WHO: Leon & Amelie WHAT: Turning to magic for answers WHEN: Backdated to pre!Patric's ghost popping up WHERE: Their trailer RATING Med/High WARNINGS: Blood magic which comes hand in hand with cutting so don't read if triggered by that and references to Patric's death
Days bled into an abysmal darkness since Patric's gruesome murder. Once a haven shared with Leon, the trailer felt more like a cage. Even the generator's hum sounded like an echo of Judith's scream. It haunted Amelie in her sleep. It wasn't death itself that gnawed at her. She had become familiar with its inevitability. Death was a frequent visitor in Leon's line of expertise. But the chilling proximity of it, the reality of it happening right at their doorstep, had left an icy grip on her heart.
Amelie remained hunched inside, unlike her usual nighttime routine of perching on the trailer roof, watching the moon paint the landscape with a milky glow. She squinted through a gap in the curtains and surveyed the desolate circus grounds. In the distance, the Ferris Wheel loomed like a giant. With a sigh, Amelie pulled away from the window and fell onto the couch. Her eyes traced the faded intricacies of the ceiling's wallpaper. Its once vibrant gothic pattern now seemed to mock her. Leon, usually a comforting presence, was lost in some unseen corner of the trailer.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, she called out, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Leon?"
Leon like Amelie was accustomed to death, but murder? Well, murder was another thing entirely. That was intent, meaningful, and especially in the case of Patric. There was no way that was an accident or a misadventure, that was just… evil.
He’d seen the body, the way it had been strung out and displayed, vividly taking him back to things he’d seen back home in the darker recesses of the magic he so freely practised and it had seen him squirrelling away in the depths of his caravan, blade in hand, blood flowing freely as he tried to divine and scry, brow furrowed deep as the crimson did nothing but confuse and bewilder.
Frustrating was the first thing that came to mind.
The world had all but blurred around him, focusing in on whatever patterns the blood was forming, it was all silent right up until the call of his name by a familiar voice, and that was when the spell was broken. It might not have been loud, but it was enough, sufficient to inform the witch that his familiar was calling, and that he was needed.
“Oui, Amelie?”
Suddenly, a rustle from the curtained alcove sliced through the silence. Leon's voice, usually steady, hinted at concern. A jolt of adrenaline shot through her, momentarily dispelling the weight of fear. She sat up, the worn leather creaking beneath her. The trailer held the faint scent of old wood and the lingering aroma of spices from their last meal.
She navigated the cramped space cautiously, her steps muffled by the thick rugs beneath her bare feet. Reaching the little niche, Amelie peered through the silken curtain, the dim light revealing Leon's silhouette. He stood with his back to her, his posture rigid, as if listening intently. The familiar metallic tang lingered in the air, a constant companion to a necromancer and their familiar. Pushing aside the silken barrier, she stepped into the dim room. Amelie lowered herself onto the worn rug beside him, her movements careful as if not to disturb the delicate balance of the ritual.
Finally, she broke the quiet, her voice barely a whisper, "Do you think they're watching us, Leon?" Leaning closer, she rested the side of her head against Leon's shoulder, seeking comfort in his familiar presence.
Leon reached up with the hand not drawn open by the sharp edge of his blade to brush his decorated fingers through Amelie’s hair in familiar reassuring movements that he had honed and perfected over the years.
“It’s possible,” he affirmed, low rumble. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not focused or emotion is clouding my ability to read what the blood is telling me, but answers are… lacking.”
He sounded as frustrated as he felt.
For a moment, the weight of their situation seemed to fade away. Amelie found a small piece of normalcy in the gentle caress of his fingers through her hair, a fleeting sense of home. She leaned into his touch, letting out a soft, contented croon. But the comfort was shattered by a pang of guilt. Shamefaced, Amelie pulled away, her eyes filled with regret.
"Leon, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have been here. You shouldn't have had to do this alone." Finding her resolve, she reached out to grasp his hand.
"Take mine," she said, holding out her other hand, palm facing up. "Use my blood. Maybe it will help you see what you need to see."
Leon turned his head to rest his dark gaze on Amelie, hand slipping free of her hair to capture and gently brush his thumb across her cheek. “Ne vous inquiétez pas,” he reassured. “I know his death has come as a shock to a lot of people, yourself included.”
Still, she was offering both help and her blood, and it might be the thing that Leon needed to unlock the mystery of what wasn’t being said.
He collected a clean blade and with a smooth practiced cut drew first blood, taking a hold of her slim wrist to guide the droplets to where he wanted them to hit. He cast his gaze back towards the vivid red and murmured something beneath his breath before casting his fingers towards the vital liquid that kept a majority alive.
“Old… acquaintance, former friend, somebody he feels wronged…”
A sharp prick jolted Amelie from the comfort of Leon's touch. His gaze, usually warm and reassuring, held a focused intensity as he guided the blade, his surprisingly gentle hand firm against her arm. The sting of the cut was a brief, searing sensation, followed by a dull ache that spread through her arm. As the crimson welled from the wound, she could feel the familiar hum of energy begin to flow. It was her essence, her magic, responding to his call. Closing her eyes, she focused, channeling it outward, amplifying his focus.
Shame, the fleeting visitor it always was, poked at the edges of her mind. She pushed it down, refusing to dwell on what couldn't be changed. This was her purpose, her duty as a familiar. To be the bridge, the conduit, the living vessel that enhanced his power.
As Leon spoke, Amelie's eyes flickered open abruptly. "Someone close," she interjected, her voice low and urgent. "How can we find out why they did it?" Her brow furrowed slightly, a silent plea for more information etched on her face. Amelie squeezed his hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "Do you need more? More of me?" she asked, her voice steady.
“Non,” Leon assured her with a shake of his head. He never took more than he needed because he knew just how precious a commodity blood was and how if you weren’t careful you could upset the delicate balance, meaning all pursuit and search for answers was rendered nigh impossible.
He dipped his thumb in the blood and then brought it to his lips, tasting it.
“Bitterness,” he concluded. “Sharp like… it’s been festering. A grudge.”
Amelie's stomach clenched as Leon refused her offer. Disappointment tugged at her, but she understood the precarious nature of blood magic, the unseen threads that could unravel if pulled too tight. Yet, the thought of withholding a piece of herself, a sacrifice that could potentially unlock the truth, gnawed at her.
A jolt of understanding shot through Amelie. Bitterness. It fit. It wasn't just any betrayal, it was one fueled by a deep-seated resentment, a festering wound that had poisoned the murderer's heart.
“Should we look into this further?”
“Unclear,” Leon murmured, shaking his head. “I get the sense it might not be our place. That this grudge is better left settled by some of the older residents.” Not age, but by time spent with the circus. Sometimes it was best to leave well enough alone, especially if you didn’t have the history or experience.
Still, it worried him.
Not for himself or even others, but for Amelie, she was after all his familiar and his friend, he wanted her safe.
“But, I can tell it will be resolved. One way or another.”