MBC #2: 'Bloodletting' (Ruby Version)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a broken hourglass. Its white sand is spilling out with only one half of its glass chambers still intact, while the other is shattered into several shards. It has gilded finishes. The background is black, though there is gold shimmer around the hourglass itself. The title 'Bloodletting' is the same color as the sand with a dark shadow stretching out from it.]

This writing is set in a dark, vampire AU that uses TFS's base lore! 🌲

Ruby almost continues around the corner until you tug on your joined hands and come to a complete stop. She adapts, matching your sudden pause, but not your teasing smile as she glances down one of the Verner mansion's palatial hallways. It stretches on and on, flanked by expensive artwork, well-preserved armor, and other displays of rarity and wealth.

It's perfect—a main hall meant to leave guests impressed each time they walk through it.

"I thought you were famished?" Ruby asks. "I would have brought you breakfast in bed."

"We'll get there," you casually reply. "But first"—you reveal the second part of your plan, two pairs of socks—"put these on. No bed slippers."

She still doesn't seem to follow where this is going beyond the two of you getting a late morning breakfast. Ruby complies after you change your footwear to the softest socks in the universe. They're a cashmere blend that's sleek. No friction meets the soles of your feet when you slide to the right in demonstration, sashaying some with your arms out for balance.

She's already smiling at your antics, smitten.

"Get it, Verner?"

"I do, though we might both get concussions as well," she jokes. "This marble is unforgiving."

"It's also perfect for sliding, even better than hardwood. I used to do this all of the time, and I know you haven't, so let's go." A memory of you darting down hallways that didn't echo and that were only designed for your family comes to mind. You can practically hear your mom's encouraging laughter. Ruby didn't have that. "Unless you're afraid of losing?" She scoffs at your transparent challenge, yet she slides her foot back as if she's on a starting line for track.

Hopefully, Ruby doesn't actually sprint.

"You know me better."

There's an uncompromising certainty to her retort about how well you truly know her. It doesn't change how her smirk sparks your own competitive streak. You'll either be kissing it away later to make her win more bearable or tending to any pouting. "Then on the count of three. Slide, don't run," you advise her. "1…"

Ruby winks at you, which should be a foul because it was saucy. "2…" She holds up a single finger that asks for pause, stepping closer to where you're standing. "If you cheat—"

Your light-hearted warning ends when she rests her hands on your hips, directing you to briefly straighten up your stance despite how your breath nearly caught. That's a double foul; no, a penalty. Her fingers slowly skim along your waist, delicate at first before she locates your pajamas' loose drawstrings, pulling them into view. Ruby peeks up at you after tugging on them, which gathers your waistband, until she concentrates on tying off a bow that ensures your pjs legs will remain away from the ground.

"…Lost count already?" she teasingly murmurs when centering the bow. "You have already fallen for me once. No need to repeat that."

Ruby kissing you soundly cuts through your counter before you realize your lips have parted to form it. She keeps one hand poised on your hip while the other guides you closer for a heady moment. You're the one who separates from it, aware that your stolen glances and tentative touches tend to escalate. This is why you'll be getting breakfast around lunchtime.

"Trying to distract me?"

"'Succeeding'," Ruby corrects you. "But no, I am serious about the marble. Count us down." She relinquishes her caress on your cheek to resume her track-ready position, smiling some.

"1… 2…" You hesitate and look over at her one last time, but she's already staring back. "3."

The two of you slide down the hall, although it quickly devolves into laughter alongside your need to compete against your childhood rival.

. . .

. .

.

This place is stirring up memories, but you refocus on the present.

"4… 5… 6…"

The sonorous count blends with the ever-present ache that's settled into your body as the minutes unendingly stretch on. Starting at your knees, you experience how unforgiving this marble can be after being made to kneel on it for hours. It must be that long. Your grasp of time was distorted as soon as you slipped on this velvety, black bag over your head. Its plushness threatens to cling to your heated cheeks if you inhale too deeply, following each of your shallow breaths. It's difficult to see much of anything; however, you know exactly where you are from time spent in these halls.

Your other senses compensate.

Classical music distantly echoes from the grand ballroom, unable to drown out the range of noises from those in this culled line. Choked back whimpering comes from somewhere to your left, implying this person didn't volunteer, while the young lady on your right keeps shuffling around in clear anticipation. She has brushed up against you more than once. Her supple skin is well-perfumed, which is a mistake, but you've kept quiet and still this entire time rather than draw attention to—

"Quit squirming."

