[ There is no such shock to meet Gale from Godfrey's half of the room. Where Gale is bewildered, Godfrey is cold and impassive. The room fills with a single, seething hiss; the air leaving him from behind the firm wall of his muzzle, the fabric padding within fogging oppressively with its heat, his shoulders slowly falling as his chest depletes.
He has picked himself up as well as he can, despite his position. His back is as straight as he can make it with his arms pulled around the back of his stiff chair, held in place by chains he cannot see. The rolled cuffs of his sleeves chafe uncomfortably around its firm corners, press gentle bruises into his thickly muscled forearms.
Godfrey pays none of it any mind. He barely gives Gale a satisfactory reaction, nor any sort of welcome.
He stares balefully from his seat, and he does exactly what he was prepared to do.
He is older than when Gale last saw him, but not by much. What changes there are seem to be wrought by experience more than time, and he knows he has to be for blame for much of that. He had thought to keep up with him, to look in from afar, but inevitably decided that to do so was too dangerous for all parties involved, an invitation for distaster— the last he had heard was that the man had left the church.
That had definitely been his fault.
He clears his throat as he averts his gaze, Godfrey's cold and baleful stare like a knife between his ribs, and fumbles to pull his phone from his pocket, mumbling under his breath.]
Who authorized this? There must be some mistake.
[He was meant to be interrogating a hunter. There was nothing about the Godfrey he remembered that made Gale believe him capable of what things a hunter must do.]
It was before he could see the shapes moving in the dark waters beneath him when Tertiary Gwilym had learned what happens when one indulges the Cainites in conversation. Conversation was where they truly made their sallow homes. It's where they thrive; where they can twist word and thought, hunt out ambiguity. Manipulate a man to their will. They would have seen him crawling the floors of this chantry like a beast - and they very nearly had.
Never again. This is the promise Godfrey had made to himself when first he stepped consciously into this world of shadow, as he first wrapped his hand around the handle of a gun. Never again would he dance on a leash for vampires. And never again would anyone else, so long as he had his say in the matter.
Never again he had said then, and never again he says now.
Let him check. Let him see it in undeniable stone, what has become of him. Let the truth speak for itself, that Gale may not twist it to some other end.
Godfrey watches, and remains silent. ]
Edited (accidentally some words....) 2024-05-02 20:56 (UTC)
[Nothing that he sees makes the picture any clearer— but knowing precisely who had direct him here, a distinct feeling of dread settles within him.
Mystra had known precisely what she was doing.
His expression remains carefully schooled when he looks back to the man bound across the room, an unpleasant twisting in his gut that he doesn't allow to show on his face just yet. Had he still been human, it would have been harder; he hadn't been one to veil his emotions back then, but time has changed that, as it has so many other things, but even now— despite the demands made of him, he is hardly made of stone.]
You're not supposed to be here.
[The statement is short, clipped, a muted note of distress barely concealed in his voice.]
Yes. [ Gale has barely stopped talking before Godfrey asserts himself, his voice only just loud enough to overcome the muzzle pressed against his face. ] I am.
[ Some hardened and unkind part of him had thought he would relish in this. That he would drink deep to see Gale learn what had become of him - to know that he would not again be so easily bent around his finger and to his will. Godfrey had sat in the silence of this room and thought he would relish watching the tide turn behind his eyes, the indignation, the anger that he had now been pulled beyond his reach.
He doesn't see the petulance that he's come to expect from the Cainites, the petty and quibbling urge to possess things. And what he does see gives him little gratification.
[The mask slips as Gale snaps, slamming a hand against the table in time with the word before he pinches at the bridge of his nose just below where his glasses rest, collecting himself.
He cannot let his emotions get the better of him. Not now, when the situation is rapidly becoming so much more complicated with each passing moment.
He did not love interrogations under the best of circumstances. These were far from ideal, to say the very least.]
I specifically wanted to put as much space between you and my kind as possible!
[He lets out a needless breath, a frustrated habit that even well over a century among the Kindred has still not robbed him of. He looks sharply towards Godfrey, his gaze sharp, though there's a thinly-veiled edge of desperation to his voice.]
No. You are not a hunter— you cannot be.
[It's a misunderstanding. It must be, there must be some other reason for this man to be carrying a veritable arsenal—
No, even Gale was not fool enough to convince himself of that. His unbeating heart sinks.]
[ Forgive him if he wears just what he thinks of Gale's method of leaving "as much space" between Godfrey and vampires as possible on his face.
Laughable on its face. Gale had done no such thing. The both of them knew it. The space left between the two of them had been something which never gave him a moment's peace. How it was ever closed, and how he had never known, and all of the things that Gale had done to cultivate his foolish cluelessness had danced in Godfrey's thoughts every night that had passed since the Society had first approached him. He found fresh agonies each time he revisited the distance that Gale now claimed to so painstakingly maintain.
Gale thinks him that same foolish child, clearly. He thinks him pliable and stupid, a harmless lamb. He hadn't expected a lion to understand the power a lamb could hold, of course - but this flagrant patronization makes his hands pull tight behind him. Gale could truly not imagine him as anything but a fool to be toyed with - never something that could stand on its own two feet, taller and brighter than he ever had.
Another slow, seething exhale. ]
Your broodmates confiscated my rucksack. It's made of rugged black leather.
[ Perhaps this would convince him, if he could look past the name on his fake ID. ]
You usurpers seem an organized sort. [ And yes, that edge is placed with intent - sharpened into the title, so that Gale might see that he is no clueless child any longer, that he has now seen more than his share of nights and forbidden literature. ] Surely it is stored somewhere nearby, and surely you have access to it. Find it. Tell me what is inside.
