Blood of Man *HF One-shot*
by Morte
“Always it is calling me for the blood of man.”
-Marilyn Manson, “Redeemer”
The pale Scribe sat in her office, the red velvet curtains pulled to keep out the sun. The Dragon’s Blood incense smoke made the room seem dark and depressing, following the thoughts of the person who sat in it, staring blankly at the computer.
Glass and Spark’s funerals were starting in a few minutes. Everyone that cared for them was there, and many who didn’t. Everyone present when they died was there. Except for her.
But why not? She was the most morbid and heartless of the Purple Court. She was the one most at home at funerals, after all, did she not dress like she was constantly going to one? Did she not dance in cemeteries to celebrate? Had she not done that very thing when she got her current job? She was perfectly at home in funerals. So why didn’t she just stand up, and walk down there? She would be fine.
Sabrina rolled her eyes at herself. “You won’t, Brachode, and you know why,” she said derisively to herself. “So sit down, shut up, and write the verdammnt letter, you decorated whore!”
Setting her jaw, the Scribe moved the mouse on her computer, dispelling the screen saver. Pulling up a word program, she took a deep breath and began to write.
From: The Office of Sabrina Brachode, Scribe of the Purple Court
To: The Offices of Steven Booth and Ian Fitzroy, Purple King and Rook
Sabrina scowled. “I’m not sending them a fucking memo..” Jabbing at the keyboard, she erased the two lines and started again.
Dear Mr. Booth and Mr. Fitzroy,
This is Sabrina Bra-
The Scribe rolled her eyes. Of course they’d know who she was. With a sneer, she deleted the lines and started over.
Dear Steven and Ian,
You will have noticed by now that I-
Her eyes blurred, and swearing at herself for her weakness, the young mutant buried her face in her hands.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered softly, to no one but herself. “I can’t write this letter, can’t buy the plane tickets, can’t plan to-” her voice broke as tears rolled down her face. “Can’t even say it.” she said, almost too softly to hear herself. “Why do I have to?”
Because you failed, the answer came from inside her head. You failed in your duty, and you must rectify your mistake.
“Damn..damndamndamn..” The Scribe slid her hand up until they grasped her hair, then pulled it hard enough to bring additional tears to her eyes. With a sigh, she straightened up. “I can do this.” She placed her hands back on the keyboard and typed.
You will have noticed by now that I have disappeared. What you will not know, however, is why. That is the purpose of this letter.
I have made a serious mistake. In the battle against the renegade vampires, I left my battle position by the King to finish off a vampire. In doing so, I left him open to be attacked, which he was. And instead of rectifying my mistake by immediately going to his aid, I moved too slowly. And as a result, Spark and Glass, tried to fulfil my duty, and died doing so. It is I, not you, Mr. Booth, who are responsible for their deaths. If I had stayed by you, I would have taken the blow, which would not have harmed me.
I know you two will not punish me, which is why I must seek punishment from myself. In the Babylonian tradition of an eye for an eye, I have decided to take my own life in penalization. Ideally, two would die, but since only one is responsible, only one shall pay.
The problem with this is the unnatural amount of punishment my body is able to endure, due to my mutant powers. Truthfully, nothing short of a force of nature can conceivably kill me. Thus, a force of nature shall be my death.
I am sure the two of you are aware of the many dormant volcanoes around the world? I know you are, Ian- I learned of their destructive capabilities in your class. Over the last few days, I have been doing additional research and running simulations. I have found a volcano strong enough to destroy my body, before it can regenerate. It may not kill me immediately, but it will get the job done.
I understand that you may wish to have my body brought back to Jamaica for the funeral. Thus, I will tell you which volcano I have chosen. Please, though, do not hurry.. I have timed this e-mail to send approximately two minutes after I carry out my plan. This is so you will not be able to find me in time to stop me.
The chosen volcano is-
The intercom interrupted her. “Miss Brachode?”
Jumping, the mutant hit the button on the concealed phone. “Yes? What the hell is it?!”
“Miss Blackfire is waiting for you.. She says she was sent to remind you of the funeral..”
“Like anyone could fucking forget that? Tell her I will join her shortly. And make sure she doesn’t loiter, or you will be panhandling on the streets come tomorrow. Do you understand?”
The male servant, whose name she couldn’t remember, gulped softly. “Y-yes Miss Brachode.” With that, he hung up.
Sabrina swore, sticking a disk in her computer and saved it. “Why in the bloody nine hells does nothing go right?!” Ripping the disk out, nearly breaking it, she closed the program and slid the disk into a concealed pocket on her black, Victorian style mourning dress. Pulling up her gloves, she shoved her chair into the stone desk, almost hard enough to chip it, and took for the door.
“There’s always tomorrow..” she sighed to herself, gliding past the man-servant whom she had threatened. Opening the door that connected her waiting room to the hall, she added silently, Until there isn’t.
Not Nearly the End
