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basts_tailOOC. I am going to reiterate here that this is ooc knowledge only. You use this, you get spanked, first by Mike, the Stephen, then me. Don't think you will enjoy it. :-)
Oh, and if my STs read this, yes powers were active, and some rituals. You want to know which ones, ask me privately.
Chapter 1
Ceridwyn sits in an armchair, looking out over the city, in silence. Her back is to the door, and she rests one hand against her mouth. Deep in thought.
Caterina looks up, then stands, walking to the door slowly and gracefully, opening it and standing to one side, head bowed. The doors of the elevator slide open, revealing the lounging figure of the Inquisitrix, golden hair fallen forward in a shining curtain over its face, the glow of a cigarillo the only light in the darkness beneath the hair. It allows a moment to pass, then raises its head, tilting its jaw against the light, blows a contemplative smoke ring, and then swaggers out of the elevator, with a sinuous arrogance that bespeaks the confidence of a Michael Hutchence, or a Jim Morrison.
Ceridwyn turns and watches, and her mouth quirks slightly at the affectation.
The Inquisitrix pauses just outside the elevator, and looks at Ceridwyn, its eyes burning - as so long before - into her own, and down into her soul. It regards her calmly, silently. Ceridwyn’s hair is brushed, loose, long and deep dark red, as glossy as a mortal night long ago. Dressed in a skin tight T-shirt, and black pants. Her feet are bare.
“Your Grace.”
Caterina waits, head bowed, though she has a small smile playing across her lips, eyes looking up at the Inquisitrix shyly. The Inquisitrix is dressed in an exquisitely tailored European suit, in a pinstriped slate gray, with a black silk shirt with French cuffs beneath, and a scarlet cravat, held in place with a silver cross tiepin. His hair is perfectly straight, hanging over one side of his face, not a hair out of place, and he allows a moment to lapse before he responds, watching Ceridwyn keenly.
“Lady Ceridwyn. Ravishing, as ever.”
Ceridwyn eyebrow almost imperceptibly rises at the choice of adjective, and she rises from the chair to fully face him. The movement is slow, and not the predatoriness you associate with Ceridwyn, but rather, the grace and sensuality you associate with her mortal self... The Inquisitrix catches his breath, for no more than instant; hardly at all, but it's there, and his eyes flare deep aqua. He comes forward to meet her, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.
“It would be better if we spoke alone.”
“Oui, mon petit.”
The Inquisitrix turns to Caterina. “Carina? Leave us.” Caterina lifts her eyes to his, then nods, turns and walks into an adjoining room, closing the door softly. The Inquisitrix doesn't even watch her go - his eyes are on the Kindred before him.
“Guiennevere... “
Ceridwyn’s eyes flicker, for a second he sees Ceridwyn's predatoriness, the guard, and then something shattered, till Gwynefar appears, and takes one step forward. The Inquisitrix slides the cigarillo from between his lips and then, almost as if as an afterthought, he kneels, taking her hand and kissing it, his eyes never leaving hers, smiling darkly up at her from her knuckles. He rises and takes her in his arms.
“Mon chere....” The Inquisitrix cradles her to him, his face in her hair, his hand on the small of her back.
“Where did you go?”
“Did you look for me?”
The Inquisitrix steps back, a little, and takes her head in his hands, holding her gaze.
“Where did you go?”
Ceridwyn’s eyes go stressed, terrible and she shakes in his grip
“I don't know...
The Inquisitrix looks deep into her eyes, searching, probing for what lies down there, as he pulls her more tightly into his arms. Her eyes reflect a nightmare of pain, hell, and he pulls her closer to him, burying his face in her hair. Ceridwyn closes her eyes burying her face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of roses.
“I sent men after you...they searched for months...you had vanished, they could not find you...” Ceridwyn jerks slightly as something flashes in her mind
“Sssssh, sssssh...”
“I went to hell ma ange....” Her voice sounds strained.
The Inquisitrix strokes her hair, and murmurs soothing nothing to quiet her. “I am sorry, ma fille.” He strokes her hair, whispering gently to her, and then gently lowers them both to the white Natuzzi leather couch.
“I am both sorry and not. There is a part of me that sees what happened to me and says this is the test that determines one's worthiness. How very Sun Tsu....” She smiles slightly, amused at the observation.
“What kind of kindred keeps a mortal the way you kept me? Why?” The Inquisitrix looks at her, a small, inscrutable smile playing about her lips - and Ceridwyn, as a Kindred, can sense that of which Gwynefar was only dimly aware - that whatever this creature may be, there is nothing _human_ left in it
“It occurred to me to do so.” The Inquisitrix's eyes shift, to her upper arms, and he strokes the tapered tips of his slender fingers along it, barely touching her skin.
“Guiennevere.... You are not as you once were.” She reacts to the light touch, as something sensual fires, and turns lifting the gloved hand examining it - long and slender fingers, tapered gracefully, and clad in black microfibre.
“I was not your herd, Vittorio. For all the touches and moments of bliss you took such great delight in.”
“I dislike that term, Guiennevere. Need you quantify in words what you were to me? I cared for you when you were in need. It seemed the least I could do.”
Ceridwyn tilts her head slightly, her hair spilling over his shoulder, as he strokes it, almost absently.
“And then I disappeared... and who knows what happened then.” The Inquisitrix gives her a searching look, for a long moment, and then turns his attention back to his hand through her hair.
