed far more important at the time than my comfort. I’m also glad I learned my reactions to various toxins in a safe lab environment where the antidotes were readily available rather than have to deal with it for the first time being dosed in the wild.
“Golden, as in golden blood?” he guessed after I mentioned being given a bag
I affirmed that it was, indeed, golden blood, but that we also didn’t start calling it that before the humans discovered it. Before she gave it to me I was still calling it platinum, a term we used because it was far rarer than gold, because I hadn’t yet heard the term, ‘golden blood,’ because I hadn’t encountered any ever, really, let alone since the term had been coined. Up until that point I had almost come around to believing that its existence was a myth. It was really good, by the way, and I felt not only better, but younger as well after drinking it. I almost started to believe in the fountain of youth, too, but I knew that one was a myth vampires made up to explain their eternally youthful appearance when they weren’t ready to move on from a place just yet.
“What kind of blood types do vampires have? How does vampire blood typing work? Is it in any way based on the blood type they had before death?” when I started to talk about blood typing.
I had to think a while, before realizing and admitting that I didn’t actually know. I’d never thought to learn that before, and I was never taught.
“What is a gudok?” when I reached the part in my story when I took my leave of Mongolia.
I didn’t entirely know that, either. I knew it was a Russian instrument of some sort, and that the one I had was practically ancient, but I didn’t know much else. I didn’t even know how to play it or even tune it properly. It just sat around in its protective carrier, which was no doubt collecting dust in storage at that very moment.
He was oddly silent throughout the end of my story, and I think I even saw tears in his eyes when I was talking about Nikko. I couldn’t judge him, though, it took all I had not to break down crying. When I finished, we sat there in silence for a little. Then, out of nowhere he hugged me, which elicited a tiny yelp of surprise and pain from me. He quickly let me go and apologized profusely before going to retrieve his notebook. We sat there in silence for a while longer as he jotted down what he deemed the important information in what I had just told him. After he was finished he stared at it for a while, flipping back and forth through the pages, seemingly looking over his notes to see if he missed anything.
“Where did you learn Norwegian?” he asked suddenly.
“You are really attentive to details,” I responded, a bit startled at the abrupt break in the silence.
“And you appear to be dodging the question,” he affirmed.
“Norway,” I replied, not really wanting to get into that with him when we still knew so little about each other.
“When were you in Norway?” he persisted.
“After I left Mesopotamia I went back to Denmark to get my stuff, having left it there with the intent to return. When I realized it had been far too long since I’d been back and I hadn’t aged, I decided against staying. On my way to India I passed through Norway. I spent a year there. I don’t remember all of it, and the bits I do remember we do not know each other well enough to share. To sum up my experience there, I left Norway a completely different person than when I’d arrived,” I replied as tersely as possible, and maybe a bit aggressively, tensing up.
“Okay,” he responded, his hands raised, and I relaxed a bit
It was at this point that he seemed to notice the time, and suggested we turn in for the night. I was in no position to argue with him as I was exhausted and every surface of my skin ached. I tried to stand up, but I rose too quickly and put too much pressure on my bad foot, so my leg collapsed under me. Charlie caught me, hoisted me into his arms, and carried me into his office. My face scrunched up as we neared, a horrible odor permeating my senses. I guess I hadn’t noticed it before because I got used to it as it progressed, but after weeks of sleeping on the bed in his office, the place had started to smell. He noticed my face and carried me past the bed to the other ice wall, which vanished as we approached, and stepped into the far-better-smelling living room. It was cozy, it had a couch, a table, a tv and a lamp, all sitting on top of the ugliest rug I’d ever seen. I figured I’d ask him about it in the morning since I was too tired to care about anything other than sleep in that moment. He carried me up stairs I didn’t even know he had, then took me into one of the rooms at the top. It was sparsely decorated, but every surface seemed covered in a layer of unfinished tech and various other half-finished contraptions. I think I might’ve been impressed if I could actually register feeling. This was obviously his room. Then he laid me down in his bed, heaved a seemingly heavy blanket, must’ve been weighted, to the side, pulled a different blanket out of the closet, and covered me with it. He then wished me a good night and turned off the light as he left the room. I wondered briefly where he was going, this was his room after all, as I drifted off to sleep.