Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A week after he met Louis, Owen made an offhand mention of needing to cut his hair again. It grew quickly—a constant annoyance when it became long enough to fall into his eyes—and squinting into the dusty mirror he kept for the express purpose of haircuts as he prayed to the holy spirits his hands wouldn’t shake too badly was one of his least favorite times of the month. He wouldn’t admit the latter part of course, not to the only person who seemed to find forgetting his illness, his weakness, easy. Still, there was something disarming about Louis, something that made all the vague complaints and pointless thoughts Owen typically kept to himself slip out. Part of it was that he listened to each of them, treating them more seriously than they deserved, always ready to empathize and agree with even the most petty annoyances. What made that specific instance stand out, even then, was the way he frowned at the words.

“I don’t think you should.”

Owen lifted his head from where it’d been resting on the arm of an ornate couch, staring towards the mayor’s desk where Louis sat, looking vaguely embarrassed at his own bluntness. He wasn’t blushing—nothing seemed to phase him quite enough for that—but as he set down his quill and looked over towards the corner that had quickly become Owen’s, the sheepish expression sprawled across his face didn’t fade. Really, that just made Owen more curious. 

“Why not?”

Louis motioned for him to return to the comfortable half-lounging position he’d taken up on the couch over the past few days, after an incredibly embarrassing incident wherein Owen had stood up after spending hours on the stiff-backed chair across from the desk and fallen over when his spine protested the sudden motion in the most dramatic way possible. It was little gestures like that Owen found the most fascinating—the ones that reminded him Louis knew he was weak, sickly, and, for some reason, just didn’t care. It was odd, almost uncomfortable, to see the way they came so naturally to him. At times, it felt like a reminder that it was possible for others, they simply didn’t care enough to try. 

“Well—“ Louis shifted in his chair, jolting Owen out of the negative thoughts he’d begun to let creep in, “I... don’t think you need to, is all. It curls enough that it can’t pose much of a problem for a while, and you can just tie it back if it becomes a significant annoyance. That would be much easier than cutting it all off, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Owen agreed immediately—he was, after all, and if admitting that meant he got to watch those sharp burgundy eyes soften as Louis smiled at the easy acceptance, then that was just coincidence. Still, Louis seemed oddly pleased by the agreement, more even than when he’d opened his door on that second day to see Owen standing there yet again, with a flimsy excuse about land that was quickly forgotten as the two talked for an hour that bled into the rest of the afternoon. It seemed small, but clearly it meant something, and even then Owen had been absolutely terrible at telling Louis no.

By the time it reached his shoulders, just a few months later, Owen had resigned himself to the fact he would never cut his hair again. As annoying as it was when it escaped the pins he’d been gifted, not having to cut it had freed up an entire afternoon, which he’d instead put towards a far more important purpose. That purpose was, of course, the main reason he was willing to put up with the unruly curls—Louis. 

For some reason Owen had yet to decipher, Louis loved his hair. Often, when they laid together on the couch, Owen’s head wound up in the other’s lap, Louis running his hands gently through his hair as they talked about nothing. The methodical, relaxing motion had the delightful side-effect of lulling Owen into some of the most restful naps he’d ever experienced, but with that came the unfortunate consequence of less time spent soaking in the joy of casual conversation and touch, that unique, enchanting experience he only ever found in the mayor’s presence—though admittedly, when Louis smiled down at him, just as small and closed-lipped as the ones he gave in public, but softer somehow, and whispered to him that he should be getting home soon, it almost made up for that lost time. Almost. 

The days Owen truly lived for were his worst. It sounded odd for him to look forward to the times his bandages were glued to his arms with blood and pus, when every movement sent waves of pain through his fragile nerves, but Louis could always read the stiffness in his limbs, spot the winces he couldn’t quite suppress, and on those afternoons—Owen always visited early on those days, and maybe that was another cue he’d picked up on—he opened the door that connected his office to the rest of his home. 

There was an unspoken rule, usually, that the two stayed in the mayor’s office. With the professional setting came the veneer, however flimsy, that there was a distance between them. Even with their limbs intertwined, sharing hushed, private words, there was always a sense that they could just as easily pull apart, find their way back to the two chairs separated by Louis’s mahogany desk, and pretend none of those evenings had ever happened. It had shattered the first time Owen had seen Louis’s home, but most days, they stuck to it regardless.

That was why Owen made the journey, even when his bones ached and he knew it would be easier to collapse onto his pallet and ignore the straw poking at his back. Even though Louis scolded him for it, admonished him for pushing himself so far the soles of his feet stained the hide of his boots red, he opened his doors regardless. Those nights were quiet, Owen and Louis curled up together in the massive, too-soft woolen monstrosity Louis called a bed, both sharing the lone pillow and exchanging only the occasional word—but laid still in the fading light, Owen could almost forget the pain that would wrack his body if he tried to move. Louis’s presence was more of a balm than even sleep, though Owen had never managed to stay awake later than him, always drifting off to amused gaze and the warmth of a blanket draped gently over him. 

On those days, rare, but less so with every passing month, Owen could almost pretend they were something more than occasional partners in conversation. When Louis woke him in the pre-dawn darkness by running a hand gently across his back and whispering a good morning, he could imagine coming back to sleep in that bed, with that body by his side, the next day, and the one after. Sitting at the single chair as Louis carefully undid and re-wrapped his bandages, watching him wince sympathetically at every length that came away rust-brown, it was easy to pretend he would never have to force his shaking hands to drape them across his own arms again. But every time, without fail, he stepped outside, swung his axe until it fell from his limp fingers, and walked back to his empty home on the edge of the woods.

As it became obvious that Owen’s health was failing, however, the rules began to blur. More and more often, he found himself collapsing against a trunk too sturdy for him to fell, breaths so short he could almost believe he was already dead. The first time it happened, Owen hadn’t gone to Louis at all, too tired to imagine making it all the way back to Oakhurst. When he’d opened the mayor’s door the next evening, Louis had leapt out of his chair so quickly it tipped over, intricate woodwork cracking against the floor, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. His hands had hovered just above Owen’s face, unsure whether his touch would help or hurt, but Owen leaned into it knowing full well even the slightest brush against his skin would sting. It was worth it, if only for the way Louis’s face melted into something so relieved it was if he hadn’t believed Owen was real until he could feel him.

After that, he resolved that he would always make it to town, even if it meant cutting his work so short the sun still hung high above the trees. When his vision began to blur, arms weak, his legs carried him despite their protests, always to the same place. Always home, to the couch and the bed and delighted red eyes that shone like gemstones when the light reflected off of them. And gradually, almost without Owen noticing, Louis’s home began to shift around him. There were two chairs now, and enough pillows on the bed that each of them could have their own, and simple food in storage even though Owen had never actually seen Louis eat. Neither of them commented on it, but even when Owen sunk into the fluffy mattress on the other side of the bed, he woke to their limbs entangled just the same.