“Ceridwyn remade herself. She had no choice. It was that or die. And dying was not an option, not even for that mortal.” She tilts her head back, spilling her hair over his hand, as he continues to stroke, watching her face. She sits in silence for several moments, eyes closed, the scent of roses around her, and the hand in her hair.
“Do you still play?” The Inquisitrix smiles, and this time, the smile has genuine warmth to it.
“On occasion.”
“I've been dreaming your music since you came to Sydney. And paint?”
“Yes, when the mood moves me. I find I have not so much the heart for it these nights; affairs of import eat up my time.”
“Tell me... You say I am not as I once was. Besides the obvious change, kindred, what else do you see?” Ceridwyn tips her head so she can see its face. He gently raises his hand, and brushes the hair from her face, as her eyes stay fixed on his.
“You have grown, mon chere, but you have shrunk, also. There is fear in you, now, and pain. There are broken pieces deep within you.” The Inquisitrix's eyes linger on her face, and then he lowers his lips to just millimeters above hers, so that his breath brushes her lips.
“You have never been so beautiful.”
She reacts to the proximity, as her body remembers him…. Standing in her corset, as his lips caressed the back of her neck……. Her blood fires in response, rushing to the surface of her skin, and he sniffs, delicately, smirks, the hint of a fang flashing in back of his mouth.
“I am different to the girl you knew
“So I see.”
She lifts her chin, just slightly, holding his gaze, and the Inquisitrix smiles, laughs briefly, lightly - the sound is oddly childlike, and has the timbre of sugar cubes falling down a well, but there is a predatory note to it as well - and sits back against the arm of the couch, his hand stroking gently at the nape of her neck.
“Why did you seek me out, Guiennevere.” The question is serious, but the tone is amused.
Ceridwyn smiles slightly, sitting back, a faint attitude of smugness apparent. At his question, she sobers, looking out at the view.
“I don't remember anything. Snippets of you, and not much else. Whatever is in there its incredibly damaging. And its going to hurt someone if I do not get a handle on it. There is no memory modification.”
“Some things are better not remembered.” The Inquisitrix’s eyes are dark, to match his voice.
“Once upon a time you were the thing I associated with safety. And regardless, that instinct remains the same.” They sit, the Inquisitrix’s hand stroking the side of her neck gently, in silence, and she arches her throat against the light touch.
Chapter 2
After a period of silence, Ceridwyn rises from her seat, detaching herself from the sensuous stroking of his fingers. She moves slowly, a sensuous grace that strongly resembles her mortal years, but with a predatory undertone. She moves around the couch, trailing her fingers over the Inquisitrix’s fingers, hand, and up the arm to the shoulder, till she stands behind the beautiful creature.
He inclines his head, slightly; not turning, but there is a certain sense of coiled spring to his posture, ready to fight should he need, and she stands there, looking down, her fingers playing softly with this hair.
“You see, Vittorio, association is everything... you remember things by ... a scent, or a sound, or a touch or a word.... And I do not remember myself, but you do. I want you to tell me my past. Things you remember, things that happened.” Her voice is soft, silky, as her hands continue to play in his hair.
Vittorio’s hand slowly, gently, reaches up and takes hold of her fingers, sliding his grip up to her wrist; there is a slight pressure, not enough to hurt, but almost a warning, not even conscious - just a reminder, like a tiger that butts its nose against the back of your neck.
“Guiennevere, are you certain this is what you want? Because I will give it to you. But the cost of having what you want is losing what you once thought you wanted...”
“The cost of having what I want? How do you know what I want? Or even what I thought I wanted? The past is fact. Not desire.”
He turns his head - slowly, and with that same, oiled grace, and fastens her with a look. “When you chase what has escaped you, that is an act of desire, regardless of what the quarry may be. How strong is your desire, Guiennevere?”
She does not speak as she holds his eyes, but her mouth twitches, slightly, like she bites down, locking her teeth.
“And why should I not know my past?” Her eyes have begun to glow with a banked back fire, the wired passion of old.
Vittorio regards her quietly, with those cool, lizard-like eyes and the infinite depths of darkness and eldritch knowledge behind them, so incongruously set into his callow stripling's face.
“I do not keep it from you, Guiennevere, but the rooms of your mind have emptied themselves; are you certain you are ready to restore them?”
Ceridwyn parts her lips to speak, but the words do not surface right away. Thoughts scatter across her face, one makes her angry, and her beast peers out of her eyes as the banked down anger heats her blood.
“They are coming anyway Vittorio.” She enunciates very clearly, to hide the fangs that have parted her gums. Vittorio makes no movement, but simply watches her, his eyes a clear topaz blue. The sensation is very much like being regarded by something divine - there is a stillness, a serenity to him - and a feeling of such incredible AGE - that goes so ill with his slender build and young looks. Suddenly she pulls her wrist from his hand, and turns away, to the window. Her very posture shows the anger of old starting to surface.
Vittorio watches her, as she stands at the window, and says nothing. He rarely did, she begins to remember now; so often he communicated in everything but words, strange, delicate creature that he was, and she tilts her head, the anger apparent in the movement, like she is tossing her head at him, or herself.
“God damnit, did you always frustrate me this much??”
“I do not know. Imagine so.”
He watches her in silence as she processes her feelings, his head inclined ever so slightly, his motionless regard calling to mind the stillness of a cat; slowly, sinuously, he turns his head to follow her voice. He watches her turmoil - and a creeping warmth begins to grow in his body. He has not forgotten her beauty when her passion takes her, but he also has enough grace to know that now is an inappropriate time to be admiring the flush that her frustration brings to her cheeks; she is in pain, and even he is not a sadist.
