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The Callousness of Dreams
Jan. 28th, 2012 03:53 pmThere is no harsher whip than memory and no more indifferent a wielder than sleep.
In the cheery world of daylight, hidden expertly beyond the solid window shades, Venice was over eight-thousand kilometers away. Even so, her elegant fingers coiled like spiteful serpents, squeezing regret from Cosima's unguarded soul.
Elias had come to her from an age long past, a soul born a hundred or more years too late. He was a poet to his very core, the brightest and most beautiful thing that she had ever seen. It was not his appearance that had entranced her, though he was comely enough. No, it was in fact, the emotions that he painted with words, the way that his melodic voice seemed to caress her very soul with a skill born of passion and intellect. She hadn't had a prayer, really.
For Elias, Cosima would have brought the moon to the ocean. Quickly came the nights when neither could suffer the idea of being separated even for mere hours. Torn between the dire need for the constant company of her mortal lover and the terror of his judgement, she confessed her nature on All Saint's Eve. She had stood frozen before a man who could kill her with words, a plea for acceptance naked and raw in her vivid blue eyes. His profession of continued love and worship was more than enough to bring the kindred to her knees, bloodied tears streaking her porcelain cheeks.
The weeks that followed were filled with explanations and necessities. Elias was ghouled in the presence of the prince. The permission for his embrace was sought and granted for a small boon. The date was set, christmas eve.
The narrow alleyways and canals were draped in glittering lights and festive buntings, crowded with tourists and locals, kindred and kine. There were galas scheduled by the Keeper and many of the harpies as well. Cosima had declined every invitation. She had even turned over the hosting duties at the theater for the evening.
Nude and engulfed by passion, a final time she had begged him to be certain. Once the gift was given, it could not be returned. The only words he gave her, before the rapturous sighs and moans were to alight his lips, were not even his own.
"Death should take me while I am in the mood." He had breathed with an angelic smile.
Cosima had laughed. She had never loved anyone so deeply in her life or death as she did that man on that night. Had she but known how it would end…
In the grasp of cruel slumber, the toreador's peaceful expression was broken by a grief stricken grimace. Her nonpareil lips gave way to soundless sobs which shook her entire body and even the bed that she shared with the Prince. Internally, she was not spared a single detail.
The bliss of her unnatural kiss at Elias' throat spurred him to gift her with the unrivaled pleasure of him hot seed flooding her womb for a final time. Cosima savored the exquisite sensation for as long as she could before forcing her attention to the task before her. She drew more of him into her than she ever had before, paying particular attention to the waning flutter of his heart. The embrace was executed expertly. At his final breath, Cosima drug her tongue against her fangs, gouging the muscle deeply before thrusting it into his unprotesting mouth. Elias drank and drank, pulling from her as she had taken from him. But, rather than strengthening, the man's grasp on his beloved weakened. Cosima had jerked her head back from his mouth, panic welling inside of her, wrenching at her soul. Too pale, his lips had gone purple. Frantically, she had pushed him down to the bed, all but tearing her wrist open, pushing it to her poet's mouth, cursing at him to drink. The only response was a hacking cough that spattered her own blood all over her face and breasts and then, the silence of his heart.
After that, the hours had dragged on one after the other, a million seconds to every minute. She had stayed with him on the bed, her hips moved almost mechanically even though he was limp inside of her. Her eyes were red and glazed, peerless form speckled in blood. His body had cooled and morning found Cosima sleepless and cowering in the corner of her room, rocking gently with her arms wound around her gathered legs, her knees against her naked breasts. She could see nothing but Elias' lifeless corpse sprawled on her bed, the silky sheet wound around one of his greying ankles. There were knocks on the door, but no one pressured the lock that has been secured before the ceremony had begun. It was some hours later when the door burst inwards, the splintering wood flying and littering the handwoven rug.
Benjamin had been forced to physically restrain the screaming Toreador when the ghouls came to collect the poor boy's body. She had clawed and bitten, raged and bawled, until her stained body was finally bound with leather straps to one of the large chairs in the Ventrue's study. There, Cosima remained for nearly a week, Benjamin forcing her to feed from his ghouls. He spent many hours simply watching the stripped, fettered woman. The emotional plight of clan toreador as a whole was something of a fascination of his and to see one so utterly and sincerely broken was of great interest. She responded not to honeyed words, angry shouts and even physical abuses. As a last resort, the venture sent word to William Johnson in a effort to solicit the advice of Cosima's young friend on the matter of her almost comatose state. To Benjamin's surprise and mild annoyance, Will announced that he would come to Venice directly.
That was over two years ago, but the recollections replayed so vividly in Cosima's unconscious mind that William woke to find her still in torturous slumber, her face and pillow stained with bloody tears.