[That face speaks volumes. The man across from him has the shape of Godfrey, but there is nothing of the man he remembers in those eyes. For good reason, of course; they were hardly here to chat about the weather, and the fact that Godfrey was here at all...
His people had felt threatened by him when he was a young priest with little inkling of who truly ran the city. Now, he was changed. Weaponized.
He doesn't need to see the inside of Godfrey's pack to know the truth.]
I believe you.
[The words are terse, but ring reluctantly true. His gaze hardens once more as that word slices through the air, and Gale cannot help the faint sneer that threatens to curl his lip upwards.]
You've certainly done your homework. You always did like to read.
[ He would have neutralized this contempt all those years ago; poured something into the very base of his chest to take away its bite. Reminder after reminder paraded into that bubbling cauldron until it calmed - reminders to check himself, to reconsider, to be kind. The picture of his distress would reappear in his mind's eye, and Godfrey would have believed it to be genuine. Temper yourself, Godfrey. Bitterness would be no victory; it would only beget more unhappiness. Be kind.
Not here.
Instead, Godfrey asks himself how long his mind was not his own. He tries to count how many times Gale must have capitalized on that very softness to keep him in line and runs out of fingers. He cannot neutralize it. Its boiling begin to overtake his ribs. His face grows hot beneath the muzzle as Godfrey's head cants, sharply, dropping toward one shoulder. ]
Just so. [ He feels his voice's calm tone broken, rising in his throat - something unfamiliar, as though the anger and indignity had no choice but to surge beneath it. ] Astonishing, the things one may learn when they are not being blindfolded.
[To hear such rage in the other man's voice is uncomfortably foreign, and Gale does not blame him for a moment.
He had expected Godfrey to hate him. To be furious, devastated. To be heartbroken, just as Gale himself had been heartbroken— but if Godfrey had remained safe, away from this world, it would have been enough. He could have weathered the hate then— could have weathered anything. He had already been punished for his failures by those above his rank, already had the intense disappointment of his master made known to him at length, but even all of that, he had been able to bear without flinching, believing that Godfrey would be able to live, no longer of interest to his clan.
How very wrong he had been. He was alive, yes, but far from safe— and no longer himself.
Gale's hands threaten to shake as he slips his phone back into his jacket pocket, but he manages to steady himself for the moment, leveling his gaze on the hunter before him.]
I expect you were thorough. [Of course he was.] I'm sure that by now, you know why I could not tell you the truth of what I was.
[The Masquerade— but gods, he has wanted to. He had planned to. If he'd had it his way, they would have put the city behind them and lived an entirely different life.]
[ Honestly, he's surprised that Gale even realizes he could read.
Godfrey would say as much. He feels the urge rise giddily in him - the urge to grab any sharp word he could point at him. He would tell him all that he had ruined. He would recount in agonizing detail the therapy sessions, the dead marriage, the long nights of pained twisting in his gut as the stain on his integrity weighed on him. The dawning horror which accompanied the predation he'd endured, rearing in his thoughts with the slow dread of a cold tide. Each new piece of learning a new stone in his gut, each step in his journey a fresh horror clawing at his back. The convictions. The smooth, clean room, where he was granted the honour of a few hours with his stepchild and an appointed worker every week.
He would have fashioned them all into a cat and beat him with it. He would have turned each bubbling stream of anger into a new leather tail.
If only he could.
But his anger is not the only factor in this conversation. Whatever he divulged would wind up in the ears of the Tremere, and Godfrey would not afford him the satisfaction of compromising himself and the Society for his own gratification. Their past hardly mattered; he knows what Gale is. It's high time Godfrey began to treat him accordingly.
He lifts his head, eyes flattening, and he stares at Gale for a moment. ]
By now, I know a great many things that I once did not.
[ He can surely imagine what those things might be without Godfrey's help. ]
Edited 2024-05-10 00:35 (UTC)
this is our vampire mash-up I do what I want with magic
[He most certainly can. He meets Godfrey's gaze for several moments that seem to take an eternity, by his count, and those eyes pierce through him as surely as any weapon could.]
Yes, I imagine you do.
[There is a weariness that threatens to overcome his voice, but he manages to keep it in check for a few moments longer, long enough to turn his back to his clan's captive and to pull the door open to speak to the guard waiting outside— thankfully, he is able to keep his voice even for the duration, and Godfrey will easily be able to overhear his informing whoever is waiting that he'll be needing 'quite some time' and to leave him to his work without straining.
The door clicks shut once more, and the vampire locks it from the inside before taking a step back and raising a hand to trace a sigil in the air before him that shimmers briefly before it expands outwards, dissipating into brightly colored energy that vanishes as it touches the walls of the room itself.]
No one will be able to hear us, now.
[He turns back towards the table and at last moves forward, setting the portfolio he'd been carrying on its surface before he leans forward and rests a hand against it. What little composure he'd had left is fraying quickly; the whites of his eyes show as his shoulders sag and his expression becomes one of pain, distress as he unravels.]
You are not meant to be here! I can hardly begrudge you wanting to harm me, but I did everything, everything within my power to ensure that the Tremere clan lost interest in you! To keep you safe!
[ Godfrey releases a breath he hadn't known was held when Gale finally turns away from him and opens that door. Foolishly, he had thought him deterred for the moment - that he might have a moment's reprieve from this creature, this shadow from his past. Godfrey bows his head, the chin of his muzzle touching his chest and the strap straining against the back of his head, and continues murmuring his prayer.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them, and may they rest in peace fogs against the oppressive padding pressing in against his lips. He pulls his thick arms against their restraints. The blood-witchery had begun edging back into the room over the course of their conversation. He would push it back again.