“What would I be giving up for you to tell me this?” Her voice has gone quiet, the flash of anger past, but something else in its place.
“Nothing to me. But perhaps everything, to you.” His voice is pregnant with warning.
Ceridwyn stands, studying the cold angelic perfection sitting before her. Her eyes move in detail over the form, the face, the hair, back to the eyes, and in that moment he sees something surface. Her eyes are not shocked, but a memory is there, one of him, and its something powerful. She gently rocks back so her back rests on the glass. He stands now, slowly, and ever with that sinuous grace, and comes toward her, one hand outstretched.
“What do you see?”
Ceridwyn is silent, but the scent of her blood fills the room as it surges, at his approach. He stops, not abruptly - like everything else, it is damnably easy for him to make it look like this was part of his plan all along - and he lights a cigar from a Zippo emblazoned with an image of the Virgin, and the sacred heart, and studies the glowing tip. Her eyes are filled with awareness, every sense reacting. She is perfectly still. Her lips part, and for a second you see a war between Gwynefar and Ceridwyn in her eyes, before she closes them, pushing herself off the glass. As she moves, his chill eyes track her every tiny movement, and she turns partially away. Then after a moment, and her posture changes, subtly, back to the predator that Ceridwyn is. She tilts her head, looking at him.
“I remember you.” Her eyes sparkle with that fire again, her whole posture one of cunning, seductive.
Vittorio smiles, slightly, his eyes on the glowing tip of his cigar, and speaks without looking at her. “I’m not surprised.”
Her brows arch, amused. “My that’s an ego.”
Vittorio chuckles, darkly. “Perhaps.” He then raises his eyes from the cigar, and locks them onto her own.
“Do you know who you are....Ceridwyn?”
“I know who I am.” She smiles, a sexy cunning smile as she tilts her head, studying him.
“And what of the other ones in there with you? Do you know them?” Vittorio watches her with the fascination of a cat watching a goldfish that is that little bit too deep to reach, eyes flickering from blue to yellow and back to blue again.
“One that is frightened of everything and wont stop screaming, and that beautiful girl. She likes talking to you... and more.... my what passion and fire...”
“Before you close your eyes again....what will you see? When you turn, and you walk from me....what will you dream? The door is open now, Guiennevere...there's no turning back, now. I will walk with you, if you wish - but the path is your own, now that your feet are upon it. Always, and forever, your own.”
Vittorio moves, ever so slightly - a lengthening of the muscles, catlike, and tilts his head, eyes ever on her face. She looks at him, clearly, and then he sees her eyes look into space almost, and something reappears – not a shift in personality, but almost a melding where both Ceridwyn and Gwynefar look out together, at him, and at each other.
“We both need to know, Vittorio.”
He smiles, almost imperceptibly, then, and moves smoothly towards her, hands held out in conciliation
“And what you have of me, childe?” A silken whisper “What would you know, that I might tell you?”
As he speaks, the blood rushes to the surface of her skin, and his nostrils flare almost undetectably, otherwise he gives no reaction
She whispers. “I remember how much I wanted you.”
Ceridwyn’s eyes are not entirely Gwynefar, there is something of Ceridwyn there too, and both are very aware of what it is she is admitting – that a mortal, and the kindred she became, look at him and Want. A powerful, dangerous attraction, not just to an elder, but to a member of his covenant.
Vittorio holds his arms out to her, his eyes never leaving her own, and his voice is velvet and honey, barely a murmur, but somehow it fills the world. “I am here, for whatever you need. I have not abandoned you, ma fille.” She steps forward into his arms, her skin warm, a mesmerizing fire lighting her eyes, and tucks her head against his shoulder. He folds his arms around her, enfolding her as if in protective wings. There, safe in his arms, other things she has remembered over the last weeks come back to her.
“You laced my corset too tight... Forgot, didn't you....” The memory makes her body tighten slightly as her blood rushes and then slows. He senses the change in her body, and brings a hand up into her hair, softly stroking it, murmuring, and even his breath smells of roses.
“I forgot you needed to breathe...”
Ceridwyn’s corners of her mouth turn up.
“Don't need to breathe any more.”
“No... I suppose not.” She laughs softly, a faint breathlessness on it. Her blood is still stirring, and she runs her tongue lightly across her lips.
“How much have you lost, and how are you regaining, I wonder? For surely with the memories of honey and roses, come the memories of things best off left lie...”
Ceridwyn raises her head, rubbing her cheek across the suit, his shoulder.
“They are coming anyway. The nameless one was triggered, in Sydney. A .. situation happened. and I lost control, and could not get out. She surfaced, and there's a world of pain in that one.” Ceridwyn tucks her face into the side of his neck
“Might I suggest you name her? Once we name a thing, we quantify it, and bind it to a shape.” Vittorio is looking down at her, maddeningly cool and unmoved, his eyes deep green.
“She says she has no name.”
“I leave that in your hands then...Ceridwyn.”
“She is a splinter. She is the only way that I could survive. The only way the beautiful unmarked one could survive – had those memories belonged to her, the nightmare would have been her’s to endure.” Vittorio says nothing, does nothing to give his thoughts away, if indeed he has any at all, but simply holds her, for as long as she needs to be held.
“And you, little one. You have a mother now?”
Ceridwyn tugs Vittorio back towards the couch, to curl up against him.
