Fallen Blood Roses
folder
Vampire › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
2,256
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Vampire › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
2,256
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Dirty Potatoes
Chapter 2
"Master, your tea is ready," a voice interrupted his daydream, as a figure walked into the darkened room.
"Leave it on the table," Michael replied weakly, "And how many times must I tell you not to call me master..." he raged halfheartedly. Truthfully part of him enjoyed it immensely... "I'm sorry...Master..I mean Mister. Trust me, it will not happen again," the servant mummered, placed the tray upon the side table soundlessly, and slipped out of the nearly suffocating darkness... Michael reached for the cup, wishing he could feel the warmth against his palms, instead only a slight tingling persisted. He stared down at the clear green drink, bringing it to his lips, but not drinking, simply delving into the folds of his mind, and imagining himself downing mug after mug of the steamy liquid. Placing it back on the bureau, he climbed back into the sanctuary of sleep.....satisfied by only a memory.....
"You will eat what you are given," bounded through the soggy dampness. Michael looked around the wooden table. This inn was unusual. They had asked no questions, simply guiding the strange group into a back room. Only one plate of food had been delivered, the rest drunk goblets that appeared to be filled with thick red wine. Michael looked down at his plate, his stomach nearly turning at the sight of the grime that clung to everything. Still covered, he could see only the shapes of his fellow riders, or perhaps his capturers... Part of him believed that his father had sold him... Betrayal flashed inside of him for only moments, but it was soon replaced with pride. He smiled, they must have paid a high price. They seemed intent on making sure he ate. Reaching for a dirty fork, he stabbed into the potatoes in front of him with pretend gusto. Bringing the food to his mouth, he noticed them all watching, still as stone.
Their goblets for once lay on the table untouched. He allowed the food to fill his mouth, and nervously chewed and swallowed.... "Is there not enough for everyone?" he inquired politely.. Shoving his food toward the nearest person, he jumped back, as they pushed it away forcefully. In confusion, he looked from person to person, hoping to find the leader... He emerged, standing up, his shoulders broad, covered in the dirtiest rags, his head hooded. "We need not sustenance," he explained quietly. "Nothing more than what is within these glasses," he smacked his glass with his thumb, causing it to clink eerily. Michael swallowed hard, simply nodding his head, and staring down once again at his plate. He felt their eyes on him, watching him, he hoped against hope that they knew not what he was thinking. Part of him believed they did. He had heard of beings like this. They were slayers of their brethren. They haunted the earth in dark passages waiting for the weak and labored to unwisely pass them. Panting, he looked around frantically for an exit. They were feeding him, but soon he would be forever theirs. They would consume him, leaving him pale, and dying on the filthy inn floor.
"Master, your tea is ready," a voice interrupted his daydream, as a figure walked into the darkened room.
"Leave it on the table," Michael replied weakly, "And how many times must I tell you not to call me master..." he raged halfheartedly. Truthfully part of him enjoyed it immensely... "I'm sorry...Master..I mean Mister. Trust me, it will not happen again," the servant mummered, placed the tray upon the side table soundlessly, and slipped out of the nearly suffocating darkness... Michael reached for the cup, wishing he could feel the warmth against his palms, instead only a slight tingling persisted. He stared down at the clear green drink, bringing it to his lips, but not drinking, simply delving into the folds of his mind, and imagining himself downing mug after mug of the steamy liquid. Placing it back on the bureau, he climbed back into the sanctuary of sleep.....satisfied by only a memory.....
"You will eat what you are given," bounded through the soggy dampness. Michael looked around the wooden table. This inn was unusual. They had asked no questions, simply guiding the strange group into a back room. Only one plate of food had been delivered, the rest drunk goblets that appeared to be filled with thick red wine. Michael looked down at his plate, his stomach nearly turning at the sight of the grime that clung to everything. Still covered, he could see only the shapes of his fellow riders, or perhaps his capturers... Part of him believed that his father had sold him... Betrayal flashed inside of him for only moments, but it was soon replaced with pride. He smiled, they must have paid a high price. They seemed intent on making sure he ate. Reaching for a dirty fork, he stabbed into the potatoes in front of him with pretend gusto. Bringing the food to his mouth, he noticed them all watching, still as stone.
Their goblets for once lay on the table untouched. He allowed the food to fill his mouth, and nervously chewed and swallowed.... "Is there not enough for everyone?" he inquired politely.. Shoving his food toward the nearest person, he jumped back, as they pushed it away forcefully. In confusion, he looked from person to person, hoping to find the leader... He emerged, standing up, his shoulders broad, covered in the dirtiest rags, his head hooded. "We need not sustenance," he explained quietly. "Nothing more than what is within these glasses," he smacked his glass with his thumb, causing it to clink eerily. Michael swallowed hard, simply nodding his head, and staring down once again at his plate. He felt their eyes on him, watching him, he hoped against hope that they knew not what he was thinking. Part of him believed they did. He had heard of beings like this. They were slayers of their brethren. They haunted the earth in dark passages waiting for the weak and labored to unwisely pass them. Panting, he looked around frantically for an exit. They were feeding him, but soon he would be forever theirs. They would consume him, leaving him pale, and dying on the filthy inn floor.