With everything in him focused on Louis, other aspects of Owen’s life fell to the wayside. First were the unimportant ones, like keeping his axe sharp and hauling his wood into town on his regular days. The people already whispered snidely to each other about his weakness, as if his ears were just as defective as the rest of him—they wouldn’t care if he was a little late, with a little less wood, not when it would validate all of their gossip.
Next went the mending of his clothes. This one, Owen admittedly didn’t notice for far too long. It seemed, for a while, like his clothing simply needed no maintenance. It was odd that no new tears or holes seemed to pop up, but he hadn’t been able to do near as much work, so it made some kind of sense. It was only when he woke, late one night, moonlight streaming through the window allowing him to just barely make out Louis crouched over a shirt Owen knew was his, dark steel needle glinting silver in the moonlight as he pulled it methodically through the rough fabric. Louis had glanced over, somehow knowing Owen was awake, and merely smiled, whispering for him to go back to bed. When Owen had protested, voice weak and weighed down by sleep, Louis had simply offered him the needle and told him he could do it himself if he so wished. Owen had tried to grasp the needle, but after it slipped from his fingers for the third time, he admitted defeat. At least now, Louis did his mending in broad daylight, rather than cutting into what little rest he got for Owen’s sake.

The last task that slipped out of Owen’s control was far more personal, and all the more shameful for it. The thing was, even on his worst days, the ones where Louis carried him into bed and the pain gnawed at every inch of skin pressed against the mattress and the blanket and Louis’s silk pajamas, Owen found the strength to comb his hands through his hair. He soaked it in some of his precious little clean water from the town well whenever it tangled too badly, and pinned it up whenever possible to protect it from the wind and sweat of his job. It was the one part of his appearance he truly cared about, what he cared for first whenever possible, because Louis loved it, and so he did too. 

But it became increasingly harder to pull the smooth bone comb Louis had gifted him through his hair, as his hands grew weaker and it began to encounter more and more knots that wouldn’t budge. Owen knew that if he could just work his fingers through slowly, tease apart the messy strands, it would get easier again, but it was so hard to find the energy and the time when all he wanted to do was melt into Louis’s side and sleep. He hoped, naively, that Louis wouldn’t notice—but this was Louis, who had a neat little box beside his bed full of brushes and pins and dozens of other little hair ornaments that had gradually found their way into Owen’s possession. He never used them, sure, leaving his hair to fall around his shoulders in tight coils, but he was clearly meticulous about its care—although Owen had never seen him do it, he have had to cut it so often and so carefully that it always remained at precisely the same length, and he was full of suggestions when it had first gotten long enough for Owen to struggle with. 

Sitting together on the couch—it was a good day, one where they didn’t need to leave the office, where Owen could pretend he was just as able as he’d been when they first met—with Owen’s head resting on Louis’s shoulder, tracing the ridged wrinkles of his shirt idly as they talked, he realized too late that Louis had gone to run a hand through Owen’s hair as usual, only for his fingers to pause against a particularly stubborn tangle. Louis frowned at the unexpected resistance to his practiced movements and Owen felt his cheeks burn, shame coursing through him as he recoiled instinctively at the realization spreading across Louis’s face. 

But Louis didn’t scoff or mutter something snide, the way the other residents of Oakhurst might have. He wasn’t like them, of course he wasn’t, because none of them would have let themselves risk illness by getting so close to Owen in the first place, none would have let him come back, or let him into their homes, their lives, the way Louis had. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how lucky Owen had been to meet Louis. Now, watching the realization eclipsed by a dawning understanding, a softening of his eyes that conveyed devastation without the pity that even the most well-meaning townspeople let color their faces, Owen was reminded all at once how perfect Louis was. He said nothing, only opened his arms in silent invitation, one Owen fell into without thinking. Resting against his chest, feeling hands card rhythmically through his hair, working out the knots bit by painstaking bit, Owen felt utterly content. The ache in his arms, the burn of his clothes against his skin—none of it could compare to the bliss of being cared for.

It became a routine before Owen could protest it. Not that he would, when Louis seemed not to mind spending their nights pressed up against each other for easy access to Owen’s head, running a sturdy comb methodically through the curls that had loosened over time, dragged down by their own weight. Its spruce teeth—wood Owen suspected he’d been the one to chop—slipped easily through now that Louis had taken to teasing out the tangles periodically, and even when it finished its duty, they remained in their position, Louis looking down at Owen as Owen looked up at him. They didn’t need the pretense of brushing for the closeness, not anymore, but that certainly didn’t make it unwelcome. Any excuse to feel Louis’s cool skin against his own was a welcome one to Owen.

Chapter Text

On one particular night, where they’d really lost track of time and only noticed the darkness when their candles burnt out, Louis pulled Owen to his feet, an arm around his back to support him if he fell, and offered to walk him home. He accepted—why wouldn’t he? Their time together had begun to grow rarer, to both of their disdain, as the ever-increasing needs of Oakhurst demanded more and more of Louis’s attention. The town’s growth was a testament to Louis’s skill, but that didn’t make the long, empty hours of fruitlessly swinging an axe and doubling over against tree trunks to cough until his throat stung any more tolerable.

They meandered slowly down the recently-cobbled streets, breathing in the cool air, Louis frequently turning to point out one project or another that he’d organized, or signed off on, or that he just thought Owen would like. Framed by the wooden beams of the houses he’d worked tirelessly to raise, his pale hair glowing in the moonlight, he looked otherworldly, too perfect to be real. And yet, here he was, stopping them so much it almost felt like he was trying to drag their walk out—but Owen knew it was for his sake, that he’d noticed the persistent tremble in his legs and adjusted his pace in kind despite saying nothing. It brought up a question, one that had nagged at Owen since their first meeting had spiraled into so many more. 

“Why do you waste so much time on me? I understand being polite when I first approached you about that permit, it is your job, but… when I kept coming back. When it was obvious all I did was distract you. It’s clear how much you love Oakhurst, so why do you keep letting me take you away from it?”

When Owen turned his gaze from the sky to his companion, their eyes met—his dark, unremarkable brown against Louis’s shining red—and the hand that wasn’t intertwined with his rose to cup the side of Owen’s face. Louis smiled, something almost sad in his eyes, and leaned closer to whisper his words into Owen’s ears, as if afraid someone else would hear.

“You’re right—I love Oakhurst, and every person who walks its streets. But none of them compare to you. Every story you’ve told is a reminder of why I hate humanity, how cruel and cold they can be— but you’re proof that I can’t give up on them. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met—your resilience, your kindness, how wholly you love when someone loves you back. You don’t distract me, you focus me. You are why Oakhurst is worth saving.”