“Yes. I caught her feeding.”
Vittorio moves slowly with her, and falling into time with him feels like dancing, sharing his grace, and lowers them both to the couch and allows her to cuddle against him, his hand on her head reminiscent of the odd paternalism of their previous relationship. He chuckles, slightly.
“Ah. I can see she'd not much choice, then, one way or the other. Were you afraid, mon petit?”
Ceridwyn leans against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder
“No. There are worse things than dying. Seeing her did not scare me. Nor surprise me. It lit a lot of different emotions, but not those two.”
“Yes?”
“A weird combination of lust and anger. Something....” She frowns slightly; there is a word in her head, but its one she's hesitating to speak. “Passion and defensiveness.”
“Desire?”
“I was not sure if I was going to die, or if I was not.... but the act itself, seeing her.... that was...
Yes. But also.... pain. Not fear, of something happening, but ...” Ceridwyn pauses, her eyes looking past him, considering. He turns his eyes to her and cocks his head, then, studying her with something like curiosity in his bottle green eyes.
Finally she speaks, whispering.
“Violation. Something taken that was not freely given.” She twitches – more of a shudder - as something else surfaces.
“And this time you could not rescue me” Her body tightens as her blood surges, and pain starts rippling through her. She curls up, trying to bottle it, and her beast rears its head to attack the threat.
“Ah...” Vittorio gets a look on his face that she has never seen before - almost of alarm - his eyes widening, as he looks at her - as if he sees something terrible occurring inside her - and he pulls her head back into her shoulder, laying his hand over the crown of her head, almost protectively.
“Don't look at it, childe. There's nothing there for you.” His fingers tighten, briefly, on her scalp in frustration, and she feels his beast surge as he pulls her into his lap, holding her tightly.
“It's an ugly thing, ma chere, don't look at it...”
Ceridwyn burrows into him, pressing tighter. She buries her face against his throat so her nose presses into it, all her muscles suddenly wired, inhaling his scent. You can smell her blood, moving fast. There seems to be a war in her, between shattering with the pain, and getting angry, as her beast struggles to get free. She is shaking with the battle inside her. He takes her hands in his, while keeping his arms about her and for a moment, for all his Byzantine, Machiavellian amorality, he is her anchor, and her angel.
“I am going to hurt you if I don't stop this....” she mutters.
Vittorio says nothing, but simply draws a hand across her hair, as unflappable as ever, not a word escaping his lips, as she looks up at him, her eyes sparkling with a rage that is breathtaking. Every muscle is shaking, and the lisp from her fangs is readily apparent. He looks down into her eyes, coolly, levelly, and she feels the muscles harden under his skin.
Ceridwyn looks at him, the calm elder, and her hands clench reflexively. Her muscles are looking for something to fight. Slowly she begins to wind down, but the passion is still there. She has never looked so beautiful. Vittorio feels her body relax as she winds down, and continues to gently stroke her hair, holding her close to him, bringing her home. She presses closer to him, her muscles twitching; she puts her head back on his shoulder, rubbing her nose against his skin, and his hand slides down to the small of her back, where he rests it, gently, while she regains her control.
“I'm here...I'm here, lean on me, childe....”
“I am alright” she whispers, her breath brushing the side of his throat, her lips almost touching his skin, his hair veiling them both. He is silent, but he leans toward her touch - in the rose-scented darkness beneath the curtain of his hair, she abruptly realises that, while most Kindred start to breathe and acquire a pulse out of habit when aroused, not a breath passes his lips, and his skin is still as white and cool as marble. Unable to resist the unspoken invitation, her lips brush the side of his throat, just lightly, a faint sigh, and just rest there, so gently it could be imagination.
Almost inaudibly she whispers “Thank you.”
Sitting on the couch, her curled up in his lap, her face against the side of his throat, Vittorio lets his eyes flicker soft closed, long dark lashes fanning his cheeks, and his slender fingers spider up her back, to rest, twining in the hair at the nape of her neck. He says nothing, and even now, no pulse beats beneath the skin. In quiet silence, she arches her neck back so her hair spills into his hand, her lips brushing lightly against his jaw. He opens his eyes, lashes fluttering upwards, and fixes her with a stare that is golden, and she meets his eyes, deep pools of green reflecting the gold of his own.
Slowly, he bends forward, then, and brushes her mouth with his, his breath whispering over her lips, then he stops, his lips lying against hers, and smiles; his lips curving up against her skin, and he whispers into her skin
“Remember the price of having what you want...Ceridwyn.”
Her blood surges with desire, and her eyes sparkle, shining like emeralds. Heat blooms off her skin, her muscles tremble as she lies in his arms, prisoner between her own desire and the insanity of doing this..... Vittorio cradles her in his arms, one hand softly stroking her hair, and his lips lingeringly close above hers, waiting to see what she will do.
“Let me worry about that…. Many are the arts of my people….” And she arches her throat, brushing her lips against his, the scent of pleasure in the air. Vittorio kisses her then, deeply but gently, and then draws back a little to look her in the eyes.
Her gaze is drugged with desire, but there is also an awareness that she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her body is flushed and wired, her muscles charged with the passion, banked and under control for now, but not for long. When she gives that fire free reign, it will be beautiful. She presses closer to him, holding his eyes with her own. He peers deep into her eyes, burning down into her soul, his eyes the yellow of white wine and then, as if satisfied, he pulls her tighter into his arms and leans back down to her lips.