"Yes, master." She practically purrs her acceptance before it's cut off by a whine.

"No talking either."

Thankfully, the hood obscures your eye roll that has pity alongside your disgust for those who willingly seek out this 'exchange'. The promise for a better life during their time of 'service' doesn't account for how some never come back, or if they do, they're not quite the same—weakened, fearful husks or addicted, listless blood banks. The mostly normal ones are often shunned by townsfolk fortunate enough to avoid this new part of life, hiding their scarred skin and keeping their heads down.

Only in Fernweh could a vampire occupation foster further internal division within the town.

…To be fair, they had help…

Another ache radiates through your lower back when you attempt to maintain a perfect kneel with your posture kept straight. You've heard how the one who counts will also keep a tally of a different sort if you're unseemly. He has a rod, possibly even a metal ruler, that he's used to ensure all of the 'tributes' are in good order. This one is more official than the few guards you spied from a distance away. Maybe he is always present at these twisted events?

They occur every few months; it's a macabre celebration: the Bloodletting.

Part of the fear they inspire is that no one knows exactly what happens during them, aside from each one being an exclusive party. The details you learned were pried free—threatened and coaxed—out of individuals. You slipped on this previously blood-stained hood by yourself; it wasn't violently wrestled on or something you agreed to with giddy pride. It's necessary.

Just like being made to wait on your knees for a stupidly long time is apparently necessary.

Your determination slakes over the inherent danger of sneaking into a social gathering of hungry vampires. One heavily scarred source compared it to how someone might save their appetite for Thanksgiving or another holiday feast. So, why haven't they started their final 'selection process'? The guests should pair off with those in the lineup to do despicable things before they return for—

Abrupt, mocking laughter cuts through your thoughts as it bounces around the vast room.

"This is so depressing. This is how you're really going to go about it, Rubes…? Like this?"

Irrationally, you clench your eyes shut, willing your body—your heart—not to react despite how you were hoping to encounter Ruby sooner rather than later. She likely won't feel the same.

Ruby is coming closer.

"They'll probably taste sad," Charles critically theorizes. "At least I let them put on a runway show before the selection so they felt pretty."

"You paraded them around."

Your sense of purpose can't shield you from her lilting voice; it sounds very familiar, but coldly disinterested.

"And you're dehumanizing them," he counters her. "We eat with our eyes first, you know… Any volunteers? I know a few of you are freaky in—oh, here we go! What's your name, lovely?"

Now, Charles is standing near your side, such that you feel the faint displacement of air after he tosses the other tribute's hood to the ground. The lady on your right shudders slightly, and you don't need your vision to know exactly what shit-eating grin is being leveled her way. Stillness seeps into your bearing when you hear leather dress shoes join what's going on. Each footfall against the marble is elegant and measured.

"Mirabelle, but—I—I'm not supposed to talk."

She sounds equal parts desperate and enthralled, practically breathless in a way that differs from you holding yours.

"That's Rubes's rule, not mine," Charles assures her. "Your freckles are adorable."

"Thank you—thank you so much," Mirabelle splutters. "You're, like, a literal god."

"So, you wouldn't mind if I have a taste…?"

"Of course not!"

She's younger—more naive—than you had initially guessed, which only makes you angle your head farther away since this is wrong. A faint clink of metal alerts you to something being grasped by Charles. The fine holes in your hood obscure whatever it is; however, you overheard the one who keeps count muttering about cleaning implements. Mirabelle's hiss of pain seems to confirm she was cut into before she starts mumbling about her gratitude for this opportunity. You glare into a void of black.

"Hm, tangy with notes of orange soda fizz," Charles jokes, affecting the tone of a wine connoisseur before chuckling. "Your turn."

Whether he's talking to you, another tribute, or Ruby is soon answered by his fingertips tracing your bicep, except his index finger is capped with a pointed tip. It must be jewelry, a ring? Slowly, the touch drags higher with intent to be along your chest—what's exposed by your mandatory V-neck shirt. Everyone's wearing them, all in shades of black with their faces hidden and voices silenced by fear. Before metal sinks into your tender skin, Charles's hand is removed from your body and replaced by Ruby's. She rests her hand on your shoulder.

"You are so satiated, that you are missing context clues, Char. All of our training: lost."

"What?" he demands. "I gave you first pick of mine when I hosted the—"

"This one already smells faintly of blood," Ruby interjects. "Blood I spilled. It's mine. You may pick from the rest, but be mindful."

"You were testing me?"