And when Louis leaned back, Owen followed him instinctively, not wanting to lose that closeness, the finer details of Louis he’d never been able to see so clearly before. How his lashes framed his eyes, how tiny, near-invisible dark brown flecks dotted his irises, how his mouth parted slightly to take in the fresh air—and Owen wanted to be closer, to know every piece of him, and before he could think further, he was moving forwards yet again.

At first, it didn’t even register. He was too busy delighting at the way Louis’s eyes widened, shock and awe in equal measure, and how they softened into something so adoring it was almost terrifying. It only clicked when the arm not wound around his back came to rest in his hair, and he could feel the curl of Louis’s lips against his own, feel his own move to mirror it, and he was kissing Louis.

As soon as he realized, Owen broke away, stumbling back and ignoring the jolt of pain when Louis’s outstretched fingers caught on a stray curl he’d been messing with as they— kissed. Because kind words were one thing, lying together on the couch and combing through his hair was one thing, but this, this was dangerous. Owen’s touch could only ruin Louis, invite those stabbing pains and spreading sores to the sweet mouth and steady hands he treasured, and he couldn’t allow that.

“I’m sorry,” Owen pleaded, staring down at the cobbles below, not wanting to know what Louis must think, “but I can’t hurt you, I won’t let my disease—”

There was a scoff, low and distant and derisive, but it didn’t matter, because moments later his head was tilted upwards, arms wrapped around him in that firm but gentle way Louis had mastered long ago, and words were murmured into the quickly closing gap between them, determined and certain and somehow almost as beautiful as the man who uttered them.

“You could never hurt me, Owen.”

They made it back to Owen’s home far later than intended, Louis lingering on the doorstep with an apologetic expression even after Owen had invited him in to stay the night. It was improper, he had to be back in his office too early to make the walk back in the morning—in anyone else, it would sound like excuses. But Owen knew Louis better than that by now, understood the depth of his duty to Oakhurst, and only kissed him goodbye with understanding in his eyes, still reveling in the contact. Watching him disappear into the night like just another shadow, the entire event felt almost like a dream.

The next evening, Owen opened the door to the mayor’s office and found Louis sitting on their couch in the corner, fiddling with something small that glittered in the dying light. His eyes widened when he noticed Owen, like he hadn’t believed he’d come back, before a soft, sappy smile bloomed on his face, and he motioned him over to the couch excitedly. Owen sat down, only to be pulled into Louis’s lap, head resting on his shoulder as his arms wound around him. He melted into his lover’s embrace, the cool touch of his skin, and looked up towards Louis’s face, finding him staring down with something almost nervous in his eyes.

“Owen?”

He was definitely nervous. Odd—he’d seemed so confident just the night before. But, what if he’d changed his mind? What if it had been a joke from the start, or some misguided attempt at pity for the town embarrassment?

Louis sighed, long and deep, pulling Owen from his thoughts. His eyes were still worried, but the fondness that saturated his expression was new and comforting.

“No need to look so concerned, I merely wanted to ask you something. It’s just… a difficult question, I suppose.”

“Difficult?” Owen parroted, still just the slightest bit unsure. 

“Difficult,” Louis affirmed with a nod, something more determined appearing in his eyes, “but something I should have offered you far before now. If you had the chance to be cured, free of the disease you despise, would you take it—even if it would make you an outcast?”

That question wasn’t difficult at all, not really. 

“Of course I would,” Owen scoffed, “after all, I’m already an outcast. I only need one person by my side, and I already have him.”

Conflict still lingered in Louis’s gaze, even as it warred with something fragile and hopeful.

“This otherness would be inescapable. You would be something removed from humanity, something no person could hope to understand.”

That was a little more concerning. Still, there was only one thing Owen needed to know.

“Would I still have you?”

“Always.” 

“Then I would take it.”

And Owen could feel the tension melt away from his lover’s form beneath him, before Louis wound a careful hand around Owen’s waist and sat the two of them up, draping Owen across one arm of the couch while he took the other. There was a seriousness to his expression, the kind Owen only ever saw during town speeches these days, and it made him worry. Louis drew a deep breath in, then exhaled—and something about the way his chest rose and fell registered as odd. That feeling quickly vanished, however, as his face melted into a smile filled with pure, unadulterated affection—one that split his mouth wide open in a way Owen had never seen, and it quickly became clear why, as two sharp fangs gleamed amidst his white teeth.

He should have been terrified. But it was Louis, who’d spoken kindly to him, who’d listened when he talked, who Owen had loved for far longer than he wanted to admit. Of course he didn’t flinch away at the sight, not when a part of him had always recognized the inhuman beauty that radiated from his lover. Instead, he leaned forward, reaching towards the hand Louis had left lying on the cushion between them to clasp it between his own. He made no mention of the way it trembled in his grasp, not when he knew just how much trust this gesture had taken. Owen brought the hand to his  face, feeling the chill of long-dead skin, the emptiness where a pulse should have beat on the wrist, and kissed it with all the gentleness he could muster.

That was all it took for Louis to pull him back into his arms, wrapping Owen in an embrace that was comforting in its tightness, whispering to him how incredibly lucky he’d been to find such a perfect person, one who didn’t fear him for what he was. Red rose to his cheeks at the effusive praise, and Louis smiled at the sight, still small, but with none of the reservedness that had always lingered before. He looked lighter than Owen had ever seen him—and then he spoke.

“I should explain properly. I am a vampire—a creature of the night. Should you agree, I can turn you, and you can join me in eternal life. The gift could cure your illness, make you stronger, and— we would have all the time in the world.”

Owen didn’t care what else the gift could do for him, as long as it meant an eternity with Louis.

“I accept. Of course I do.”

“I knew you would,” Louis murmured, eyes soft and full of joy, “but I still had to ask.”

When the urge rose to turn and kiss his lover, Owen didn’t resist, unafraid of the fangs that lurked just behind his lips. Louis’s hands found their way, as usual, into his hair, and when he broke away, Owen found himself curious.

“Hair— is that a vampire thing? You’re always so careful with mine, and I’ve never seen yours look different at all.”

And Louis laughed, something embarrassed and overjoyed in equal measure, tugging absentmindedly at one of Owen’s stretched-out curls as he answered. 

“It is. Long hair is a point of pride for us—our hair doesn’t grow once we’re turned, so losing any of it is a tragedy. Going for another vampire’s hair is tantamount to an act of war, even though we wear it down to make it easier for an enemy to reach, as proof we fear no one.”

That made Owen frown. 

“But, your hair is shorter than it was yesterday. Did something happen?”

Louis’s smile grew again as he reached for something behind him.

“That’s a special case. It’s another tradition of ours—when you find someone you care deeply about, who you’ve chosen to be yours and you, theirs, you prove it by sacrificing a piece of you to them, forever.”