In the cheery world of daylight, hidden expertly beyond the solid window shades, Venice was over eight-thousand kilometers away. Even so, her elegant fingers coiled like spiteful serpents, squeezing regret from Cosima's unguarded soul.
Elias had come to her from an age long past, a soul born a hundred or more years too late. He was a poet to his very core, the brightest and most beautiful thing that she had ever seen. It was not his appearance that had entranced her, though he was comely enough. No, it was in fact, the emotions that he painted with words, the way that his melodic voice seemed to caress her very soul with a skill born of passion and intellect. She hadn't had a prayer, really.
For Elias, Cosima would have brought the moon to the ocean. Quickly came the nights when neither could suffer the idea of being separated even for mere hours. Torn between the dire need for the constant company of her mortal lover and the terror of his judgement, she confessed her nature on All Saint's Eve. She had stood frozen before a man who could kill her with words, a plea for acceptance naked and raw in her vivid blue eyes. His profession of continued love and worship was more than enough to bring the kindred to her knees, bloodied tears streaking her porcelain cheeks.
The weeks that followed were filled with explanations and necessities. Elias was ghouled in the presence of the prince. The permission for his embrace was sought and granted for a small boon. The date was set, christmas eve.
The narrow alleyways and canals were draped in glittering lights and festive buntings, crowded with tourists and locals, kindred and kine. There were galas scheduled by the Keeper and many of the harpies as well. Cosima had declined every invitation. She had even turned over the hosting duties at the theater for the evening.
Nude and engulfed by passion, a final time she had begged him to be certain. Once the gift was given, it could not be returned. The only words he gave her, before the rapturous sighs and moans were to alight his lips, were not even his own.
"Death should take me while I am in the mood." He had breathed with an angelic smile.
Cosima had laughed. She had never loved anyone so deeply in her life or death as she did that man on that night. Had she but known how it would end…
In the grasp of cruel slumber, the toreador's peaceful expression was broken by a grief stricken grimace. Her nonpareil lips gave way to soundless sobs which shook her entire body and even the bed that she shared with the Prince. Internally, she was not spared a single detail.
The bliss of her unnatural kiss at Elias' throat spurred him to gift her with the unrivaled pleasure of him hot seed flooding her womb for a final time. Cosima savored the exquisite sensation for as long as she could before forcing her attention to the task before her. She drew more of him into her than she ever had before, paying particular attention to the waning flutter of his heart. The embrace was executed expertly. At his final breath, Cosima drug her tongue against her fangs, gouging the muscle deeply before thrusting it into his unprotesting mouth. Elias drank and drank, pulling from her as she had taken from him. But, rather than strengthening, the man's grasp on his beloved weakened. Cosima had jerked her head back from his mouth, panic welling inside of her, wrenching at her soul. Too pale, his lips had gone purple. Frantically, she had pushed him down to the bed, all but tearing her wrist open, pushing it to her poet's mouth, cursing at him to drink. The only response was a hacking cough that spattered her own blood all over her face and breasts and then, the silence of his heart.
After that, the hours had dragged on one after the other, a million seconds to every minute. She had stayed with him on the bed, her hips moved almost mechanically even though he was limp inside of her. Her eyes were red and glazed, peerless form speckled in blood. His body had cooled and morning found Cosima sleepless and cowering in the corner of her room, rocking gently with her arms wound around her gathered legs, her knees against her naked breasts. She could see nothing but Elias' lifeless corpse sprawled on her bed, the silky sheet wound around one of his greying ankles. There were knocks on the door, but no one pressured the lock that has been secured before the ceremony had begun. It was some hours later when the door burst inwards, the splintering wood flying and littering the handwoven rug.
Benjamin had been forced to physically restrain the screaming Toreador when the ghouls came to collect the poor boy's body. She had clawed and bitten, raged and bawled, until her stained body was finally bound with leather straps to one of the large chairs in the Ventrue's study. There, Cosima remained for nearly a week, Benjamin forcing her to feed from his ghouls. He spent many hours simply watching the stripped, fettered woman. The emotional plight of clan toreador as a whole was something of a fascination of his and to see one so utterly and sincerely broken was of great interest. She responded not to honeyed words, angry shouts and even physical abuses. As a last resort, the venture sent word to William Johnson in a effort to solicit the advice of Cosima's young friend on the matter of her almost comatose state. To Benjamin's surprise and mild annoyance, Will announced that he would come to Venice directly.
That was over two years ago, but the recollections replayed so vividly in Cosima's unconscious mind that William woke to find her still in torturous slumber, her face and pillow stained with bloody tears.