Crimson Thrall

by Rebecca


It courses through the veins of all animals. Pumping just beneath the surface of the skin, it sustains life.

So strong. So rich. So abundant.

Vessels carefully constructed of muscle and tissue carry their precious cargo around the creature, filling it with what it needs to survive. It is all.

Flowing. Pulsing. Roaring.

Blood is the giver of life. No animal can survive without it. It is the means by which the weak are made strong, the infirm are made well, and the dead are given life.

Surging. Fluxing. Coursing.

But the container for this invaluable fluid is all too fragile. A cut here, a slash there, and the vessels spill their cherished load easily. And it pours forth in torrents.

Streaming. Spurting. Spouting.

The essence of life flows from her mortal body and into my eager mouth. I sip shallowly, not wanting the experience over before I have a chance to make my offering. Her pulse becomes thready and weak with loss and fear.

Beating. Thumping. Throbbing

Blood ties are the strongest. They are an unbreakable links that withstand separation, time and death. They are a part of the ancestors, present in the descendants and will carry through to the offspring. They are all.

Binding. Encircling. Unyielding.

I stop drinking and hold out my gift to them. My ties to the Old Ones. My blood.

Darla. Angelus. Drusilla.

"Well done, boy."

"Aye, 'tis good, lad."

"You've made Mummy so proud."

They accept my gift and surround me, filled with praise and pride. Their blood calls to me, sings to me, and mine answers in kind. We are bound by our blood, and its loss would mean our undoing. From the blood of the Sire is the Childe raised. It sings the same tune, weeps at the same, rejoices at the same.

Calling. Raging. Commanding.

It is all. We are merely vessels, slaves to its desires and whims. We are not the masters. We serve only one true master, and that is blood, whether it be in the form of kin or sustenance.

Enthralling. Seductive. Absolute.