He held his free arm upward, so that candlelight caught on the intricate golden bracelet in his hand. It was the most gorgeous piece of jewelry Owen had seen—and Louis enjoyed gifting him small, shiny things of increasing value, so that said quite a lot. It appeared to be made of three interwoven strands, two shining and gilded and the middle a long, pale white strand that curled easily around the others. It was, Owen realized quickly, a lock of Louis’s hair. He inhaled sharply as it slid over his wrist, resting perfectly against the sliver of skin not covered by his bandages, half at the chill of the metal and half at the care it conveyed. 

Louis only pressed a quick kiss to Owen’s hand as he released it, face soft and open as he continued to speak.

“Having long hair when you’re turned means your sire prepared you for it—you weren’t some failed kill or moment of passion, but rather someone who a vampire cared so deeply about that they’d spent months beforehand to ensure that you would be able to receive their gift.”

“Wait—” Owen realized, “but we’d only known each other a week when you told me I shouldn’t cut my hair. Was that already—?”

“Yes,” Louis agreed, “even then, I already knew you were special. You’ve always been someone I wanted to spend eternity with.”

“Why wait any longer, then?” Owen found himself saying, “Turn me now. I want to be with you forever, for as long as I can.”

At the invitation, Louis’s eyes grew sharp, something hungry entering his gaze. But he wasn’t sacred, not when Louis lifted Owen’s arm to his face with the same care he’d used to slip the bracelet on moments before, not when his face grew guilty as he warned softly that it would hurt a bit, not even when the brush of lips against his exposed wrist, right above his pulse, turned to the pinch of teeth sliding smoothly into his skin.

It did hurt, for a moment. But that moment was brief, before something soothing and numb spread through Owen’s body, his eyes and limbs growing heavy as he slumped further into Louis’s embrace, his lover cushioning him and covering the pinprick marks left behind by pushing the bracelet up to hide them. His thoughts slowed steadily as the rhythmic feeling of a gentle hand ran through his hair, his vision beginning to blur as his heart beat more and more weakly in his chest, and all the while Louis whispered praise and encouragements and a thousand tiny compliments on his eyes, his skin, his sweet, metallic taste. As his consciousness finally slipped away, awareness fading in and out, Owen mustered up the strength to move his leaden lips and ask Louis one last question.

“Will you be there… when I wake up?”

The empty bliss of death stole Owen’s last breath just in time for him to hear Louis’s answer.

“Of course I will.”

Chapter Text

Owen’s first thought, when he woke to darkness, confinement, and something hard beneath him, was that he’d been abandoned. But he felt something, distant and foreign, stir in the back of his mind, something that ached of fear and worry and almost seemed to call his name, something he recognized, instinctively, as Louis. It ate at him in a way he’d never felt before, something far less physical than the fire in his limbs but no less real for it. Something that stood out more because of the distinct lack of pain throughout his body, a feeling so strange it was almost uncomfortable. 

Owen reached upwards, hands brushing across stone, and when he pushed, the slab of rock slid easily away from his hand and fell with a clatter to the floor—and it didn’t hurt a bit. No straining of muscles when he shoved, no sign of the ache that had settled in his palms and never truly left, and when Owen held his hand steady experimentally, he realized it no longer shook. He pushed himself into a sitting position, hands pressed firmly against the rough stone beneath him, and took a deep breath in. It didn’t hurt, but it did… nothing, really. The air whistled into his lungs, then seeped right back out. His chest felt empty. There was a silence he wasn’t used to, where his heart had always beat just on the edge of his awareness, its frantic attempts to keep him alive just barely audible if he focused hard enough. Now, the sound of blood rushing in his ears was just—gone. 

He wanted Louis. It was cold, down here, and dark, and Louis had promised to be there when he woke but he wasn’t and the presence at the edge of his mind, the one that felt like warmth and safety and home, was leaking a steady sense of unease that had already begun to affect him. He needed to find Louis and figure out what was wrong, why he wasn’t with Owen—he needed to lie together on their bed and let Louis run his fingers through his hair, he needed that smile directed at him again, he needed to sink his teeth into that pale skin and taste power on his tongue. He needed to find Louis.

It filled him with a sense of purpose stronger than Owen had felt in a while, almost unnatural in its vehemence. He pushed himself upwards, out of the coffin, and squinted through the darkness, realizing for the first time that he was somewhere underground. The stale air and pitch-darkness should have made that obvious, but somehow he could still make out vague shapes, as if some faint source of light was just out of view. It didn’t matter why—what mattered was that it was enough for Owen to make out a stairwell he made his way towards, his strides longer and faster than he was used to. 

Halfway up the stairs came the phantom sensation of heat. It was barely noticeable; if not for the lack of pain, Owen would have assumed it was just another effect of exerting himself a little too hard. If not for the chill of the tomb he was in, he would have assumed it was just sunlight on his skin. But it wasn’t, a part of him whispered, and the feeling began to build, and something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Owen took the stairs two, then three at a time, not even registering what he once would have thought impossible. All his focus was on the heavy wooden door he pushed open with barely a thought, which let him out in Louis’s storage room. He knew Louis’s house, knew the quickest way to the exit as intimately as he knew all of the little obstacles he could use to drag their time together out just one more moment, and pushed his way past the half-full chests and crates scattered across the floor with a precision that would only register as supernatural later. The heat was rising, and his feet hurt, but it wasn’t the same dull ache he was used to, sores and blisters rubbing against his boots—this felt sharp and lingered even as it began to spread from his soles upwards. 

Urgency pushed him faster, faster through the house, until he was stumbling out the door that led into the mayor’s office. It was wrecked, Louis’s beloved mahogany desk split messily in half, their couch torn apart and bleeding wool from the tears, all of the records Louis kept so meticulously scattered across the floor. This was wrong and Owen couldn’t breathe and he didn’t need to anymore but his feet burned and he smelled smoke and he burst outside to see a cheering crowd and all at once he knew.

Louis didn’t struggle on the pyre. He surveyed the town with a steady gaze, only the pinched lines of his face betraying the pain he had to be in, the pain Owen felt like it was his own, even as the flames licked at his shoes. Owen’s hasty exit had attracted notice, townspeople turning to see him, one woman hovering just a few steps away to ask if he was quite alright, telling him they were all so happy to see him safe and not under the mayor’s bewitchment, but Owen heard none of it. Louis had seen him too, red eyes meeting brown, and somehow, that was what cracked his facade. He screamed something, lost to the chants for death and the woman’s inane mutterings, but Owen felt it just the same—go far, hide, I cannot protect you, I am so sorry. That was when an overzealous man threw another log onto the fire, and it jumped, catching on Louis’s pants, eating away at the fabric and spreading, until the flimsy mental barrier between them, the one Owen hadn't even realized Louis was holding up to protect him, shattered.