As they meet, she releases the pent up passion and desire, hands wrapping around him, drowning in his kiss. Passionate, willful, and fiery, she lets the fire rage.
Oh, and if my STs read this, yes powers were active, and some rituals. You want to know which ones, ask me privately.
Chapter 1
Ceridwyn sits in an armchair, looking out over the city, in silence. Her back is to the door, and she rests one hand against her mouth. Deep in thought.
Caterina looks up, then stands, walking to the door slowly and gracefully, opening it and standing to one side, head bowed. The doors of the elevator slide open, revealing the lounging figure of the Inquisitrix, golden hair fallen forward in a shining curtain over its face, the glow of a cigarillo the only light in the darkness beneath the hair. It allows a moment to pass, then raises its head, tilting its jaw against the light, blows a contemplative smoke ring, and then swaggers out of the elevator, with a sinuous arrogance that bespeaks the confidence of a Michael Hutchence, or a Jim Morrison.
Ceridwyn turns and watches, and her mouth quirks slightly at the affectation.
The Inquisitrix pauses just outside the elevator, and looks at Ceridwyn, its eyes burning - as so long before - into her own, and down into her soul. It regards her calmly, silently. Ceridwyn’s hair is brushed, loose, long and deep dark red, as glossy as a mortal night long ago. Dressed in a skin tight T-shirt, and black pants. Her feet are bare.
“Your Grace.”
Caterina waits, head bowed, though she has a small smile playing across her lips, eyes looking up at the Inquisitrix shyly. The Inquisitrix is dressed in an exquisitely tailored European suit, in a pinstriped slate gray, with a black silk shirt with French cuffs beneath, and a scarlet cravat, held in place with a silver cross tiepin. His hair is perfectly straight, hanging over one side of his face, not a hair out of place, and he allows a moment to lapse before he responds, watching Ceridwyn keenly.
“Lady Ceridwyn. Ravishing, as ever.”
Ceridwyn eyebrow almost imperceptibly rises at the choice of adjective, and she rises from the chair to fully face him. The movement is slow, and not the predatoriness you associate with Ceridwyn, but rather, the grace and sensuality you associate with her mortal self... The Inquisitrix catches his breath, for no more than instant; hardly at all, but it's there, and his eyes flare deep aqua. He comes forward to meet her, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.
“It would be better if we spoke alone.”
“Oui, mon petit.”
The Inquisitrix turns to Caterina. “Carina? Leave us.” Caterina lifts her eyes to his, then nods, turns and walks into an adjoining room, closing the door softly. The Inquisitrix doesn't even watch her go - his eyes are on the Kindred before him.
“Guiennevere... “
Ceridwyn’s eyes flicker, for a second he sees Ceridwyn's predatoriness, the guard, and then something shattered, till Gwynefar appears, and takes one step forward. The Inquisitrix slides the cigarillo from between his lips and then, almost as if as an afterthought, he kneels, taking her hand and kissing it, his eyes never leaving hers, smiling darkly up at her from her knuckles. He rises and takes her in his arms.
“Mon chere....” The Inquisitrix cradles her to him, his face in her hair, his hand on the small of her back.
“Where did you go?”
“Did you look for me?”
The Inquisitrix steps back, a little, and takes her head in his hands, holding her gaze.
“Where did you go?”
Ceridwyn’s eyes go stressed, terrible and she shakes in his grip
“I don't know...
The Inquisitrix looks deep into her eyes, searching, probing for what lies down there, as he pulls her more tightly into his arms. Her eyes reflect a nightmare of pain, hell, and he pulls her closer to him, burying his face in her hair. Ceridwyn closes her eyes burying her face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of roses.
“I sent men after you...they searched for months...you had vanished, they could not find you...” Ceridwyn jerks slightly as something flashes in her mind
“Sssssh, sssssh...”
“I went to hell ma ange....” Her voice sounds strained.
The Inquisitrix strokes her hair, and murmurs soothing nothing to quiet her. “I am sorry, ma fille.” He strokes her hair, whispering gently to her, and then gently lowers them both to the white Natuzzi leather couch.
“I am both sorry and not. There is a part of me that sees what happened to me and says this is the test that determines one's worthiness. How very Sun Tsu....” She smiles slightly, amused at the observation.
“What kind of kindred keeps a mortal the way you kept me? Why?” The Inquisitrix looks at her, a small, inscrutable smile playing about her lips - and Ceridwyn, as a Kindred, can sense that of which Gwynefar was only dimly aware - that whatever this creature may be, there is nothing _human_ left in it
“It occurred to me to do so.” The Inquisitrix's eyes shift, to her upper arms, and he strokes the tapered tips of his slender fingers along it, barely touching her skin.
“Guiennevere.... You are not as you once were.” She reacts to the light touch, as something sensual fires, and turns lifting the gloved hand examining it - long and slender fingers, tapered gracefully, and clad in black microfibre.
“I was not your herd, Vittorio. For all the touches and moments of bliss you took such great delight in.”
“I dislike that term, Guiennevere. Need you quantify in words what you were to me? I cared for you when you were in need. It seemed the least I could do.”
Ceridwyn tilts her head slightly, her hair spilling over his shoulder, as he strokes it, almost absently.
“And then I disappeared... and who knows what happened then.” The Inquisitrix gives her a searching look, for a long moment, and then turns his attention back to his hand through her hair.
“Ceridwyn remade herself. She had no choice. It was that or die. And dying was not an option, not even for that mortal.” She tilts her head back, spilling her hair over his hand, as he continues to stroke, watching her face. She sits in silence for several moments, eyes closed, the scent of roses around her, and the hand in her hair.