Would have; the door clicks shut again, the lock slides into place, and Gale's back is still waiting for him when he opens his eyes. His voice falls quiet.
Tertiary Gwilym lets him have his sorcery for the time being. Godfrey watches the magic rite in silence, and receives him much the same. Godfrey watches him through champagne-gold strands, face still turned down in genuflection. Eyes upturned in restrained, understated anger. ]
I'm sure you believe that.
[ Perhaps it was even true, to the sick extent that everything else about them had been.
Clan Tremere certainly had far less reason to take interest in him when Godfrey vacated the priesthood. ]
[Surely, Gale deserved that response. Worse than. He drops his gaze, his chest growing suddenly tight in a way he hasn't felt in years, and he curls his fingers under, white-knuckled.]
My options were few. I do, however, know better than to expect you to believe me.
[He lifts his eyes to meet Godfrey's once more, holding his gaze steady before he lets out a sigh and draws back to his full height, proceeding to circle around the table to where Godfrey remains bound. There's a light tug at the straps of his muzzle as he works at its fastening, clenching his jaw.]
Regardless, we'll not talk while you still have this on.
[Ridiculous— though he knows precisely what his kin fear might spill from Godfrey's lips. The straps of the muzzle fall away and he pulls it free, the brush of the man's pale hair against his fingers hauntingly, achingly familiar.
There were few nights since their last meeting that he hadn't thought about Godfrey, but never like this.]
[ There was a time when he hungered to feel his touch against the very rim of his ear - just where he heard it, nearly more than felt. He once thought there would be a lifetime of it.
Godfrey stiffens against the warm shiver running down his spine, spreading into the hollows of his shoulders. His jaw pulls tight. Never again. Gale had already found this crack once before - he wouldn't manipulate him so easily again. It's healed now - and it's much easier to feel him trying to nose into a bruise than it was to slip into that crack, to worm his way beneath his skin seamlessly. Like a parasite. Never again. He couldn't do it again.
The buckle at the base of his skull flops against the back of his neck, jingles faintly. His tied hair flaps over the strap as it's pulled from his head, the cool air plush against his face. Godfrey's shoulders rise with a reflexive, immediate breath of fresh air. Though he tries to hide it, he hardly needs to give away to Gale just what a relief he's provided; the padding is thick and unrelenting within the shell of the muzzle, damp and hot with condensed breath and prayer.
It even shows on his face. The muzzle has left faint, blushing red pits on his skin; running across each cheekbone, turning straight into his blond hair, cutting two parallel ditches around each side of his noble nose. Flaring at his nostrils, irritated by the chafing movement of his stream of prayer.
Godfrey watches him in silence, exhaling his first unrestricted breath. And he says nothing.
Perhaps Gale wouldn't speak while he had that thing on.
[Even silence is, perhaps, better than he had expected. That Godfrey does not immediately onslaught him with prayer, does not continue to pray with renewed vigor— once again, likely better than he deserves. His gaze flicks downwards towards the arcane restraints that bind the man's wrists. If he's as dangerous as his superiors had feared, then those will not hold him for long. It is painfully difficult for him to resolve the memory of the Godfrey he had known with the image of a hunter, of what he had come to expect from their enemies.
Difficult, but he knows that his own actions played no small part in bringing him to this point.
It has been a decade, and yet he still has to force himself to pull away, to move towards the other side of the room with deliberate, purposeful steps. Were he faced with anyone else, he would have taken the opportunity to reinforce the restraints. As it stands, he leaves them as they are, turning sharply to grab hold of the chair opposite Godfrey's with an unsteady hand before he sinks into his seat, steepling his fingers in front of himself and leaning forward to rest his forehead against them for a moment before he looks up again, peering just over his fingertips. He had been pale upon entry— he is even paler now, forced by a tumultuous cocktail of emotions he cannot even begin to separate from one another.]
An apology would mean nothing at this juncture. Worthless. Even if it were not, this is neither the time, nor the place.
[He sees that resolve in the other man's expression, the anger that has had so many years to build and fester, and he knows anything he says is likely to fall on deaf ears.
No words could possibly be enough, but he talks regardless. It is all he knows how to do, at least in this moment. The idea of doing his job as directed seems anathema, now.]
... they did not tell me it would be you I found here. I imagine someone is currently having quite a laugh at our expense.
[He would bet the entirety of his personal library that this is entertainment for someone else. For him, it is meant to be punishment. There is no doubt in his mind.]
Heartening though it is to hear Gale acknowledge this fact, he will not grant him the satisfaction of hearing Godfrey agree aloud with him. If all of these grand showings of remorse were genuine, then Godfrey needs to do nothing to affirm his position - he knows his failings already.
This is not what Godfrey thinks he sees. Kindred are not a creature prone to debasing themselves in such shameless shows of self-flagellation, and nor are they a creature particularly disposed to any action which does not have some calculated benefit to themselves. Gale's purpose in encasing his wrongdoing in glass isn't fueled by a genuine sense of guilt; he's already learned what devastating consequence wrought by applying a mortal framing to a kindred subject. This is manipulation. Gale anticipates that Godfrey will ascribe warm blood and see blushing life where there is none.
He anticipates wrongly.
Godfrey stares flatly at Gale and his deathly pallor. ]
The distinction is meaningless to me.
[ There he goes again, showing where his lifeless allegiances truly lie; his pride has been bruised by this fresh embarrassment some other vampire has inflicted upon him. His thoughts turn to the eternal machinations of the vampiric court.