If all the pains he’d grown begrudgingly used to—the sting of raw, weeping skin against soft fabric and open air, the bone-deep ache that rose to a fever pitch on his worst days—every hurt he’d suffered since the day the town doctor pronounced him incurable, had all been combined into a single moment—even then, it couldn’t hope to compare to the unfiltered agony eating at Owen’s soul. He was on fire, could feel his flesh blister and peel, his clothes melt into his skin, blood boiling as the flames clawed at his bones, determined to swallow and consume them until all that remained was ash. There was stone at his knees, the cobbles of Oakhurst, and people around him making concerned noises, but there was no one around him and he stood straight and tall even as the pyre around him began to warp, hearing nothing but the jeers of the crowd and seeing nothing but the fear in his fledgeling’s eyes—and Louis was dying, a piece of Owen’s soul cried out, even as his eyes saw nothing but the leaping flames and his mind whispered that the fire ran through his body in place of blood. There was screaming, a high and terrified voice, his voice, and despite everything, the unrelenting burn that they felt as one, the fragment of him that whispered Louis offered up a weak, desperate feeling—comfort, be calm, you will survive—and it was enough.

His body was a weak wooden frame, kindling swiftly consumed, but the fire hadn’t reached him yet. Even though he burned, Owen was alive, and the whispers of the crowd around him came into sharp focus as his mind accepted the pain and let it pool in his unbeating heart, still agonizing and inescapable, but contained. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Could it be the mayor’s witchcraft?”

“Perhaps it’s the Devil’s mark crying out as its kin is cleansed.”

“That boy has always been unholy…”

“Yes, the spirits wouldn’t punish their faithful so—”

“We can’t have one touched by dark forces within our town.”

“Is there room on the pyre?”

The pyre, the pyre, the pyre, the fire that blazed through Owen’s soul, the fire Louis was surrounded by—and they wanted to burn Owen too? Steal their lives away, sacrifice them to the powers that had done nothing for Owen when he was alone and unwanted? He wouldn’t let them. 

Strength filled him, survival instincts he couldn’t understand or control, and the pain was all the more intense, but as it raged through him, it brought the vitality of the fire with it. Anxious energy shot through his stagnant blood, and Owen had to move, to cut the hands on his shoulders from the arms they were attached to. He hissed, something deep and inhuman, and before he could process it, his hands shot out, slashing at the people surrounding him. When they scrabbled uselessly against the thick fabric, as if a part of him had expected them to be sharper than they were, he only applied more force, tearing through flesh to let sweet red blood drip down. 

There were still screams, pain and horror alike, but now it was the town crying out. The people closest to him stumbled back, but those he’d hurt only fell, bodies limp and heartbeats already fading. They smelled tantalizing, like fresh, savory meat, but it didn’t matter, not when smoke still hung heavy on the wind and the pain had begun to fade, not because it’d lessened but because the piece of his heart that was Louis was crumbling, flaking apart, and Owen couldn’t stop it. He was dying, a slow, permanent death, and all that stood in Owen’s way was the panicking crowd.

In the end, they were no obstacle at all. He lunged forward, terrified and feral, and the town parted before him. They learned quickly after he tore through the first few to muster axes and torches—there was nothing they could do to stop him, and it was better to move with their lives than stand and lose them. Owen made it to the pyre in record time, reaching into the fire without care for the way it jumped hungrily at his hands, and pulled the limp body inside it into his arms. He was careful, gentle, just as Louis had always been to him, even though he knew already it meant nothing. 

Owen’s fingers smarted and his palms protested at every small shift Louis’s form made in his arms as he ran, and he could feel it, because it was the only pain he could sense. The only physical pain, at least—his chest was empty, aching, mourning the space within him that just minutes before had been full. Mourning the body in his arms, bones held together by fragile sinew that had long given up on wrapping back around the charred frame. Mourning Louis, because Louis was dead, and Owen had let the pain of it cripple him until he was too late to do a thing. 

Somehow, his legs had carried him back to the empty hut on the edge of the forest, the one Owen hadn’t considered home in months. It was small and dirty and full of things that still smelled of Louis, probably the last place Owen wanted to be, but he needed to do— something. There had to be something he could do, to fill the void that refused to be ignored. He wanted the pain back, because it was Louis’s pain, proof Louis was alive and feeling and seeing Owen even when they were separated by an angry mob.

The mob. The mob that had wanted to burn him, the mob that had burned Louis. None of them deserved to live, not after what they’d done. Owen would tear them to shreds, until blood stained the streets red and there was nothing left but the emptiness threatening to swallow him whole. And he would take all the cold joy in it he could find, but first—Louis needed a place to rest. 

Chapter Text

It hurt, being burned alive. Even now, the remnants that couldn’t charitably be called a body were warm to the touch, warm in a way Louis had never been, warm in a way that made Owen sick. His head was spinning, and his hands were blackened and numb, but he didn’t keep a shovel at his house, and he couldn’t bear to look at the muscle and bone that was once a person anymore. Owen collapsed to the ground, in the center of a weak beam of moonlight cutting through the clouds, and brought his hands to the ground. 

He dug. As the darkness deepened, as the clouds rolled in and a cleansing rain tried and failed to wash the dirt back into the hole, Owen grabbed handfuls of soil and flung them to the side. It hurt, but it was still nothing, couldn’t hope to compare to the feeling of the fire, and so Owen continued regardless, until the sun rose behind the clouds and the hole was deep enough for Louis to rest comfortably. 

When the time came, he paused. It was stupid, naive, but when he looked towards the remains that sat silently beside him, Owen imagined that they’d shifted just a bit. That somehow, they were piecing themselves together, reforming into Louis, who would tell him they’d made it through, that they could leave Oakhurst behind for somewhere quiet and solitary, where they were the only two people in the world. But they didn’t, and there was nowhere that would welcome them, and Owen buried the only person he’d ever loved in the clearing behind his house, in a grave marked only by upturned dirt.

His hands still hurt. Not nearly as badly as he’d expected, considering the agony of the wild flames, but now that they’d been soothed by the cool soil, they felt almost numb. Losing the pain felt like the piece of his heart that belonged to Louis was being ripped from his chest all over again, and Owen sunk his shaking fingers into the blackened flesh of his palms, ripping gouges through the dead skin. The shaking was welcome for a moment, an old friend he’d quietly missed, but then it just felt like spitting in the face of Louis’s gift all over again. What was he doing, sitting here and hurting himself when Louis had given his life to cure him? What was he thinking, breaking down alone just a short walk away from the town where Louis had been sentenced to die? Where had his resolve gone?

The town would pay. It was the final oath he’d sworn over those now-cold bones, and Owen wouldn’t let it be broken, not the way Oakhurst had torn Louis from his side and turned his last promise into a lie. All of this, all of Owen’s suffering, was their fault. It was the mantra that brought strength back to his weary limbs, his aching heart, his smarting hands. The only equalizer in life was death, and no pain would compare to what Louis had gone through, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. 