“Do you still play?” The Inquisitrix smiles, and this time, the smile has genuine warmth to it.
“On occasion.”
“I've been dreaming your music since you came to Sydney. And paint?”
“Yes, when the mood moves me. I find I have not so much the heart for it these nights; affairs of import eat up my time.”
“Tell me... You say I am not as I once was. Besides the obvious change, kindred, what else do you see?” Ceridwyn tips her head so she can see its face. He gently raises his hand, and brushes the hair from her face, as her eyes stay fixed on his.
“You have grown, mon chere, but you have shrunk, also. There is fear in you, now, and pain. There are broken pieces deep within you.” The Inquisitrix's eyes linger on her face, and then he lowers his lips to just millimeters above hers, so that his breath brushes her lips.
“You have never been so beautiful.”
She reacts to the proximity, as her body remembers him…. Standing in her corset, as his lips caressed the back of her neck……. Her blood fires in response, rushing to the surface of her skin, and he sniffs, delicately, smirks, the hint of a fang flashing in back of his mouth.
“I am different to the girl you knew
“So I see.”
She lifts her chin, just slightly, holding his gaze, and the Inquisitrix smiles, laughs briefly, lightly - the sound is oddly childlike, and has the timbre of sugar cubes falling down a well, but there is a predatory note to it as well - and sits back against the arm of the couch, his hand stroking gently at the nape of her neck.
“Why did you seek me out, Guiennevere.” The question is serious, but the tone is amused.
Ceridwyn smiles slightly, sitting back, a faint attitude of smugness apparent. At his question, she sobers, looking out at the view.
“I don't remember anything. Snippets of you, and not much else. Whatever is in there its incredibly damaging. And its going to hurt someone if I do not get a handle on it. There is no memory modification.”
“Some things are better not remembered.” The Inquisitrix’s eyes are dark, to match his voice.
“Once upon a time you were the thing I associated with safety. And regardless, that instinct remains the same.” They sit, the Inquisitrix’s hand stroking the side of her neck gently, in silence, and she arches her throat against the light touch.
Chapter 2
After a period of silence, Ceridwyn rises from her seat, detaching herself from the sensuous stroking of his fingers. She moves slowly, a sensuous grace that strongly resembles her mortal years, but with a predatory undertone. She moves around the couch, trailing her fingers over the Inquisitrix’s fingers, hand, and up the arm to the shoulder, till she stands behind the beautiful creature.
He inclines his head, slightly; not turning, but there is a certain sense of coiled spring to his posture, ready to fight should he need, and she stands there, looking down, her fingers playing softly with this hair.
“You see, Vittorio, association is everything... you remember things by ... a scent, or a sound, or a touch or a word.... And I do not remember myself, but you do. I want you to tell me my past. Things you remember, things that happened.” Her voice is soft, silky, as her hands continue to play in his hair.
Vittorio’s hand slowly, gently, reaches up and takes hold of her fingers, sliding his grip up to her wrist; there is a slight pressure, not enough to hurt, but almost a warning, not even conscious - just a reminder, like a tiger that butts its nose against the back of your neck.
“Guiennevere, are you certain this is what you want? Because I will give it to you. But the cost of having what you want is losing what you once thought you wanted...”
“The cost of having what I want? How do you know what I want? Or even what I thought I wanted? The past is fact. Not desire.”
He turns his head - slowly, and with that same, oiled grace, and fastens her with a look. “When you chase what has escaped you, that is an act of desire, regardless of what the quarry may be. How strong is your desire, Guiennevere?”
She does not speak as she holds his eyes, but her mouth twitches, slightly, like she bites down, locking her teeth.
“And why should I not know my past?” Her eyes have begun to glow with a banked back fire, the wired passion of old.
Vittorio regards her quietly, with those cool, lizard-like eyes and the infinite depths of darkness and eldritch knowledge behind them, so incongruously set into his callow stripling's face.
“I do not keep it from you, Guiennevere, but the rooms of your mind have emptied themselves; are you certain you are ready to restore them?”
Ceridwyn parts her lips to speak, but the words do not surface right away. Thoughts scatter across her face, one makes her angry, and her beast peers out of her eyes as the banked down anger heats her blood.
“They are coming anyway Vittorio.” She enunciates very clearly, to hide the fangs that have parted her gums. Vittorio makes no movement, but simply watches her, his eyes a clear topaz blue. The sensation is very much like being regarded by something divine - there is a stillness, a serenity to him - and a feeling of such incredible AGE - that goes so ill with his slender build and young looks. Suddenly she pulls her wrist from his hand, and turns away, to the window. Her very posture shows the anger of old starting to surface.
Vittorio watches her, as she stands at the window, and says nothing. He rarely did, she begins to remember now; so often he communicated in everything but words, strange, delicate creature that he was, and she tilts her head, the anger apparent in the movement, like she is tossing her head at him, or herself.
“God damnit, did you always frustrate me this much??”
“I do not know. Imagine so.”
He watches her in silence as she processes her feelings, his head inclined ever so slightly, his motionless regard calling to mind the stillness of a cat; slowly, sinuously, he turns his head to follow her voice. He watches her turmoil - and a creeping warmth begins to grow in his body. He has not forgotten her beauty when her passion takes her, but he also has enough grace to know that now is an inappropriate time to be admiring the flush that her frustration brings to her cheeks; she is in pain, and even he is not a sadist.
