𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒

第四 | FOUR

PAST

Claude doesn't remember anything. He cannot remember anything. He only knows that he isn't in the right place. He isn't where he's supposed to be. He's supposed to be by your side, but you are nowhere to be found.

The realization hits him like a sledgehammer. It starts off slow: then the force hits him. Slams into him.

You are dead.

Claude steps towards the waves in a daze. It would be better to kill himself. His reason to live is gone.

The waves can consume him.

They can kill him. All he wants is to see your figure; bathed in the moonlight, untouched by death. He wants to see you with your arms outstretched to him. But all that remains of you is a phantom like hollowness that breaches into his soul and worms it's way into his heart.

Claude is trying to find something. Maybe a semblance of you.

Maybe to taste the feeling of death on his tongue. Did it taste bitter to you, or were you satisfied that you had achieved your goal?

Claude doesn't know, and death doesn't come.

He supposes this is punishment for letting you go.

.

.

PRESENT

Strange, you thought. Two hours after the two of you had retired to your individual bedchambers, the buzzing in your head had failed to cease. No—no longer a simple buzzing. It was static, white noise. A faint, building throbbing that was tearing away at your flesh, killing you slowly.

It was painful. Something was painful. However, just what was it?

.

.

"You look unwell," Claude pursed his lips. "Y/n, are you sure—"

"Such care isn't characteristic of you, Your Grace," you cut him off, shaking your head. "Leave it. I'm fine. I suppose it's motion sickness."

Claude didn't look convinced. You were clearly uncomfortable, and it was this very lack of care that had caused your health to deteriorate, before you had died right before his eyes. His hands reached out to grasp your cheek: but you had blinked, and had shifted yourself.

Claude couldn't blame you. He knew this change was jarring and strange to do.

He knew you were not accustomed to being loved.

But he would teach you. Claude would make sure you knew you were a being deserving of love.

.

.

Maybe I should have told him, you thought silently. You sat on your bed sheets, your fists curled around them taut and unrelenting. Sleep used to come much more easily to you. Now, the nights dragged on much longer, the dim moonbeams pooling on your bed till they turned bright and warm. The throbbing became louder.

Thud.

Thud—

"Fuck," you cursed under breath, starting to tear up. "Fuck, it hurts like shit."

You tangled yourself into the blanket. Your brain filled with static, as if a needle bumped into the end of a record again and again and—

.

.

"I have ways to obtain your blood."

.

.