He stumbled through the gates like the weak man he’d been days before, rain slicking his tangled hair to his tear-stained face and pounding relentlessly down on the grime that coated him. Owen suspected he looked like he’d dug his way out of his own grave, and hoped it was intimidating enough to counteract the trembles that he couldn’t stop from wracking his form. But then, maybe it was better if they weren’t afraid. Let them feel powerful, let them come to him believing they could end him, and he would show them why they were wrong.

And as if summoned, they came. They were afraid, even as their eyes sharpened with disgust—the reek of sweat rose from the mob, almost as strong as the smoke and ash that still clung to every wall, pungent enough that not even the rain could mask it. The weather, too, was in Owen’s favor, forcing the townspeople to resort to pitchforks and axes rather than the torches he was sure they would have preferred. If they’d had fire—if threatened by the all-devouring tongues of flame that had consumed Louis so easily—Owen might have turned and fled. The thought of it made him sick, but it wouldn’t come to pass. Even nature wept for Louis. The world itself was on his side. 

The first foolish person to raise their weapon high and charge got lucky. The sharp, bladed edge of a sickle sunk deep into Owen’s chest and a cheer rippled through the crowd, one that sputtered out and died as Owen only laughed and lunged at the idiot who’d put himself in range of his new fangs. An instinct he had no name for demanded blood for blood, and even as his own hit the ground in dark, thick clots from the site of the wound, he took the opportunity afforded to sink his teeth into the warm, inviting neck, whose panicked heart pumped more and more blood towards his mouth. It tasted almost like the fine, aged wines Louis drank sparingly, the ones that were always too strong for Owen’s taste, and though his stomach churned just the same at the rich, metallic taste, this time he found he didn’t care.

When the first body hit the ground, blanched pale, corpse-white even as its eyes still fluttered weakly, Owen drew his gaze upwards to the crowd, more than aware of the blood dripping from his lips, and grinned. The screams rose to a symphony, but even as more blades pierced his body, tearing through stiff muscle and unfeeling flesh, Owen felt more alive than he had since half his soul was stolen from him. His nails lengthened and sharpened as he moved, blood coating his hands so thoroughly not a hint of that burned flesh remained, and with every corpse he left in his wake, he felt the strings that tied him to humanity snap. 

Eventually, the mob dispersed. Most were scattered around him in various numbers of pieces, limbs torn from bodies and torsos sliced to ribbons leaking red into the streets. A part of him complained to see the waste, but it meant little to Owen, not when his stomach was already full and his mind was far more focused on the fleeing shapes. Some ran towards the town center, where the remains of the pyre still stood, but most escaped into their houses, as if they thought these pitiful walls, lined with the wood Owen had labored endlessly to obtain, could protect them from him. 

He turned on the closest one first, tearing the door open with little more than a thought and focusing on the four frantic heartbeats tucked away in the back room. The red haze that covered his vision didn't fade, even when all four were silenced—there were more houses, more hearts, the whole town was full of that overwhelming, rhythmic thumping. There would be no peace until every one of them was torn from the chest it hid in, and there would be no absolution for these murderers wherever they went after the life drained from their bodies. They deserved nothing more. 

Soon enough, the blood was the only thing he could see. Where it gathered between the cobbles and collected in puddles, he had already been, leaving gaping doorways and shattered windows in his wake. Where the hearts still beat, where the ground was dirtied only with the refuse of humankind, that was where his presence was still required. Owen stalked the streets like a storybook monster, dragging cowards from where they laid under their beds and tucked inside their chests, adding their lifeblood to the stains that covered him head to toe. When the streets were blessedly silent at last, he chased after the softer, more distant heartbeats, the ones selfish enough to believe their loved ones deserved to be spared and stupid enough to attempt an escape. Not one made it through the forest. 

The forest, more than any home in town besides the single central house left untouched, was Owen’s. He knew the overgrown path to the ancient manor house, the hill that overlooked the town, the odd, circular clearings that felt almost like they were waiting for something to fill them. Even the old tower ruins, the ones that housed a glass box believed to be divine in nature, had not escaped his notice. That was where the final members of Oakhurst had fled, when their town walls proved to be no match for Owen’s rage; somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, they’d held out hope that the dull gray thing the texts called a beacon would save them from his wrath.

Perhaps it made their deaths slower, but that was no mercy—whatever small amount of vitality their belief in it afforded them, it only prolonged their pain. Owen didn’t mind it in the slightest, not when Louis’s death had been so slow, not when even this was only worth a fraction of his agony. They died all the same, and when he kicked their bodies into the lake surrounding the tower, he expected… something. Fulfillment, maybe? Not joy, nor satisfaction. He wasn’t dumb enough to think he’d ever know happiness again, but even still, he’d expected more. The world around him was bereft of the stains of humanity, pumping blood and beating hearts, but it only made the emptiness more apparent. 

All the death, the devastation, the town he’d felled singlehandedly, had meant nothing. Louis was gone, and now so were they, unable to ever know the pain he’d felt in his last moments. No one would know but Owen. No one was left to carry the story of the kind mayor who’d valued his town above himself, who’d stood bravely and let the flames take him with a dignity no words could capture. The only ones who could have possibly understood— Owen had killed them himself. And it hadn’t mattered.

The rain had stopped at some point. Clouds still hung heavy above his head, but without the constant flow of water around him, the blood and dirt had caked itself to his skin, and now that there was nothing to focus on but himself, it itched. Owen took a single step toward and collapsed into the shallows, letting himself sink to the bottom. He couldn’t drown—what did it matter if he filled his lungs with the murky water? What did he care if the currents dragged him down to the lakebed to rest among the corpses, all the other unbeating hearts? They were just like him now, but without the capacity for pain, the ceaseless awareness of the water that battered his wounds, peeling dirt and blood and fabric and flesh from his body with the same impersonal pull. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed under the water, letting it tug him gently from one shore to the other and back. In the end, it wasn’t even Owen who made the choice to leave; when the moon rose and pulled the waves over the shore, so harsh a tide that their crests broke against the crumbling stone foundation of the tower, they dragged him up with them and abandoned him on the beach. By that point, the clouds were gone—maybe they’d been gone for ages, and the moon had risen and set while he was too deep to notice, but there was no real way to tell—and the sun shone weakly down. Even that pale light was enough to make his skin sting, and it was that sensation, far fainter but still too similar to the prickle of flames, that finally forced Owen to his feet. 

He limped into the shadow of the ruined tower, collapsing against one half-fallen wall, and stared down at his hands. They were wrinkled from his extended soak, fingers crooked from years of swinging an axe, but that was all. No sign remained of the fire. No hint of blisters, or numbness, or the gouges he’d ripped in the dead flesh before he’d torn Oakhurst apart in his rage. The only discomfort came from something poking at his wrist below his thoroughly ruined sleeve, and Owen pulled back the singed edge and hissed as he realized exactly what he’d forgotten in his reckless haste.