Godfrey cares little for what petty corpse set him up for this shallow fall. ]
[If only it were as simple and laughable as embarrassment. One by one, the pieces are sliding into place— Mystra had known, she'd always known, that he had gone astray during that particular mission, but he has never been able to be certain of exactly how much she knew. She certainly would never say— but the fact that he has been sent here to deal with their newest 'acquisition' makes his stomach roil, and he knows shock will give way to anger once he's had time to collect himself.
What he will do about that remains to be seen. What is there to be done?]
You must have questions.
[Many, he assumes, that Godfrey has already decided upon his own answers for. Gale could hardly blame him for that, given how swiftly he had vanished.]
If not questions, then surely a host of unkind words that even I agree would be well-deserved. The room is yours, should you wish it.
[He lowers his hands, and as the initial shock has faded, he only appears wearied, his gaze heavy and still startlingly human despite his pallor.]
[ That he does, unkind words and severe questions both.
None burn more hotly in his brain than the incredulous demand to know by what right Gale thinks he can offer him anything.
Godfrey makes no effort to hide his distaste; his knotted brow pulls just a little tighter, his shoulders fall in a slow and silent exhalation, something distasteful twisting his mouth into a brief ripple of a frown. Biceps swell in his sleeves as his hands pull into cutting fists behind his back. You must have questions - as though Gale had left him with anything else. As if this empty room to scream in were a grand gift to Godfrey, some final and redemptive gesture of love from a reticent adulterer. As though they could reflect away what Gale had done.
Questions without answer were all he'd had for the better part of these ten years. He'd abandoned his life and all he had ever loved for questions he could not answer, for ashes in his mouth and a man who had only ever sought his ruination. Each breath heaves his shoulders, hollows his collarbones. There was no answer Gale could provide to him that Godfrey had not already sought - but predictably, Gale cannot help himself. He must find some pedestal to stand on, even now, even if he must invent one.
He ought maintain his silence, of course. But he feels that heat setting in against the back of his eyes, and he feels the distance between himself and his own advice grow further and further. The words drop from him like stones. ]
He could have meant any number of things, Gale knows. How many mortals had he been entangled with? How many had he preyed on?
How many times had he lied to him?
He clenches his jaw, his gaze flicking downwards for a brief moment.]
What do you mean?
[There's no feigning innocence, no coyness in his voice. He fully intends to answer, should Godfrey clarify— he owes him so much more than that, but in this moment, honest answers are all he can possibly offer. Even then, they are worth little.]
[ He might actually have believed this performance, had Godfrey not known any better.
But he does. Even if he has to remind himself he knows better - he does know better. Even as it boils him alive to think of how alike this is to the man he'd been tricked into knowing-- the chair groans beneath his weight as it pitches forward, the firm corners of the chair's backboard digging bruises into his strong arms. ]
You know what I ask you.
[ These words do not drop from him, for they are not stones. They seethe from him. They are something sizzling, the squealing crunch of frost forming on glass. Acid boiling from some cold and deep part of his chest through a tight-clenched jaw.
Pathetic, the way Gale cannot put to rest this act to afford even a moment of respect. That he must march this costumery of humankind before him even now, as he taunts him with this moment of recompense. Just as everything was in kindred society - something for a price. He would have his answers when he walked the two of them through his disgracing, step by agonizing step.
Pathetic also that Godfrey feels his feet carry him down this wretched path before he can stop himself. ]
How many times did I taste my own blood on your tongue?
[There is a moment where true surprise flickers across Gale's face before it hardens into something more stern, something raw and angry as he curls his fingers into a fist against the table, his knuckles paling to become whiter still.
He had done many things, terrible things, and he would own them— but there were some things he had never dared to so much as dream, lines he had not let himself cross. Not with Godfrey.]
I never fed on you.
[Though he cannot expect Godfrey to believe him— and why should he?— he answers with vehemence, conviction.]
Not once. I am not proud of my actions, but that line, I never crossed.
This is a question Godfrey has never thought to ask himself before this very moment - before Gale had taken a seat across that table, pale and drained at the mere sight of him, and tried to put a band-aid on the sucking bullet wound he'd left him with.
Is there any answer that would not have left him feeling hollow? Could he have said anything that would have alleviated the pain, even a little?
Godfrey stares at him. He studies his face, the conviction with which he gives an answer that, reasonably, he knows should provide some measure of relief. It is hardly a cure for the years of pain, of loneliness, of doubt and terror and slow-dawning victimhood echoing in his chest, emptied and pitted. But it should be a balm, something to lift a small sliver of pain from him.
He stares at him, and he feels nothing. There is no relief from the slow rise in temperature at the back of his neck, the liquid heat welling behind his eyes. ]
I suppose that I'm meant to simply take the word of the man who can change my thoughts and memories at will.
[ The thin, tiny tremor in his throat, even as he fights to keep it stiff. ]
[There's a hard edge to Gale's words, even as he damns himself. He knows far better than to expect Godfrey to believe him— he'd given the man absolutely no reason to trust him, and their current situation did not exactly lend itself well to him earning it back. Truthfully, he'd never even considered that he might have the opportunity.
He had thought that bridge burned forever. It was meant to be. His hope had been for Godfrey to live a life untouched by the world Gale himself had no choice but to live in.
Clearly, that hope had been in vain.]
I know what I did. I've no interest in making excuses for myself.
[He had changed Godfrey's memories. Not much— but it had been selfish of him. Most of what had transpired between them had been, he supposed.
He should have vanished the moment he'd realized what was building between them, but if he had, the clan would have simply sent someone else after Godfrey, someone who might have taken a far more hands-on approach with their given task.]
