Chapter Text
Louis Lafontaine had never been a selfish man. He could never afford to be. Not when the rest of his kind seemed so hellbent on being self-centered and self-serving.
He’d seen it time and time again, during century after century. Vampires are an egocentric people. That is what he’d learned. Whether in regards to the complex political landscapes he’d grown up in, or the simpleminded disputes he’d come across in his travels, it did not matter. His kind rarely seemed interested in matters not concerning their own hunger. For power. For wealth. For sustenance and connection. If they wanted something they would have it. They would take and take and take.
And the cost to do so could never be too great. Not to them, at least.
Louis knew from a young age that he could never bring himself to be like that. He would be better. He had to be.
The altruistic nature of one man would have never changed the course of history. Of course not. He was not so egotistical to believe otherwise. But to him it was an obligation; martyrdom in the face of his crimson ilk. If there was even the slightest chance to provide respite to a world ravaged by fangs and claws… Then he had no other choice.
A martyr he would be. A martyr he was.
Once upon a time he had been a good daughter. He said please and thank you and didn’t speak unless it was asked of him. He never stuck up his nose in the face of evil, no matter how many times it sat at his dining room table and conversed with his mother. He snuck food to the thralls when their masters failed to feed them and comforted the bastard sons of fanged matriarchs who did not want them. He did not fear monsters under his bed for he knew acutely of the bestial nature in his own blood. One that only worsened when they changed him, stripped him of that human half of himself so quickly they did not think he would remember what they took from him.
Yet still he hung on. And when he could no longer stand to be a good daughter, he became a good son. A good mediator and diplomat. So on so forth. While his peers and ancestors chased greatness he settled on being good. And a damned good man he was. All at the expense of himself. By the time of his death, he had nothing but empty wealth and the promise of something greater on the horizon. Something he would never reach, of course. That future, one spent with the only man he'd ever loved, had been whisked away in an instant. And gracious as he was, Louis Lafontaine had only one thought as the pyre burned him away, layer by layer.
Is thi- At least Owen will be spared.
Now, nearly two centuries later he finds that even his dying wish could not be granted.
What Owen had become was something monstrous, yes. But they were all monsters, deep down. Greedy, violent, selfish monsters. And Owen Oakley was by no means the worst of them.
Two thousand seven hundred ninety-nine plus one. The lives lost were by no means without weight. If Louis could've saved them all, gone back in time and stopped it all from happening, he would have. Human lives do not mean nothing to him. But there are worse beasts still walking the Earth. Why him? Why him of all people? Do the bastards who damned him not know who he is? Do they know of history, of his pain, of his potential. Do they know he could have been better, so, so much better if they just gave him another chance? Louis can see it, the good still inside him, even as he thrashes and sinks into the depths below. Beneath the terror in his eyes there is something. Something good and worthy Louis rarely did see in another in all his thousand years of living. It's there, and to Louis it is so blatantly obvious. The kind of evidence that would crack open a case, the kind that would a free a man of his shackles and send him home to those who need him most.
Yet still Owen sinks. Deeper and deeper. Thrashing. Silently. No longer does he have a voice to cry out with. There is no "goodbye" or "I love you" as he is dragged down into eternity, to a place where he will be smothered by the weight of his actions until his sins become him.
Owen's descent is slow and agonizing. The visual of his suffering is prolonged, outstretched into a debilitating sequence of images that burn into Louis's eyes. Pictures that will never leave him no matter how hard he tries to push the back of his mind. His mind begs him to look away. To do so would be a luxury unto himself. To spare himself the pain would be bliss. But Louis cannot have nice things. So, instead he looks into his beloved's eyes.
They've been red for some time now, but to Louis it is still an odd sight. He still remembers how he used to look. But now, those deep brown irises have been tainted with crimson, and his cedar-colored locks have been drained of their life and color. That light in his eyes has long dulled. Though Louis still thinks he can see it, flickering like stars in the sky. Something. Something good. Something to grasp onto in their last moments together.