He sounds offended by the idea, while Ruby effortlessly hoists you up by your arm in spite of your stiff muscles protesting her need to efficiently depart. She doesn't hesitate even when you stumble, dragging you forward on tingling legs until you end up lurching and meet the cool marble. Your bound hands make the impact with your shoulder worse, but she's the one who spared your face with that push—that re-orienting nudge which toppled you over.

You bit your tongue to remain silent, unsure how much Charles cared to remember of your voice. Ruby roughly collects you with a scoff you don't believe for a second. One of her hands uses your bindings as a steer, whereas her other one finds your shoulder again. This time it doesn't rest there, clamping instead.

"Someone's peckish," Charles teasingly observes. "You are looking a bit pale. Have fun."

Ruby says nothing further to him, guiding you through this space and others without a single word passing between the two of you. It doesn't blot out the other noises—the music, the moans, the screaming laced with jeering, the hushed conversation. Each step causes it to fade away. Only both of your footsteps echo through the lonely mansion just like before. Ruby once told you that you never made her feel alone unlike most other people in her life.

. . .

. .

.

"You're bailing on your own party?"

"I am."

Ruby expresses that with a certain pride while trying to get you to either twirl for her or help her perform a precise spin. Neither come to pass when you keep her close by. She relents to your wish, still searching the curiosity room for something in particular. "…It's your birthday."

"You are my greatest gift."

She says that without missing a beat, tempting you to believe she was intentionally catching you off-guard, if not for how Ruby smiles softly. It wasn't a well-played move. "Verner," you emphasize her surname. "That's sweet—"

"I try."

"—but there's more going on."

Her eyes leaving yours to settle on a particular thing behind you prompts you to turn around before she gently tugs you back. There is so much contained in this room! You've got absolutely no hope of knowing what it was. She raises an eyebrow when you slowly start to pivot again, degree by degree, with a promise of leaving her to perform your own search for what's amiss until Ruby calls your bluff by letting go. In an instant, you turn back, almost yo-yoing, except that would be too lovestruck.

It's also true.

"Stubborn," Ruby affectionately mutters, taking your hand again and leading you to a particular area. "Obstinacy suits you well."

"Pot"—you use your joined hands to nudge her side and then yours—"kettle," you retort. "When it comes to you, yeah. Someone has to be."

"I would prefer being the kettle…"

"Too bad," you reply with false sweetness, just to earn an honest laugh from her. If she's still laughing, it can't be very troubling, right? Ruby flicks on a nearby standing lamp, awakening different galaxies of colors that have been captured in ludicrously expensive rings. A few of them lack a listed value. They're beautiful, yet you manage to catch her watching you in a way that outshines all of the glittery gems. It's a split second, one where she assumed you'd be taking in the many rings, but Ruby recovers.

"Here, I—It is the saber, just there on the shelf."

For once, your childhood rival wants you to look away, needing a moment, so you'll give it to her. "The fancy one?" you clarify. "Why?"

"For champagne. It tastes better decanted by blade."

You're smiling some at her dramatic reasoning, still choosing to admire the filigree until you feel Ruby's hand very subtly relax in yours.

It wasn't ever about the sword.

Eventually, she made you a promise sealed by a ring.

. . .

. .

.

Now you feel the cool night air on your skin, suggesting Ruby has guided you out of the mansion and back to safety. You've hardly had a chance to blink after she has cut your bindings and removed the hood from your head, cupping your cheek to ground you. Her skin is far cooler now, but you know she's still yours. "Hey," you greet her. Ruby simply stares back at you in obvious frustration, briefly locking her jaw.

"I told you never to return," she whispers. "I will come to you later, but not tonight."

"We have a plan to poison—"

"Why are you still resisting?!" She exhales, not quite raising her voice given what occupies her home. "Just—just stay safe for tonight. The blood flowing so freely brings out the worst in them. I do not want this"—she gestures at her face that's dangerously beautiful, a lure and warning—"for you."

"You're still you. That's the difference."

When you lean in to comfort her, Ruby turns before letting you complete the hug, obviously not trusting herself completely while weak from lack of blood. She did this for you, a sacrifice. You and the others tend to stick to the farmlands, planning your resistance, while the elite of the town enforce the old system that has taken on a sinister edge. Ruby is a double-agent, but most importantly, she's your lover, friend, and partner. After a moment, she relents to hold you close. "We need to talk about what comes next. We've found something," you murmur. "Fine, I'll go for now."

"And I will come back to you."

With that last promise, she is gone, leaving you to make your way out of Verner grounds.