I don't care what you think of me now— you should hate me, after everything, but I do care that you're here when I had hoped to keep you as far away from this place as bloody possible.
[ Of course he doesn't care what Godfrey thinks of him. Had he ever? What reason had the kindred to care what their cattle thought of them?
But this was the way of this undead scourge. The aesthetics of caring without commitment. Not even he had it in his cold heart to be moved by one beneath him; even if they could muster up such feelings, certainly their pride would not allow kine to be its source.
Which really only made this conversation a more thorough waste of everybody's time. It mattered very little what words he found. He would never find the magical combination that would make Gale care. He hadn't any left in him.
He feels his blood boil as he watches him, retracting that hollow aesthetic he'd extended in a fit as soon as Godfrey disbelieves him for it. The artifice in him, the mockery he makes as he tries to emulate what he once has - it's almost saddening. It may have been, were he looking at anybody else.
Not from him, though. Godfrey's head hangs low, his eyes bright and furious behind golden strands. ]
I can see your predicament. You had no problem leashing and collaring me when I was soft and pliable. You even taught me tricks.
[ The disgust on that word, tricks, is palpable. He hopes he knows just what he means. All that closeness, all the unguarded skinship Gale had been perfectly comfortable with, back when he had the promise of a good dog.
Godfrey leans forward again, straining against the groaning back of his chair, and pitches his voice low; ]
You'll have a harder time now that I know the power I have held.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He has picked himself up as well as he can, despite his position. His back is as straight as he can make it with his arms pulled around the back of his stiff chair, held in place by chains he cannot see. The rolled cuffs of his sleeves chafe uncomfortably around its firm corners, press gentle bruises into his thickly muscled forearms.
Godfrey pays none of it any mind. He barely gives Gale a satisfactory reaction, nor any sort of welcome.
He stares balefully from his seat, and he does exactly what he was prepared to do.
He says nothing. ]
no subject
He is older than when Gale last saw him, but not by much. What changes there are seem to be wrought by experience more than time, and he knows he has to be for blame for much of that. He had thought to keep up with him, to look in from afar, but inevitably decided that to do so was too dangerous for all parties involved, an invitation for distaster— the last he had heard was that the man had left the church.
That had definitely been his fault.
He clears his throat as he averts his gaze, Godfrey's cold and baleful stare like a knife between his ribs, and fumbles to pull his phone from his pocket, mumbling under his breath.]
Who authorized this? There must be some mistake.
[He was meant to be interrogating a hunter. There was nothing about the Godfrey he remembered that made Gale believe him capable of what things a hunter must do.]
no subject
It was before he could see the shapes moving in the dark waters beneath him when Tertiary Gwilym had learned what happens when one indulges the Cainites in conversation. Conversation was where they truly made their sallow homes. It's where they thrive; where they can twist word and thought, hunt out ambiguity. Manipulate a man to their will. They would have seen him crawling the floors of this chantry like a beast - and they very nearly had.
Never again. This is the promise Godfrey had made to himself when first he stepped consciously into this world of shadow, as he first wrapped his hand around the handle of a gun. Never again would he dance on a leash for vampires. And never again would anyone else, so long as he had his say in the matter.
Never again he had said then, and never again he says now.
Let him check. Let him see it in undeniable stone, what has become of him. Let the truth speak for itself, that Gale may not twist it to some other end.
Godfrey watches, and remains silent. ]
no subject
Mystra had known precisely what she was doing.
His expression remains carefully schooled when he looks back to the man bound across the room, an unpleasant twisting in his gut that he doesn't allow to show on his face just yet. Had he still been human, it would have been harder; he hadn't been one to veil his emotions back then, but time has changed that, as it has so many other things, but even now— despite the demands made of him, he is hardly made of stone.]
You're not supposed to be here.
[The statement is short, clipped, a muted note of distress barely concealed in his voice.]
Godfrey. You're not supposed to be here!
no subject
[ Some hardened and unkind part of him had thought he would relish in this. That he would drink deep to see Gale learn what had become of him - to know that he would not again be so easily bent around his finger and to his will. Godfrey had sat in the silence of this room and thought he would relish watching the tide turn behind his eyes, the indignation, the anger that he had now been pulled beyond his reach.
He doesn't see the petulance that he's come to expect from the Cainites, the petty and quibbling urge to possess things. And what he does see gives him little gratification.
His chest feels hollow as he speaks again; ]
You've a job to do.
no subject
[The mask slips as Gale snaps, slamming a hand against the table in time with the word before he pinches at the bridge of his nose just below where his glasses rest, collecting himself.
He cannot let his emotions get the better of him. Not now, when the situation is rapidly becoming so much more complicated with each passing moment.
He did not love interrogations under the best of circumstances. These were far from ideal, to say the very least.]
I specifically wanted to put as much space between you and my kind as possible!
[He lets out a needless breath, a frustrated habit that even well over a century among the Kindred has still not robbed him of. He looks sharply towards Godfrey, his gaze sharp, though there's a thinly-veiled edge of desperation to his voice.]
No. You are not a hunter— you cannot be.
[It's a misunderstanding. It must be, there must be some other reason for this man to be carrying a veritable arsenal—
No, even Gale was not fool enough to convince himself of that. His unbeating heart sinks.]
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Laughable on its face. Gale had done no such thing. The both of them knew it. The space left between the two of them had been something which never gave him a moment's peace. How it was ever closed, and how he had never known, and all of the things that Gale had done to cultivate his foolish cluelessness had danced in Godfrey's thoughts every night that had passed since the Society had first approached him. He found fresh agonies each time he revisited the distance that Gale now claimed to so painstakingly maintain.