Louis takes that thread and hangs onto it, clutching it in the arms of his very soul as torment both ends and never stops. It slips from his fingers too slowly and too quickly.
Too slowly, for he knows holding on to false hope is fool's errand. Too quickly for it is the last thing that he will ever truly have. Hope. Falsified or otherwise. This thread is his, just as many things should have been. Just like Owen should have been. When it gone he will not just be possession-less but barren of will and desire. A martyr with no cause to keep going. And this too, eventually goes.
He wants it back.
Time passes. Though how long, Louis does not care to know. His remains planted in place, a blinding wall of light searing into his back like fire. Its warmth beats against him, beckoning him.
He had never been burned by the sun. It had not been so inclined to harm him as it was with the rest of his kin. He'd thought the pyre to be excruciating. Unbearable and unforgettable. To have your very being licked away by flames, layer by layer, for days on end… Well, he would never wish it upon anyone else. But this? This was something else. The denizens of Oakhurst had looked at him with disgust, with pity, and horror as he was reduced to ashes, all things he had become accustomed to over the course of millennia. Here, there was no such emotion. It is a choir calling out for his triumph, with every loss, every tragedy on the edge of its tongue. Heaven is calling him. A reward for your service. For your sacrifice.
And it is mockery in its purest form.
Is this what They expect of him? To return to those pearly gates while his loved one burns? There will be no end for Owen as there was for Louis. No ceasing of the smoke and flames as the sun sets on his final day. He will suffer eternally, entrenched in darkness while Louis replays their life together in his head, trying not to forget his face, just as Owen had done during their two centuries apart.
Will he do the same in Hell? Will they think of each other, mirrored across planes, unable to touch anything but a fading fragment of memory? Will they grow to hate the face they cannot so much as grasp, knowing it has doomed them to suffer by being damned or ascendant as they were?
Louis cannot bear the thought of it.
He cannot bear this reality.
If he has damned this man to Hell than he has damned himself as well.
The light of eternal happiness is still beating down onto his back. Calling for him. Whispering sweet nothings into his ear, promising the end of this sorrow if he crawls back into the light. This will pass, it says. A part of Louis wants to believe it. To think he can leave this all behind and forget. Forgive. But the reasonable part of him knows it is not possible.
And besides. That need he has is a selfish one.
He cannot be selfish.
So instead he will burn. As he has always been meant to do.
Louis shifts. For the first time in ages or seconds, he is not sure. But his joints pop and crack, as though they are breaking out of a layer of ice and dust that has accumulated inside of him. The scorching divinity at his back begins to burn, scorching at the remnants of a charred suit still attached to his body, or rather, whatever vessel it is he currently inhabits. It's almost exhilarating. To defy the will of something clawing at his very soul searching for the cruelty running through his lineage. They will not find it.
He reaches forward. The darkness into which Owen sank still lingers just before him, wailing in a shadowy mass of tendrils. A chill radiates off of it, though in such a time it is an odd comfort. Unlike the oppressive heat of the sun behind, this sensation bites at his fingertips until they are cold and numb. He tries to imagine the torture that will come, but the lack of feeling in his hand is distracting. Perhaps it is not torture. Perhaps it is just nothingness. A blank void in place of your person hood. Alone in the black Nothing with his betrothed for the rest of eternity. Would that even be so bad?
Before his inner spiral can continue, or he can even so much as graze the swirling shadows a mere centimeter away from his fingers, Louis stops.
There's another whisper in his ear.
This one is… different.
The voice is not one of God or His angels. It is not sweet or song like or even the slightest bit comforting. But there is something much more alluring about the words that its speaks.
The contents of this conversation shall not yet be revealed. The time is not right. All that remains relevant is this: Louis hears no false promises nestled into his ears. There is some withholding of truths. That, he can sense. However the risks of that which it requests from him… They are laid out plain and clear.
No song of deceit. No choir of false praise.
A choice.
…
Louis Lafontaine had never been a selfish man. He can never afford to be.
But he is already dead and destitute.
He has already reaped the rewards of a lifetime of martyrdom.
What else does he have to lose?
"..."
"I accept."