The archive of the forgotten

the weakling

trigger warning: blood, abuse, violence

There was nothing kind about Maël Corentin de Beaufoy but then again, how can you be a good vampire if you are. And that was one of the few things you could say about him without a doubt, he was a good vampire.

Some might blame his history for the way he is now, some might make excuses and yes, deep inside he may have been somewhat of a human being, but nothing of that was shown as he drags Aurelian through the white marble halls, limping and covered in black blood not distinguishably his or the other, his eyes are nothing but rage, but a human could misinterpret that as sadness. The other vampire is struggling, trying to remove the fingers hooked through the skin under his jaw. But I am beginning with the end, so shall we really begin.

Maël de Beaufoy, even in his childhood he was hard to describe. The closest one might get is painfully vague, but for the sake of this story I must try. Growing up he lived in Paris or in his families palace at the Loire. He was an incredibly lonely child, the eldest of four, and the only boy. It depends who you'd have asked what he was like what kind of answer you would get. If you'd ask his professor you would get the answer that he was a studious and thoughtful young boy. If you would ask his music teacher she would answer he is a lively, flamboyant talented boy and if you would ask any other child they would say he was a lonely one. But he the truth is he was a chameleon even then, smart and respectful for his parents, bold and flamboyant for the less respectable. His sisters were quite fond of him, he used to play music so they could dance or he would read them books. They used to call him merle, blackbird, because he always whistled or sung. Merle, that was his name when he felt safe. He wasn't unkind back then, but can a child be really unkind? Can a child be damned?

It wasn't the best time to grow up as an aristocrat in France. As the young boy turned into the most beautiful young man he was oblivious to the incredible danger out on the street as the masses began screaming for freedom. But the decadent boy had become more and more a portrait of what the people of France had come to disdain. His chateaux in Austria and Britain. His indulgence in balls and his general uncaring nature for the other people of France. So as the guillotines were sharpened for the likes of Louis and Marie Antoinette and so the opera loving, musical prodigy and genius found himself shivering in a cold damp cell of hopelessness, trapped with the rats. Because we all knew by then, dear son of a duke, what are you but a rat in expensive clothing?

He knew his fate, or at least he thought he did. His days consisted of staring at the walls bitterly reciting Voltaire or lovingly reciting Descartes. He hummed Bach pieces from start to finish and played whole Shakespeare plays in his head, loneliness became his sanity. Every day he waited to be dead, every day he was disappointed. He was sixteen young years old and he was going to be dead in not much more than a month. He didn't really care how lonely he was. He enjoyed the stars through his the tiny window high in the cell and he still had the decency of wearing the beautiful white clothes he had been raised in.

His life was a beautiful and silent existence for a while, he did not mind. That changed when another prisoner entered the cell. The person was dark and gloomy with short dark hair pale skin. His lips were curled up at all times in a cruel expression. This person was mesmerised by the boy that was locked up. The green eyes met the mysteriously amber ones and all the older man could do was slightly smile at the boy with his stunning honey blond hair. Or was it more red, like the desire of man who are returning from war? Or was it more white? Like the innocence he still had in his face and voice. The boy was mesmerizing, there was something alike to an angel with a childish gaze as he cocked his head and quietly looked at the older man with a hatred that has not been prompted whatsoever.

"My name is Blaise, nice to meet you Maël." "How do you know my name?" The stranger sat down in front of the beauty "I have heard your thoughts. And I can get you out of here, if you promise me some tiny things little duke of Beaufoy." His eyes fixed on the ground, life or death, your own choice. But is it worth being a coward? He lifts his chin in arrogance. "I want your chateaux or at least be allowed to live in them." Maël smiles and scoffs with an air of superiority. "A beggar.... Is that what you are." "Oh Maël, you'd be most surprised what I am." The older man stands up. "The sun is setting, deal or no deal?" "Impress me, beggar." The arrogant duke said.