Gale thinks him that same foolish child, clearly. He thinks him pliable and stupid, a harmless lamb. He hadn't expected a lion to understand the power a lamb could hold, of course - but this flagrant patronization makes his hands pull tight behind him. Gale could truly not imagine him as anything but a fool to be toyed with - never something that could stand on its own two feet, taller and brighter than he ever had.
Another slow, seething exhale. ]
Your broodmates confiscated my rucksack. It's made of rugged black leather.
[ Perhaps this would convince him, if he could look past the name on his fake ID. ]
You usurpers seem an organized sort. [ And yes, that edge is placed with intent - sharpened into the title, so that Gale might see that he is no clueless child any longer, that he has now seen more than his share of nights and forbidden literature. ] Surely it is stored somewhere nearby, and surely you have access to it. Find it. Tell me what is inside.
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His people had felt threatened by him when he was a young priest with little inkling of who truly ran the city. Now, he was changed. Weaponized.
He doesn't need to see the inside of Godfrey's pack to know the truth.]
I believe you.
[The words are terse, but ring reluctantly true. His gaze hardens once more as that word slices through the air, and Gale cannot help the faint sneer that threatens to curl his lip upwards.]
You've certainly done your homework. You always did like to read.
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Not here.
Instead, Godfrey asks himself how long his mind was not his own. He tries to count how many times Gale must have capitalized on that very softness to keep him in line and runs out of fingers. He cannot neutralize it. Its boiling begin to overtake his ribs. His face grows hot beneath the muzzle as Godfrey's head cants, sharply, dropping toward one shoulder. ]
Just so. [ He feels his voice's calm tone broken, rising in his throat - something unfamiliar, as though the anger and indignity had no choice but to surge beneath it. ] Astonishing, the things one may learn when they are not being blindfolded.
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He had expected Godfrey to hate him. To be furious, devastated. To be heartbroken, just as Gale himself had been heartbroken— but if Godfrey had remained safe, away from this world, it would have been enough. He could have weathered the hate then— could have weathered anything. He had already been punished for his failures by those above his rank, already had the intense disappointment of his master made known to him at length, but even all of that, he had been able to bear without flinching, believing that Godfrey would be able to live, no longer of interest to his clan.
How very wrong he had been. He was alive, yes, but far from safe— and no longer himself.
Gale's hands threaten to shake as he slips his phone back into his jacket pocket, but he manages to steady himself for the moment, leveling his gaze on the hunter before him.]
I expect you were thorough. [Of course he was.] I'm sure that by now, you know why I could not tell you the truth of what I was.
[The Masquerade— but gods, he has wanted to. He had planned to. If he'd had it his way, they would have put the city behind them and lived an entirely different life.]
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Godfrey would say as much. He feels the urge rise giddily in him - the urge to grab any sharp word he could point at him. He would tell him all that he had ruined. He would recount in agonizing detail the therapy sessions, the dead marriage, the long nights of pained twisting in his gut as the stain on his integrity weighed on him. The dawning horror which accompanied the predation he'd endured, rearing in his thoughts with the slow dread of a cold tide. Each new piece of learning a new stone in his gut, each step in his journey a fresh horror clawing at his back. The convictions. The smooth, clean room, where he was granted the honour of a few hours with his stepchild and an appointed worker every week.
He would have fashioned them all into a cat and beat him with it. He would have turned each bubbling stream of anger into a new leather tail.
If only he could.
But his anger is not the only factor in this conversation. Whatever he divulged would wind up in the ears of the Tremere, and Godfrey would not afford him the satisfaction of compromising himself and the Society for his own gratification. Their past hardly mattered; he knows what Gale is. It's high time Godfrey began to treat him accordingly.
He lifts his head, eyes flattening, and he stares at Gale for a moment. ]
By now, I know a great many things that I once did not.
[ He can surely imagine what those things might be without Godfrey's help. ]
this is our vampire mash-up I do what I want with magic
Yes, I imagine you do.
[There is a weariness that threatens to overcome his voice, but he manages to keep it in check for a few moments longer, long enough to turn his back to his clan's captive and to pull the door open to speak to the guard waiting outside— thankfully, he is able to keep his voice even for the duration, and Godfrey will easily be able to overhear his informing whoever is waiting that he'll be needing 'quite some time' and to leave him to his work without straining.
The door clicks shut once more, and the vampire locks it from the inside before taking a step back and raising a hand to trace a sigil in the air before him that shimmers briefly before it expands outwards, dissipating into brightly colored energy that vanishes as it touches the walls of the room itself.]
No one will be able to hear us, now.
[He turns back towards the table and at last moves forward, setting the portfolio he'd been carrying on its surface before he leans forward and rests a hand against it. What little composure he'd had left is fraying quickly; the whites of his eyes show as his shoulders sag and his expression becomes one of pain, distress as he unravels.]
You are not meant to be here! I can hardly begrudge you wanting to harm me, but I did everything, everything within my power to ensure that the Tremere clan lost interest in you! To keep you safe!
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Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them, and may they rest in peace fogs against the oppressive padding pressing in against his lips. He pulls his thick arms against their restraints. The blood-witchery had begun edging back into the room over the course of their conversation. He would push it back again.
Would have; the door clicks shut again, the lock slides into place, and Gale's back is still waiting for him when he opens his eyes. His voice falls quiet.
Tertiary Gwilym lets him have his sorcery for the time being. Godfrey watches the magic rite in silence, and receives him much the same. Godfrey watches him through champagne-gold strands, face still turned down in genuflection. Eyes upturned in restrained, understated anger. ]
I'm sure you believe that.
[ Perhaps it was even true, to the sick extent that everything else about them had been.
