William Rothschild (soldat) wrote in thisdarknight, @ 2016-07-19 17:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | !locale: new york, william rothschild |
Oh, you're gonna lose your soul tonight
Who: William Rothschild and the sheriff of New York
What: William is lost but then is found.
Where: New York.
When: ~150 years ago.
Warnings: PG for violent descriptions.
Progress: Gdoc, complete
When William opened his eyes, he was alone.
He stood in the center of the Smith residence’s sitting room, his cane clattered to the floor and his white shirt reddened with blood. For a handful of moments, William couldn’t comprehend how he had got there or the full magnitude of why his shirt was stained so red. Then it began to come back to him, little by little, as he started to look around.
There was Patrick, his one friend, collapsed on the floor just in the doorway of the sitting room. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and his neck was bloody and raw. William sucked in a breath of air and found that he had to physically try to suck in the air. Still, he turned on his heel, unable to accept the vision of his friend dead on the ground. It was too much like the war, too much like seeing his fellow soldiers gazing up to heaven, but he couldn’t escape the vision. Behind him, also on the floor, was Patrick’s wife.
She was in her nightgown, her hair braided but splayed across the floor, and her blood had seeped into the white material as well. Dead, just like her husband.
William stumbled backward, losing balance from the old injury, and fell to the floor. A hand reached to his face, angrily wiping away the tears that had already begun to trickle from his eyes, but he froze when he saw the tears tinged with blood.
Emmeline had bloody tears, he thought, his body becoming still. He remembered a little now, that she had arrived and cried into his arms with bloody tears. He remembered that she had held onto him so desperately, that she had apologized again and again, that she had nestled her face into his neck, that she had drank.
But how did he get here? A cautious, frightened hand quivered up William’s neck and touched his lips. He slowly pulled his hand away and found what he had expected--blood.
He was on his feet in a quicker time than he was ever able to, fast and almost steady as he grabbed his fallen cane out of a wet footstep of blood, and made his way past Patrick’s body and to the looking glass they had hung in the hall. Sure enough, his beard was covered in blood, as were his lips.
He stood staring at his reflection for moments before he heard the rustle of feet on the second floor. “I think they’ve gone,” a small voice whispered. “We should see if momma and poppa are fine.”
William slowly moved his gaze up each step to the landing. The children. The Smith children. A boy who would play with William during visits. A little girl who idolized Emmeline for her pretty dark hair. They would’ve been here, they would’ve heard the screams and surely there had been screams.
”Patrick, I saw her, I saw Emmeline, she came home,” William had rambled, visibly shaking after Patrick had opened the door. His friend, his good friend, opened the door wider and gave William entrance. “She came home and now she’s gone.”
He had done this, surely, and now the children would see. He backed away, something in his mind urged him to flee, and his body was set into motion. The children hushed by the sound of his footsteps but he continued on. He had to go, had to leave, had to run.
”She came home? Where had she been?” Patrick had asked with nothing but concern. Immediately ready for action and to help his friend. William had sunk onto a chair and covered his eyes. “She said a woman had forced her to do something, that she was sorry. She was hysterical and not making sense.”
William paused at the doorway and looked to the floor where Patrick lay. He never was one to have a large social circle, small ones suited him more despite that Emmeline had always relished in being surrounded by people. Emmeline, Patrick and his family were all that William had needed and this was how he repaid his loyalty.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured to his friend, reaching for the door handle and turning it to open. He went out into the cold November night and traveled the few blocks home, unsure of where else he could go, and closed himself out from the world.
William had lost count of how many days had gone by. When he returned to the brownstone, Emmeline was still not there. He slowly remembered more and more, that Emmeline had bit him and a vague memory of pleasure when he drank from her wrist, but none of it made sense. Maybe he was hysterical as Emmeline had been.
He bathed and changed his clothing, burning the bloody clothing from the night in his fireplace at the foot of his bed, but otherwise remained in the house. He found it was easy to sleep during the day, but if he was awake he could not approach what sunlight fell through his windows. At night, he was ridden with guilt and considered more than once to go directly to the police. He didn’t remember killing his friends but he knew he had to be the one. And yet… he had no weapon, nothing but his teeth.
He was startled out of his reverie by a knock at the door. William waited a minute, unable to feel a quickening heartbeat in his chest beyond what seemed like a phantom pain; his brain could certainly imagine the feeling, and when the knocking came again, he felt compelled to move to the door.
Standing on his stoop was a short, unassuming man dressed in a trench coat and used fedora. Hands in his pockets, he canted his head toward the slit that William peered through.
"Mr. Rothschild? I'm Peter Abelard. Might I have a moment of your time?"
William stared at the man for a moment. The number of days that had passed, with little desire for real food, had left William pale, weak, and thinning. He realized that this might be it--an investigator coming in to state they knew he was a murderer--and William willingly opened the door wider to give the man admittance. He did not hesitate, stepping into the house as though he owned it. If they had figured it all out, William would admit to it, or at least insanity, and let the law do what was necessary.
“We can speak in the sitting room,” William murmured, nodding to the room just off the entranceway. He had removed the rug that was covered in bits of his and Emmeline’s blood but otherwise the room looked undisturbed.
Abelard followed William into the sitting room, but remained on his feet as he perused the space. His gaze lingered on the floor, either noting something missing or reviewing a thought. Finally, his gaze came back around to William. Abelard studied his face, eyes narrowing.
"It hasn't been very long, I take it. And you haven't been feeding regularly." Abelard removed his hat, revealing a head of thin, brown hair. "Who Embraced you?"
