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17 August 2008 @ 03:46 pm
Ancient Wounds pt 34  

Author: yours truly, ExMaverick aka Jess

Title: Ancient Wounds

Rating: PG-13
Summary: Prequel to my vampire fic Deepest Shadow. Ville recounts the events of his mortal life growing up in the poverty of 20th century Finland, wrought with grief, sex, romance, passion and abuse leading into his birth to darkness.
His lengthy tales are imparted to the sleepy mind of his young lover, but only in the seclusion of his own darkest thoughts does he begin to relive the greatest obsessions and deepest hurts rooted in his bygone and decadent time.
Warnings: Violencia
Pairing: Vam,Ville/Jonne, Ville/OC (in parts)




Previous Parts 1,2,3,4,5i,5ii,6,7,8,9i,9ii,10i,10ii,10iii
11,12i,12ii,13,14i,14ii,14iii,15,16,17,18,19,20i,20ii,
21,22,23,24,25,26,27,28,29,30,31,32i,32ii,32iii,33





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I found myself spiralling into memories of ancient times one night. I made myself laugh, for what was nostalgia truly but heroin to the old and bitter? Nevertheless, this particular night was unlike many others. That in itself was unusual, for both you and I lived in a contained world. From our home in the hills, to the city bellow, that was our playground and alter. We existed for all time between these two places. But not this night.
Grown weary as I had with such familiar surroundings, I had taken you far away from our city, farther still from our small palace of a home. We were somewhere where the human world was silent, somewhere that nature still owned. Our preternatural speed found us in an unknown place, in the pitch black by the ocean. Only the waves pierced the quiet with their rhythmic crash and lull upon the rocks, only the scent of the salt water and breeze hung in the air. We sat in the unfamiliar texture of the wet sands with the black waters flooding over us and no reason to care.


We talked a great amount that evening, for the homely arguments had no meaning in this place.
“I feel so different here,” you said, head across my bare shoulder “there’s something about this place that seems-”
“Mournful?”
“Yes,” you replied “but in such a beautiful way. I’m suddenly so aware of my own immortality here”

I nodded in agreement. I too felt the melancholy of the dark sea, the cold of the beach over my skin that made me somehow more conscious that we were forever like the sea itself. I held you in my arms on the sands as if waiting for something for most of the night. I realised that I loved you the way I had once loved so many others in time, who had thought me the most marvellous lover in the world . I had loved you through temptation and through giving into temptation , and that nothing would make me deny that love to myself, or to you, or to God if he existed. The only difference tangible in this love than with others had been time. Unlike others, I knew the strength of the love I had for you would not wane, because unlike those others, you were frozen in life as I had been, never to age, never to die. You would win in my heart over all else because you alone could stand with me and stare into oblivion, and should the lights be switched off, they should be done so with you.

The smell of the sun began to creep over the expanse of the seafront, and I pulled you to your feet.
“Shall we make our way back, Master?” you asked, holding be about the waist sleepily.
“No,” I replied, kissing your head “let’s stay in the caves for tonight”








We crept barefoot into the darkness of the cliff caves as the sun was less than an hour away, not fearing its cleansing light. Soaking wet with seawater we held each other upon the rocks in the darkness, in this silent hollow place that somehow felt so holy and sacred we could not explain. I imagined our ancestors in this place, old creatures hulking themselves from the sea to take shelter from the dawn, weatherworn and naked, fully embracing and at peace with the nature of the animal they were. The echo of your breath sounded throughout the cathedral of the cave like a prayer, and with the taste of salt in your kiss and grit of the sand on your skin we slept together in the consecrated shadow.
We made a promise to each other that night, that we would not return to this holy place again in our lifetimes, save that one fateful day in our endless future where we vowed to come hand in hand to lie together once more, to bring an end to our lives.





…..

Our arrival to the promised land of Helsinki had been a ceremonious one. True to previous prediction, we had arrived at approximately three hours before sunup, thus saving myself the angst and social problem that would come from seeking refuge without explanation to my travelling party.