Clan Tremere certainly had far less reason to take interest in him when Godfrey vacated the priesthood. ]
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My options were few. I do, however, know better than to expect you to believe me.
[He lifts his eyes to meet Godfrey's once more, holding his gaze steady before he lets out a sigh and draws back to his full height, proceeding to circle around the table to where Godfrey remains bound. There's a light tug at the straps of his muzzle as he works at its fastening, clenching his jaw.]
Regardless, we'll not talk while you still have this on.
[Ridiculous— though he knows precisely what his kin fear might spill from Godfrey's lips. The straps of the muzzle fall away and he pulls it free, the brush of the man's pale hair against his fingers hauntingly, achingly familiar.
There were few nights since their last meeting that he hadn't thought about Godfrey, but never like this.]
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Godfrey stiffens against the warm shiver running down his spine, spreading into the hollows of his shoulders. His jaw pulls tight. Never again. Gale had already found this crack once before - he wouldn't manipulate him so easily again. It's healed now - and it's much easier to feel him trying to nose into a bruise than it was to slip into that crack, to worm his way beneath his skin seamlessly. Like a parasite. Never again. He couldn't do it again.
The buckle at the base of his skull flops against the back of his neck, jingles faintly. His tied hair flaps over the strap as it's pulled from his head, the cool air plush against his face. Godfrey's shoulders rise with a reflexive, immediate breath of fresh air. Though he tries to hide it, he hardly needs to give away to Gale just what a relief he's provided; the padding is thick and unrelenting within the shell of the muzzle, damp and hot with condensed breath and prayer.
It even shows on his face. The muzzle has left faint, blushing red pits on his skin; running across each cheekbone, turning straight into his blond hair, cutting two parallel ditches around each side of his noble nose. Flaring at his nostrils, irritated by the chafing movement of his stream of prayer.
Godfrey watches him in silence, exhaling his first unrestricted breath. And he says nothing.
Perhaps Gale wouldn't speak while he had that thing on.
Godfrey resolves not to speak regardless. ]
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Difficult, but he knows that his own actions played no small part in bringing him to this point.
It has been a decade, and yet he still has to force himself to pull away, to move towards the other side of the room with deliberate, purposeful steps. Were he faced with anyone else, he would have taken the opportunity to reinforce the restraints. As it stands, he leaves them as they are, turning sharply to grab hold of the chair opposite Godfrey's with an unsteady hand before he sinks into his seat, steepling his fingers in front of himself and leaning forward to rest his forehead against them for a moment before he looks up again, peering just over his fingertips. He had been pale upon entry— he is even paler now, forced by a tumultuous cocktail of emotions he cannot even begin to separate from one another.]
An apology would mean nothing at this juncture. Worthless. Even if it were not, this is neither the time, nor the place.
[He sees that resolve in the other man's expression, the anger that has had so many years to build and fester, and he knows anything he says is likely to fall on deaf ears.
No words could possibly be enough, but he talks regardless. It is all he knows how to do, at least in this moment. The idea of doing his job as directed seems anathema, now.]
... they did not tell me it would be you I found here. I imagine someone is currently having quite a laugh at our expense.
[He would bet the entirety of his personal library that this is entertainment for someone else. For him, it is meant to be punishment. There is no doubt in his mind.]
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Heartening though it is to hear Gale acknowledge this fact, he will not grant him the satisfaction of hearing Godfrey agree aloud with him. If all of these grand showings of remorse were genuine, then Godfrey needs to do nothing to affirm his position - he knows his failings already.
This is not what Godfrey thinks he sees. Kindred are not a creature prone to debasing themselves in such shameless shows of self-flagellation, and nor are they a creature particularly disposed to any action which does not have some calculated benefit to themselves. Gale's purpose in encasing his wrongdoing in glass isn't fueled by a genuine sense of guilt; he's already learned what devastating consequence wrought by applying a mortal framing to a kindred subject. This is manipulation. Gale anticipates that Godfrey will ascribe warm blood and see blushing life where there is none.
He anticipates wrongly.
Godfrey stares flatly at Gale and his deathly pallor. ]
The distinction is meaningless to me.
[ There he goes again, showing where his lifeless allegiances truly lie; his pride has been bruised by this fresh embarrassment some other vampire has inflicted upon him. His thoughts turn to the eternal machinations of the vampiric court.
Godfrey cares little for what petty corpse set him up for this shallow fall. ]
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[If only it were as simple and laughable as embarrassment. One by one, the pieces are sliding into place— Mystra had known, she'd always known, that he had gone astray during that particular mission, but he has never been able to be certain of exactly how much she knew. She certainly would never say— but the fact that he has been sent here to deal with their newest 'acquisition' makes his stomach roil, and he knows shock will give way to anger once he's had time to collect himself.
What he will do about that remains to be seen. What is there to be done?]
You must have questions.
[Many, he assumes, that Godfrey has already decided upon his own answers for. Gale could hardly blame him for that, given how swiftly he had vanished.]
If not questions, then surely a host of unkind words that even I agree would be well-deserved. The room is yours, should you wish it.
[He lowers his hands, and as the initial shock has faded, he only appears wearied, his gaze heavy and still startlingly human despite his pallor.]
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None burn more hotly in his brain than the incredulous demand to know by what right Gale thinks he can offer him anything.
Godfrey makes no effort to hide his distaste; his knotted brow pulls just a little tighter, his shoulders fall in a slow and silent exhalation, something distasteful twisting his mouth into a brief ripple of a frown. Biceps swell in his sleeves as his hands pull into cutting fists behind his back. You must have questions - as though Gale had left him with anything else. As if this empty room to scream in were a grand gift to Godfrey, some final and redemptive gesture of love from a reticent adulterer. As though they could reflect away what Gale had done.