William stared at the man for a moment, then scratched at his ear. Emmeline had mentioned that, embraced, but he still wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. “I don’t know,” William said faintly. “My wife, she mentioned that though, that she was embraced. But I never found out what it meant. Sir, why are you here?”
Abelard pressed his hand to his chest. "A Sireless neonate. That's never a pleasant situation.
"Mr. Rothschild, I am the sheriff for Prince Michaela. I think you should sit down so that I can explain your new...status." He waited for William to take a hesitant seat on a nearby sofa. Abelard then followed, setting himself down in an armchair across from the focus of his visit. His brow knit inquisitively. "Do you know where your wife is now?"
William was very still, although his brows indicated his confusion. Sireless? Neonate? A prince? What the hell were all of these terms and who was this prince? “I have absolutely no idea. You’re a sheriff… so I assume you may know of the report I filed. She vanished, I suppose two weeks ago at this point... I’ve lost track of the days. But she had been gone for a week when she came home. She said a woman forced her into something, she spoke of this embrace you referenced, and she was generally in hysterics. But she left, I don’t know when or to where.”
Abelard nodded. "I'm not a sheriff, I'm the sheriff, for the ruler of the Camarilla in this city. I'm not what you might call a human liaison for the law. Just as you yourself are no longer human. It sounds as though your wife has gotten herself into difficult circumstances and dragged you into them as well.
"Are you at all familiar with the occult, Mr. Rothschild?"
“My wife can speak to the dead,” William said softly, looking at his hands. A normal person would claim that what this man said was insane. No longer human? Blasphemy! But William felt, perhaps for the first time since Emmeline had disappeared, that he was finally somehow receiving answers—or the very start of them. “That's my only experience with the occult.”
Abelard nodded, looking unsurprised. "Whatever the circumstances, you now live by a new set of rules. Ones that not only dictate social standards, but your very body. We know that you fed on the family next door a few days ago; rest assured that the mistake has been cleaned up, but slipping up like that again will lead to a quick and untimely end for you. Luckily Prince Michaela is a believer in second chances and is willing to grant you one."
William’s stomach dropped and he looked to the floor. This man knew, was it so obvious that he had done it? He still was regaining the memory--the worst was that he recalled the taste of Patrick’s blood more than the action of feeding--but to have someone so calmly state that he had killed them brought tears to William’s eyes. “I hadn’t known,” he whispered. “I don’t quite remember it. It’s blurry, the memory. I… I’m not quite sure what’s going on. So… so what you’re saying is that my wife did this, to me. She left me, abandoned me, and that I in turn… fed...upon my friends.”
He reached for a handkerchief in his pocket and dabbed at his eyes but paused when he spotted the bloody teardrops on the white cloth. “My wife cried like this, too,” he whispered then looked up at Abelard. Things weren’t making any sense and yet they were.
Abelard remained quiet for a few moments, his hat held between both hands. He cleared his throat.
"Yes, it's one of many abnormalities that will soon become par for the course. Are you comfortable staying here? We can make arrangements for you to come stay at the court. In fact, I think that might be best for everyone, so that you can get better situated with the new, ah, effects and realities that you'll need to get used to.
"Before that, though, do you have any questions?"
William quietly refolded his handkerchief before tucking it back into his pocket. He had a number of questions before they went, but there was one that was weighing down on him. “What happened to the children? The Smith children.” He looked at the man, holding his gaze steadily. “I must admit that most of that night is a blur, but I remember hearing the children. What happened to them? Did I…”
"No," Abelard interjected softly, knowing exactly what William was getting at. "They survived. Their stories have been...adjusted, and they are now in the process of being sent to new homes. Beyond that..." Abelard shrugged, both unknowing and uncaring of their fates. What were two kine among the teeming millions in the world?
The Kindred rose to his feet. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Rothschild. The night is young, and there is much to be done. I think you'll find all of this very instructive."
William slowly got to his own feet. He looked around his sitting room, frowning. The life he had built with Emmeline had all led to this. He wondered if Emmeline was going to come back -- he hoped she would -- but he didn’t feel it was worth asking Abelard. He suspected he already knew Abelard’s answer. Something stirred in his heart from it all. That she would bring this change on him and then leave. That he blindly had killed his friends and made their children orphans. He felt a mixture of emotions: that he wanted her to return to him and make it right, but also anger that she had created this mess.
He saw the opportunity that was being handed to him -- that this man would teach William what he needed to know and maybe on some level it all could be fixed. He turned to Abelard and nodded, having made his decision to go with him. “Before we go, will I be able to return to my home someday? Can we exist in homes like this?”
Abelard placed his hat on his head, adjusting it before his fingers firmed the brim. His look promised little.
"Perhaps, in time," he finally replied. "But I cannot speak for Prince Michela. She's the one who will have final say. Shall we?"
He motioned to the entryway to the sitting room, to the front door of the brownstone itself with William following the motion with his gaze. William looked over the sitting room once more, his eyes drifting over the spot on the floor where Emmeline had drained him nearly dry, where he took in her blood--the last sexual encounter he would likely ever have with her--and the thought made his stomach turn with sadness and hate. He blinked and scanned the rest of the room, considering if he should need anything but felt he was ready to go. He’d return eventually if he could.
Looking back at Abelard, he gave a nod. “I’ll grab my hat as well and we’ll be off,” he said, stepping forward with the clip of his cane as he made way to the entrance of the house and the hook that had his favored hat. He offered Abelard a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s go.”