Helsinki was beautiful. Even close to morning the streets were teaming with life, lights piercing through the summer dark from tall gas lamps that bordered the roads like slender iron trees and spilling from shop windows illuminating the flat-paved walkways where gentlemen and ladies laughed in giddy conversation. My brother chuckled watching my smile grow wide and uncontrollable like a small boy, matched only by Suvi’s huge grey orbs hypnotised by the glitter of gorgeous clothing in store windows. We were both as children again. I felt very much that Suvi and I, while by no means any less well-spoken and mannered, were quite the country folk in comparison to these new and splendid city dwellers. Unlike ourselves, who wore the garments of yesteryear, in silks and linens and bright colours these cosmopolitan people were far more in keeping with the fashions of 1916, the men in tailored breasted and lapelled suits in several dark shades with starched virgin-white collars halfway to the chin and the women in dresses that pulled in sharply at the waists and fell in soft lacy plumes about their ankles. We were going to have to change styles it seemed to fit in, I thought almost giddy with the prospect of taking Suvi to a dressmaker and myself to somewhere where my dress needn’t reflect my rather epicene appearance.



Our rooms were lavish but in a totally alien way. Instead of the gluttony of hardwoods and dark imposing carved furniture the walls were in light natural hues, with wallpaper depicting nature as static and harmonious as only artists can. The presence of delicately shaped filigree gold in the beds and seats were also refreshingly delightful. My room was also in possession of thick and heavy curtains over the large window overlooking the main square of the city, which gave me a plan . To the right of my bedroom was a parlour-cum-library of sorts which with an impressively carved fireplace which connected my quarters with Suvi’s on the other side.
Fatigued with the journey and excitement my delicate young charge soon fell prey to the soft welcome of her great downed bed and fell swiftly to sleep once again, while my brother endeavoured to the same course of action. I informed him that I would sleep through the daylight hour of the coming day as was my custom to do and asked not to be disturbed (which on finding the lock to my doors ceased to be a problem) , to which he agreed sleepily only insisting I be available in the early evening to meet the other residents properly. That said, I bid him a loving goodnight and retired to my room.




I sat at my new light-wooded desk and poured over the few belongings I had taken with me in my haste by the light of an electric lamp (which to my great enjoyment ran throughout the entire house). Spread out across the table were mother’s letter, my father’s blade and a small notebook of my musings. I had become a bit of a writer over the years, nothing of epic standing but sweet and fanciful poetry and stories were very much a loved genre for my creative energies. I began to write once again, only sparingly of the beauty of the city and of the beauteous companions I would make here, but finding my mind too heavy I left it to shut the heavy great curtains. I had found that no light from the streets bellow could penetrate through them, and thought that if I were to sleep under the bed the sun should hold no fear for me during the day. Trusting this notion, I went about finding sleep.

But for all my joy my rest was wracked with anguish and horribly terrible visions. The true happenings of my slaying of William had begun to untangle themselves in my thoughts, the reality of the murder apparent to me now only in repose.




My Master’s hand reached out to chastise me and in that moment mine had gripped the throat of William the ever-child, fingers dug into the flesh and effortlessly jerked to the side, producing a stomach-churning crescendo of cracking bones and severed arteries. I remember shuddering at the hollow sound that came from his windpipe as the blow fell and the fact that my hands bore no mark of blood upon them at all.


My maker had been hit as if my an invisible poisonous wave, muscles freezing, mouth agape and eyes shivering blue in shock and awe. Falling to his knees as if he himself had been struck, he gathered the lifeless doll William had become in his arms and screeched as I had done locked in a cellar years and years before, William’s colour all over the floor and his clothes.



“You…sinful thing. Look what your hands have done! William, my poor sweet William…innocence slain! How dare you destroy what was not yours in life nor death to take, vile thing. Take your angel’s face…and leave here…never return lest my wrath be fully known and your suffering be eclipsed by my rage! LEAVE”



When nightfall arrived, I had already been rendered weak.



I had been right though, the sun had not touched my flesh during my fitful slumber. This encouraged me greatly, as I was able to stay with my new family and not be forced to seek out some dank and rotting place for daylight. A small smile welled within me behind the veneer of restlessness the lack of sleep had gifted me.