Questions without answer were all he'd had for the better part of these ten years. He'd abandoned his life and all he had ever loved for questions he could not answer, for ashes in his mouth and a man who had only ever sought his ruination. Each breath heaves his shoulders, hollows his collarbones. There was no answer Gale could provide to him that Godfrey had not already sought - but predictably, Gale cannot help himself. He must find some pedestal to stand on, even now, even if he must invent one.
He ought maintain his silence, of course. But he feels that heat setting in against the back of his eyes, and he feels the distance between himself and his own advice grow further and further. The words drop from him like stones. ]
How many times?
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He could have meant any number of things, Gale knows. How many mortals had he been entangled with? How many had he preyed on?
How many times had he lied to him?
He clenches his jaw, his gaze flicking downwards for a brief moment.]
What do you mean?
[There's no feigning innocence, no coyness in his voice. He fully intends to answer, should Godfrey clarify— he owes him so much more than that, but in this moment, honest answers are all he can possibly offer. Even then, they are worth little.]
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But he does. Even if he has to remind himself he knows better - he does know better. Even as it boils him alive to think of how alike this is to the man he'd been tricked into knowing-- the chair groans beneath his weight as it pitches forward, the firm corners of the chair's backboard digging bruises into his strong arms. ]
You know what I ask you.
[ These words do not drop from him, for they are not stones. They seethe from him. They are something sizzling, the squealing crunch of frost forming on glass. Acid boiling from some cold and deep part of his chest through a tight-clenched jaw.
Pathetic, the way Gale cannot put to rest this act to afford even a moment of respect. That he must march this costumery of humankind before him even now, as he taunts him with this moment of recompense. Just as everything was in kindred society - something for a price. He would have his answers when he walked the two of them through his disgracing, step by agonizing step.
Pathetic also that Godfrey feels his feet carry him down this wretched path before he can stop himself. ]
How many times did I taste my own blood on your tongue?
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He had done many things, terrible things, and he would own them— but there were some things he had never dared to so much as dream, lines he had not let himself cross. Not with Godfrey.]
I never fed on you.
[Though he cannot expect Godfrey to believe him— and why should he?— he answers with vehemence, conviction.]
Not once. I am not proud of my actions, but that line, I never crossed.
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This is a question Godfrey has never thought to ask himself before this very moment - before Gale had taken a seat across that table, pale and drained at the mere sight of him, and tried to put a band-aid on the sucking bullet wound he'd left him with.
Is there any answer that would not have left him feeling hollow? Could he have said anything that would have alleviated the pain, even a little?
Godfrey stares at him. He studies his face, the conviction with which he gives an answer that, reasonably, he knows should provide some measure of relief. It is hardly a cure for the years of pain, of loneliness, of doubt and terror and slow-dawning victimhood echoing in his chest, emptied and pitted. But it should be a balm, something to lift a small sliver of pain from him.
He stares at him, and he feels nothing. There is no relief from the slow rise in temperature at the back of his neck, the liquid heat welling behind his eyes. ]
I suppose that I'm meant to simply take the word of the man who can change my thoughts and memories at will.
[ The thin, tiny tremor in his throat, even as he fights to keep it stiff. ]
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[There's a hard edge to Gale's words, even as he damns himself. He knows far better than to expect Godfrey to believe him— he'd given the man absolutely no reason to trust him, and their current situation did not exactly lend itself well to him earning it back. Truthfully, he'd never even considered that he might have the opportunity.
He had thought that bridge burned forever. It was meant to be. His hope had been for Godfrey to live a life untouched by the world Gale himself had no choice but to live in.
Clearly, that hope had been in vain.]
I know what I did. I've no interest in making excuses for myself.
[He had changed Godfrey's memories. Not much— but it had been selfish of him. Most of what had transpired between them had been, he supposed.
He should have vanished the moment he'd realized what was building between them, but if he had, the clan would have simply sent someone else after Godfrey, someone who might have taken a far more hands-on approach with their given task.]
I don't care what you think of me now— you should hate me, after everything, but I do care that you're here when I had hoped to keep you as far away from this place as bloody possible.
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[ Of course he doesn't care what Godfrey thinks of him. Had he ever? What reason had the kindred to care what their cattle thought of them?
But this was the way of this undead scourge. The aesthetics of caring without commitment. Not even he had it in his cold heart to be moved by one beneath him; even if they could muster up such feelings, certainly their pride would not allow kine to be its source.
Which really only made this conversation a more thorough waste of everybody's time. It mattered very little what words he found. He would never find the magical combination that would make Gale care. He hadn't any left in him.
He feels his blood boil as he watches him, retracting that hollow aesthetic he'd extended in a fit as soon as Godfrey disbelieves him for it. The artifice in him, the mockery he makes as he tries to emulate what he once has - it's almost saddening. It may have been, were he looking at anybody else.
Not from him, though. Godfrey's head hangs low, his eyes bright and furious behind golden strands. ]
I can see your predicament. You had no problem leashing and collaring me when I was soft and pliable. You even taught me tricks.
[ The disgust on that word, tricks, is palpable. He hopes he knows just what he means. All that closeness, all the unguarded skinship Gale had been perfectly comfortable with, back when he had the promise of a good dog.
Godfrey leans forward again, straining against the groaning back of his chair, and pitches his voice low; ]
You'll have a harder time now that I know the power I have held.
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THROWS THE LID OFF MY COFFIN
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THROWS OFF MY SHROUD ONCE MORE, 2025 the year of chris' resurrection