“What would I be giving up for you to tell me this?” Her voice has gone quiet, the flash of anger past, but something else in its place.
“Nothing to me. But perhaps everything, to you.” His voice is pregnant with warning.
Ceridwyn stands, studying the cold angelic perfection sitting before her. Her eyes move in detail over the form, the face, the hair, back to the eyes, and in that moment he sees something surface. Her eyes are not shocked, but a memory is there, one of him, and its something powerful. She gently rocks back so her back rests on the glass. He stands now, slowly, and ever with that sinuous grace, and comes toward her, one hand outstretched.
“What do you see?”
Ceridwyn is silent, but the scent of her blood fills the room as it surges, at his approach. He stops, not abruptly - like everything else, it is damnably easy for him to make it look like this was part of his plan all along - and he lights a cigar from a Zippo emblazoned with an image of the Virgin, and the sacred heart, and studies the glowing tip. Her eyes are filled with awareness, every sense reacting. She is perfectly still. Her lips part, and for a second you see a war between Gwynefar and Ceridwyn in her eyes, before she closes them, pushing herself off the glass. As she moves, his chill eyes track her every tiny movement, and she turns partially away. Then after a moment, and her posture changes, subtly, back to the predator that Ceridwyn is. She tilts her head, looking at him.
“I remember you.” Her eyes sparkle with that fire again, her whole posture one of cunning, seductive.
Vittorio smiles, slightly, his eyes on the glowing tip of his cigar, and speaks without looking at her. “I’m not surprised.”
Her brows arch, amused. “My that’s an ego.”
Vittorio chuckles, darkly. “Perhaps.” He then raises his eyes from the cigar, and locks them onto her own.
“Do you know who you are....Ceridwyn?”
“I know who I am.” She smiles, a sexy cunning smile as she tilts her head, studying him.
“And what of the other ones in there with you? Do you know them?” Vittorio watches her with the fascination of a cat watching a goldfish that is that little bit too deep to reach, eyes flickering from blue to yellow and back to blue again.
“One that is frightened of everything and wont stop screaming, and that beautiful girl. She likes talking to you... and more.... my what passion and fire...”
“Before you close your eyes again....what will you see? When you turn, and you walk from me....what will you dream? The door is open now, Guiennevere...there's no turning back, now. I will walk with you, if you wish - but the path is your own, now that your feet are upon it. Always, and forever, your own.”
Vittorio moves, ever so slightly - a lengthening of the muscles, catlike, and tilts his head, eyes ever on her face. She looks at him, clearly, and then he sees her eyes look into space almost, and something reappears – not a shift in personality, but almost a melding where both Ceridwyn and Gwynefar look out together, at him, and at each other.
“We both need to know, Vittorio.”
He smiles, almost imperceptibly, then, and moves smoothly towards her, hands held out in conciliation
“And what you have of me, childe?” A silken whisper “What would you know, that I might tell you?”
As he speaks, the blood rushes to the surface of her skin, and his nostrils flare almost undetectably, otherwise he gives no reaction
She whispers. “I remember how much I wanted you.”
Ceridwyn’s eyes are not entirely Gwynefar, there is something of Ceridwyn there too, and both are very aware of what it is she is admitting – that a mortal, and the kindred she became, look at him and Want. A powerful, dangerous attraction, not just to an elder, but to a member of his covenant.
Vittorio holds his arms out to her, his eyes never leaving her own, and his voice is velvet and honey, barely a murmur, but somehow it fills the world. “I am here, for whatever you need. I have not abandoned you, ma fille.” She steps forward into his arms, her skin warm, a mesmerizing fire lighting her eyes, and tucks her head against his shoulder. He folds his arms around her, enfolding her as if in protective wings. There, safe in his arms, other things she has remembered over the last weeks come back to her.
“You laced my corset too tight... Forgot, didn't you....” The memory makes her body tighten slightly as her blood rushes and then slows. He senses the change in her body, and brings a hand up into her hair, softly stroking it, murmuring, and even his breath smells of roses.
“I forgot you needed to breathe...”
Ceridwyn’s corners of her mouth turn up.
“Don't need to breathe any more.”
“No... I suppose not.” She laughs softly, a faint breathlessness on it. Her blood is still stirring, and she runs her tongue lightly across her lips.
“How much have you lost, and how are you regaining, I wonder? For surely with the memories of honey and roses, come the memories of things best off left lie...”
Ceridwyn raises her head, rubbing her cheek across the suit, his shoulder.
“They are coming anyway. The nameless one was triggered, in Sydney. A .. situation happened. and I lost control, and could not get out. She surfaced, and there's a world of pain in that one.” Ceridwyn tucks her face into the side of his neck
“Might I suggest you name her? Once we name a thing, we quantify it, and bind it to a shape.” Vittorio is looking down at her, maddeningly cool and unmoved, his eyes deep green.
“She says she has no name.”
“I leave that in your hands then...Ceridwyn.”
“She is a splinter. She is the only way that I could survive. The only way the beautiful unmarked one could survive – had those memories belonged to her, the nightmare would have been her’s to endure.” Vittorio says nothing, does nothing to give his thoughts away, if indeed he has any at all, but simply holds her, for as long as she needs to be held.
“And you, little one. You have a mother now?”
Ceridwyn tugs Vittorio back towards the couch, to curl up against him.
“Yes. I caught her feeding.”