Slinking downstairs I found Jesse with the assistance of a maid in the main parlour from which came the wonderful echo of violins played by a gramophone. He sat musing over some loose papers, presumably publishing works, while my darling Suvi knelt by the fireplace in a flowing nightdress and the company of a russet-haired young woman. On my entrance, all ceased their activities to greet me. I was nearly knocked back at the impact of Suvi clinging to my arm affectionately.

“I was wondering when you’d grace us with an appearance” Jesse smirked, his arm encircling the waist of the tall red-haired maiden, who could not have been more than nineteen years of age “Lydia, this is Ville”

The young woman with the dark brown eyes smiled as I took her hand “Jesse has told me volumes of you Ville, quite the hero worship your little brother has for you. It’s wonderful you can be here with us now, I’m Lydia Ollila…soon to be Mrs. Valo”

“Pleasure to meet you, I can’t thank you enough for allowing us to stay” I said politely.

Lydia scoffed and smiled, saying that I mustn’t act so formal and that we were family and so it was the least they could do. She also remarked on how much she enjoyed Suvi’s company and how nice it was to have a young woman such as herself to talk to, especially as she grew with child and parties were quite out of the question for socialising. We spoke for but a quarter of an hour longer before she begged my pardon for the evening as she had grown tired, but Suvi must keep the nightdress and take any ribbon she wished for her hair from her dresser in her absence.

“Well I suppose you’ll be wanting to go into town? It’s barely five o’ clock and Suvi can’t go around wearing that nightdress or ragged green dress all the time. I wanted to take her out sooner but she insisted-” Jesse said, before I interjected

“That I come along also?” I smiled, looking down at the small girl on my arm “ good. I should like to be measured for a suit more befitting Helsinki”

Suvi grinned and changed into her tattered green dress for the outing, covered by an old coat of Lydia’s to hide most of the damage to avoid strange glances.





And so it was we arrived into one of the vast tailoring services that this great city had to offer. The shop fronts were like nothing I had ever seen, so modernised and elegant in a way that shrugged off the sickening vanity of Oulu before with a decadence that was entirely new in its simplicity and clean-cut sense of things.



An old woman attended Suvi and her son to me, and before long with the aid of measuring tape and currency on Jesse’s part we found ourselves dressed for this new, immeasurably exciting new world. I felt alive again for the first time in years. As we left into the evening I couldn’t help but chuckle and hold my head high, myself sporting a high-collar charcoal suit and tie streamlined to show my slender build and good height. I felt a strange sort of power and pride in it, that I was now free to be the young man and leave behind the image of the wilting-flower styled bondmaid I had been before. Suvi, however, was another matter entirely. How very beautiful she was now, in a silvery-blue dress that plunged terribly dramatically at the neck into a pinched waist and cascades of icy tears about her ankles; a white fur sable was chosen also her overcoat to offset her bright eyes (though the summer rendered it indulgence until autumn should arrive). What a small lady , I remember thinking, I held on my arm through those bright-lit streets standing in the stead of father or brother.




Such dreaminess was short lived that night, most sorrowfully, as I kissed both protesting parties farewell for a few hours-pleading I be alone to search the city’s cultural back alleys in my customary solitary way (for I was an artist, was I not? And to be alone was to hold no distraction to wonders of my surroundings, thus to better feed my work). This may very well have been true, but it is no guess that my real motive was to feed. I had been without blood for more now that two nights and while that was not life-threatening to myself, the awareness it gave me of those around me-namely the sweet flesh of my ward and brother-caused me great anguish.
It was not long after the tenth hour that I found my release, a drunkard in the dark ally way of a tavern who called to me speaking of making me his lover in the putrid gutters. I had drawn him close and let him kiss my hands and face before his painless, soundless death in my arms. His blood gave me a swoon that made me feel like weeping, but sentiment was something this new place could not afford and thus I left him, seemingly asleep, in his beloved gutter-bed.


I wrote about him at my desk that night, in sonnet form. I called him the ‘street prince’ and made him an anti-hero with my words. It became the start of a long saga of writings it would seem, as my victims would be the subjects of many poems thereafter in sorrow and glorification of the lives I had ended. They would become the requiems and elegies of the forgotten beloved dead.