The bracelet, Louis’s gift to him, was ruined. Gold had melted and dripped across his wrist, re-solidifying into a terrible puddle half-fused with his skin, and somehow, in the pain and the frenzy, he hadn’t even noticed. Breaths coming short and unsteady, hacking up tepid water in his panic, Owen clawed at his wrist, trying to separate what remained of the present from himself, hoping somehow, something could be salvaged. But he’d underestimated his own strength, and the claws he’d forgotten he had sliced straight through the thin metal coating his skin, sinking into his flesh and coating the gold with slick red blood—not his blood, the blood of one murderer or another, coursing through his veins in penance for their crimes, but it had covered the gold, further desecrated Louis’s kindness, and it was all ruined beyond repair. 

Owen sunk to the ground on his knees, head flush with the dirt. He had nothing left, nothing at all. Why was he still alive, when his only reason for living was gone? Worse, why was he dead in every way except the one that mattered, the only one that would let him see Louis again? Vampires were meant to be immortal, but surely— surely that didn’t need to be true. Louis had burned, and it was long and slow, but he was gone, and that meant Owen could be too. Only… the thought of searching out fire, finding it or making it and stepping into it himself sounded impossible. 

There was the hunger. When people starved, they died. Surely, the same principle applied to vampires. It had already begun to ache, deep in Owen’s chest, magnifying the pain of the emptiness beside it. It’d been days, probably, since he’d eaten, too busy with his vengeance after sating himself initially. If he just waited a while longer, then surely, that would be enough.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know what possessed him to dig the grave. It certainly wasn’t out of some sense of concern over proper burial practicies—Owen already knew that nothing good waited for him after a true death, his only solace that whatever remained of him would be reunited with Louis in one way or another. Maybe it was that misguided sentimentality he couldn’t shake, that told him even if there was nothing after he closed his eyes, his body could give something to the world that had offered him rain. Louis had called that attitude romantic, once, but now it just felt pointless. That didn’t stop him. 

Owen was practiced, by then, at digging graves. The claws were a boon, this time, helping him shovel through the wet earth quickly. Dirt bit into his raw wrist, but it didn’t matter how it ached because the pain was nothing, and Owen knew he wasn’t fine but he would be soon. He just had to keep digging, and he could finally stop. 

It wasn’t a triumphant finish. It wasn’t even deep, not as deep as it should have been, but it didn’t matter, because eventually, Owen couldn’t force his arms above his head to throw the dirt from the hole, and that meant his makeshift burial was good enough. He reached out to the piles of overturned gravel and grit that surrounded him and dragged them closer, letting them fall back in, before collapsing spread-eagled to the bottom of the hole as he swept the last armful of earth over the edge, where it hit his face and seeped down around him. 

Immediately, Owen realized he couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t like the water, which found its way seamlessly into his lungs, which he could almost pretend wasn’t there when he ignored the weight in his chest. This had substance, texture, and even though his mouth was firmly closed, it pressed down on his body and crept into his nose uncomfortably. He had to stop himself from giving in to a useless instinct to gasp for breath, knowing it would do him no good, only let the cold, wet clumps slip further in. Breathing would do nothing for him, Owen reminded himself, and it would all be over soon. All he had to do was wait.

It was a far slower process than Owen had imagined, starving to death. The dirt settled more quickly than he’d expected, helped by the rain he could feel seeping through the top layers of soil, until it melded around his body so firmly that it had to be completely solid. That made not moving easy—he’d tried, just to see if he could, and found that even pushing a single finger through the mass of earth was nearly impossible. What turned out to be far harder was the waiting. 

With his eyes closed to keep the dirt out of them, there was nothing to do but think, and for a time, that was enough. Owen poured over every memory he had of Louis, burning his eyes, his lips, his hands, into the darkness that surrounded him. But they had no substance, grew thinner and felt more fake every time he replayed them, and when he couldn’t conjure up the particular annoyed face Louis made whenever he was prodded about his lack of farmland development projects, Owen realized abruptly that his mind was unintentionally tearing his most treasured moments to shreds. That thought was one he disliked just as much as the darkness, so instead, he pushed Louis from his mind and resolved to think of nothing important for as long as he could.

Thinking of nothing important worked well enough, running through old, completed lists of tasks and counting as high as he possibly could, until the first pang. In the long, silent days—they had to have been days, even though Owen already felt like he’d been trapped for an eternity—he’d almost forgotten that his goal was to starve to death. When the first hunger pang ran through him like lightning, he would have cried in relief if he could muster up a single tear. Finally, he was almost free. 

Almost, he reminded himself, when the second pang was stronger, and the third stronger still. Nearly, he swore, when they stopped being pangs and instead hung low in his chest, quietly demanding attention. Soon, he hoped when it became a clawing at his throat. By the time it reached a burning that spread steadily through his body, persistent and inescapable, and stopped, Owen had realized he wasn’t going to die. He remained suspended in that state for far longer than he liked to think about—not that he could really think, when all he could recognize was the suffocating weight that pressed down on him and the hunger that begged for a release. 

He floated, untethered by anything but the hunger, for so long that nothing else felt real. The world was nothing but the darkness weighing him down and the vague memories of something nicer—warm days, a soft couch, a presence at his side. A presence Owen once thought he couldn’t live without, one he’d been forced to live without, one so bright that its lack had inspired him to succumb to the darkness now covering him like a shroud. 

But… that didn’t sound right. He’d been moving steadily toward the darkness for a long, long time. The light—Louis—had wanted him to live. Had burnt out so Owen could live. And yet, somehow, he’d buried himself and tried to squander that gift. The hunger leapt at the first full thought Owen had managed in who knew how long, and he realized, finally, that his stupid, doomed plan had done nothing but spit on Louis’s memory. He had to pull himself up, had to get out and live, continue to honor Louis instead of wasting the chance he was given—but he didn’t know how.

It was a disconcerting realization to come to, that he couldn’t tell where his body ended and the dirt began. The pain was his body, dirt couldn’t feel pain—but that was all he was certain of, really. Did he still have the claws that had torn so easily through flesh and earth alike? Owen tried to flex a finger experimentally, and realized he couldn’t even tell. Had it moved at all? Did he even still have fingers, or had they rotted away without him noticing? How much of him was left? 

Before, he had been determined, but that thought was what inspired panic. Owen laid trapped beneath solid earth, untouched and steady for—it had to have been centuries at this point, if not millenia—ages, and if he couldn’t even tell whether his body could still move, there was every chance he could never get back out, trapped in the darkness until he forgot that he was alive—well, dead, but undead, not ready to be buried yet. He renewed his efforts, trying to shut out the hunger clouding his mind, but it was so difficult when it was all he’d known for who knew how long at this point. If only it could be reasoned with, placated by the promise of food the moment he could dig himself free, but the thought of fresh meat and warm blood only made it more intense. 