Vittorio moves slowly with her, and falling into time with him feels like dancing, sharing his grace, and lowers them both to the couch and allows her to cuddle against him, his hand on her head reminiscent of the odd paternalism of their previous relationship. He chuckles, slightly.
“Ah. I can see she'd not much choice, then, one way or the other. Were you afraid, mon petit?”
Ceridwyn leans against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder
“No. There are worse things than dying. Seeing her did not scare me. Nor surprise me. It lit a lot of different emotions, but not those two.”
“Yes?”
“A weird combination of lust and anger. Something....” She frowns slightly; there is a word in her head, but its one she's hesitating to speak. “Passion and defensiveness.”
“Desire?”
“I was not sure if I was going to die, or if I was not.... but the act itself, seeing her.... that was...
Yes. But also.... pain. Not fear, of something happening, but ...” Ceridwyn pauses, her eyes looking past him, considering. He turns his eyes to her and cocks his head, then, studying her with something like curiosity in his bottle green eyes.
Finally she speaks, whispering.
“Violation. Something taken that was not freely given.” She twitches – more of a shudder - as something else surfaces.
“And this time you could not rescue me” Her body tightens as her blood surges, and pain starts rippling through her. She curls up, trying to bottle it, and her beast rears its head to attack the threat.
“Ah...” Vittorio gets a look on his face that she has never seen before - almost of alarm - his eyes widening, as he looks at her - as if he sees something terrible occurring inside her - and he pulls her head back into her shoulder, laying his hand over the crown of her head, almost protectively.
“Don't look at it, childe. There's nothing there for you.” His fingers tighten, briefly, on her scalp in frustration, and she feels his beast surge as he pulls her into his lap, holding her tightly.
“It's an ugly thing, ma chere, don't look at it...”
Ceridwyn burrows into him, pressing tighter. She buries her face against his throat so her nose presses into it, all her muscles suddenly wired, inhaling his scent. You can smell her blood, moving fast. There seems to be a war in her, between shattering with the pain, and getting angry, as her beast struggles to get free. She is shaking with the battle inside her. He takes her hands in his, while keeping his arms about her and for a moment, for all his Byzantine, Machiavellian amorality, he is her anchor, and her angel.
“I am going to hurt you if I don't stop this....” she mutters.
Vittorio says nothing, but simply draws a hand across her hair, as unflappable as ever, not a word escaping his lips, as she looks up at him, her eyes sparkling with a rage that is breathtaking. Every muscle is shaking, and the lisp from her fangs is readily apparent. He looks down into her eyes, coolly, levelly, and she feels the muscles harden under his skin.
Ceridwyn looks at him, the calm elder, and her hands clench reflexively. Her muscles are looking for something to fight. Slowly she begins to wind down, but the passion is still there. She has never looked so beautiful. Vittorio feels her body relax as she winds down, and continues to gently stroke her hair, holding her close to him, bringing her home. She presses closer to him, her muscles twitching; she puts her head back on his shoulder, rubbing her nose against his skin, and his hand slides down to the small of her back, where he rests it, gently, while she regains her control.
“I'm here...I'm here, lean on me, childe....”
“I am alright” she whispers, her breath brushing the side of his throat, her lips almost touching his skin, his hair veiling them both. He is silent, but he leans toward her touch - in the rose-scented darkness beneath the curtain of his hair, she abruptly realises that, while most Kindred start to breathe and acquire a pulse out of habit when aroused, not a breath passes his lips, and his skin is still as white and cool as marble. Unable to resist the unspoken invitation, her lips brush the side of his throat, just lightly, a faint sigh, and just rest there, so gently it could be imagination.
Almost inaudibly she whispers “Thank you.”
Sitting on the couch, her curled up in his lap, her face against the side of his throat, Vittorio lets his eyes flicker soft closed, long dark lashes fanning his cheeks, and his slender fingers spider up her back, to rest, twining in the hair at the nape of her neck. He says nothing, and even now, no pulse beats beneath the skin. In quiet silence, she arches her neck back so her hair spills into his hand, her lips brushing lightly against his jaw. He opens his eyes, lashes fluttering upwards, and fixes her with a stare that is golden, and she meets his eyes, deep pools of green reflecting the gold of his own.
Slowly, he bends forward, then, and brushes her mouth with his, his breath whispering over her lips, then he stops, his lips lying against hers, and smiles; his lips curving up against her skin, and he whispers into her skin
“Remember the price of having what you want...Ceridwyn.”
Her blood surges with desire, and her eyes sparkle, shining like emeralds. Heat blooms off her skin, her muscles tremble as she lies in his arms, prisoner between her own desire and the insanity of doing this..... Vittorio cradles her in his arms, one hand softly stroking her hair, and his lips lingeringly close above hers, waiting to see what she will do.
“Let me worry about that…. Many are the arts of my people….” And she arches her throat, brushing her lips against his, the scent of pleasure in the air. Vittorio kisses her then, deeply but gently, and then draws back a little to look her in the eyes.
Her gaze is drugged with desire, but there is also an awareness that she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her body is flushed and wired, her muscles charged with the passion, banked and under control for now, but not for long. When she gives that fire free reign, it will be beautiful. She presses closer to him, holding his eyes with her own. He peers deep into her eyes, burning down into her soul, his eyes the yellow of white wine and then, as if satisfied, he pulls her tighter into his arms and leans back down to her lips.
As they meet, she releases the pent up passion and desire, hands wrapping around him, drowning in his kiss. Passionate, willful, and fiery, she lets the fire rage.