The hunger pangs, sudden and violent, brought on by the phantom taste in his mouth, were so intense Owen felt his entire body shudder, a feeble attempt to curl itself into a fetal position. It made the dirt feel all the more suffocating—but that was progress. With a single movement, he’d confirmed that he was more or less in the same shape he faintly remembered. It seemed silly, that he’d really thought his body could have somehow rotted away without his notice—now that he was acutely aware of the uniform pressure weighing down on every inch of him, he couldn’t imagine not being utterly conscious of each tiny shift in the soil around him. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t actually help as much as Owen had hoped. The dirt around him was firm and thick, undisturbed for so long it was practically a single mass. Despite focusing his newfound ability to move into his hands, they met with massive resistance at all but the slightest of shifts, his fingers—devoid of the claws he was certain had once melted easily through this same dirt—scraping through the soil clump by pathetic clump. It took what felt like weeks just to loosen the soil around his hands enough to clench them into fists, but the feeling of his nails biting into his palms, a real, physical sensation, something to distract from the hunger, was blissful. 

It was that second wind that carried Owen forward, even when his progress remained agonizingly slow. With his hands—well, not free, but able to move through the loosened soil directly around him, he could turn them towards his chest, hoping to regain just a little more mobility and relieve that crushing pressure bearing down on his non-functional lungs. It was heard, though, where he had no real way to gauge his progress; his eyes had been closed for so long that even attempting to picture his situation was futile, and his only indication of forward movement was the rough, close-packed dirt that meant he hadn’t yet broken up the earth in front of his hands. 

He didn’t even realize his hands had met over his torso until they collided with one another in his blind, jerky movements—but when it registered, it was euphoric. It meant twice the progress, and before long, the dirt around his head had been separated enough that if he forced his weight upwards, through the soil he’d slowly, painstakingly loosened, Owen could shift himself into what could have charitably been called a sitting position. 

An entire head closer to the surface, he could hear again, even through the thick layer of earth still separating him from the wide, clear sky. Birds sang faintly, waves lapped at the shore not far away, and more distant, nearly out of range but just close enough for Owen’s mind to hone in on—heartbeats. They were slow, slower than a human’s, but by this point, the pit in his stomach wasn’t picky enough to protest eating animals. He needed to feed, and the food was so close, and no natural barrier would be enough to stop him now. 

With every moment, his desperation grew, and with every movement, the sounds became clearer. Owen clawed his way upwards, his instincts fully in tune with his rational mind, both focused on a single goal: freedom. When one hand shoved upwards through the sea of softened soil and broke through, exposed suddenly to a warmth so sharp and unexpected that it burned, Owen retracted it with an instinctive hiss, too busy trying to spit dirt out of his mouth without letting more in to fully register the implications. He was almost out, less than an arms-length away from the world, and all he needed was a final push. 

When it hit, it hit hard. Owen fought his way through the last few feet of dirt with an energy he shouldn’t have had, as weak and starved as he was, and tore his way into the open air just as a cloud covered the sun. It was a lucky coincidence, as even the muddy, overcast light Oakhurst always sported, the kind Owen had known his whole life, proved to be too much when his eyes opened for the first time in centuries. He slammed them shut again, something shamefully close to a whine escaping without his consent, and he dragged himself on stiff limbs under the shadow of the tower before daring to crack his eyes back open. 

His first glimpse of the world revealed ruin. The lake tower hadn’t exactly been well-kept in his own days, but its general structure had survived, at least. Now, much of the wooden staircase was lost to decay, and many of the stones had long fallen from its walls, leaving gaping holes that let in more painfully bright light than Owen could comfortably handle. There was no way to know how long it had been since someone had last walked the woods he could vaguely see through the gaps in the foundation, but they appeared wild and overgrown, what little order the townspeople had instilled long gone. 

Oakhurst hadn’t recovered. That thought brought with it a cold, hollow joy. Louis would’ve wanted the town to grow again, but did it deserve to? Wasn’t it better for it to remain cold and empty, for no one else to step foot on that desecrated ground, than for the town square to be defiled by yet another pyre? If it never flourished again, it could never fall to the human greed and cruelty that seemed to prevail over all else. Wasn’t this death a kind of mercy?

Owen’s thoughts were cut short as another sound called for his attention. Somewhere far out, deep in the woods, were two more heartbeats. These, though, weren’t the slow, sedate rhythm of livestock or the rabbit-quick anxiety of prey. These were the ones that had rung in his head for that eternity underground, the ones he’d tried so hard to silence after they proved themselves unworthy of the blood in their veins. Humanity had returned to Oakhurst after all, and clearly, they had forgotten just why their predecessors hadn’t survived. 

They couldn’t be allowed to rebuild and repeat history. There would be no more torches, no more cries for vengeance, no more pointless attempts to cleanse the world of beings who were better than them, whose goodness was what they feared. Owen would eliminate them, and only then, when the last human life bled out on the bleached soil, Louis would finally be avenged. Only then would he fell his last tree, use the gift of steady hands to carve himself a stake, and see Louis again. 

Much as he hated to admit it, it was hunger that drove him just as strongly as righteousness. The pangs were a constant nuisance, his stomach clenching at the distant sounds of life, and Owen remembered faintly, from his singular, frenzied feeding, that rotten souls didn’t make for rotten blood. He stepped as if in a trance to the chest that sat near the edge of what was once a doorway, scooping up the dried fish and bread even though he knew it would do him no good—but the last item, tucked away at the bottom, gave him pause. A worn, tattered fabric ribbon, its once-vibrant red color faded by time, sat in a limp pile amidst the thick layer of dust and grime that’d built up over the centuries it’d laid untouched. 

The only thing Owen knew about vampires besides the stories every child heard on dark nights, the ones he only faintly remembered from the few blissful years before pain and loneliness became his constant companions, was what Louis had told him. That vampires wore their hair loose as a matter of pride, that its length was proof of the bond between the turner and the turned—everything that told him if he had even a sliver of respect for the gift he was given, the legacy of a thousand centuries that rested on his shoulders, the literal bloodline only he was left to carry on, he should have left that ribbon where it was.

But— Louis had loved his hair. Had enjoyed running his fingers through it, shaping it into elaborate styles with various pins and accessories, always offering Owen some complement or another on its color, its softness, its length. Vampires wore their hair down as a challenge, too, an invitation to strike at them and see what happened, but Owen was weak. He couldn’t carry through on any threat he tried to make, didn’t want to risk losing yet another piece of Louis, even one so small and simple as this. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Owen snatched up the ribbon and wrapped it securely around the long, filthy curls that had been brushing across his back. His hair was still a disgrace to Louis’s memory, and the human heartbeats were still moving steadily away from him, in the direction he knew led to Oakhurst, joined by more and more as Owen stretched his hearing further—but it was a start.