Marco's Heart

[peccatore]

You find yourself in a bright white, circular room. It's nearly empty; too bare, almost clinically so. But the bareness of it means that what is visible here stands out:

A podium in the center, where a familiar figure sits, head buried in his hands. Three paths running from the podium to three different spots near the edges of the room - not corners; circles don't have corners - where three doors leading seemingly nowhere stand with no regard for their complete lack of structural support.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where you are, does it? You only have to decide where to start.

Comments

[peccatore]

"Sadly... I'm not certain. If it were the real me, perhaps I would be able to help more concretely. I have known Marco for a long time. But..."

[queenamongrooks]

[She sighs]

Right, the nature of these things means there's never a simple answer.

[Mal looks at the door standing in space.]

Any guess as to what's waiting for me in there?

[peccatore]

"... Pleasant memories, for the most part." She moves to open the door. "I can accompany you."

[queenamongrooks]

If you might, I'd enjoy the company. These things can be a bit lonely without a guide.

[She waits a moment, wanting to see what exactly "pleasant memories" looks like for Marco.]

[peccatore]

"If you would please step through, then."

Agnes will follow behind her.

On the other side of the door is a cobblestone street under a cloudy night. The buildings seem relatively antiquated - definitely European. There is a delicious smell coming from one in particular; a blond man in a long coat and a hat stumbles towards it, seemingly led by his body more than by his senses.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal steps through and follows the delicious scent, brows furrowed. She thinks she knows where this is going.]

Is that really what it smells like to him?

[peccatore]

"If you can smell it, then I suppose it must be."

It probably feels at least a little strange. It's not as if it doesn't smell like blood; it's a thick, heavy, metallic scent. It just happens to be incredibly appealing at the same time, somehow.

The window on the building that the scent leads to is difficult to see through, but the sign outside labels it as an apothecary. The blond man - and Mal too, if she's keeping pace with him - step inside to find a small girl at the counter. It is obviously Agnes, albeit wearing clothes that must have been outdated even on the day this happened.

Also, she's almost definitely standing on a crate or a chair.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal makes an excited gasp.]

You were a shop keeper, what a coincidence.

Wait, Marco. Can you hear me?

[peccatore]

Marco glances at her very briefly. Apparently, the answer is yes, but he doesn't wish or need to acknowledge her right now. After all, Mal wasn't there. Though she can assert herself, if she really wishes to be here.

The Agnes at the counter regards Marco coolly.

"Wipe your feet. Stand up straight." Her eyes narrow. "... State your business."

Marco's response comes in slow, heavily accented English.

"I, I felt... I smell... Why is it this much...?"

(The Agnes closer to Mal, meanwhile, whispers to her: "Not the best first impression he could have made, to be frank.")

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal allows herself to fall into the background of the memory for now, keen to observe.]

If he was keeping the same habits he has now back then, he was likely starving.

[peccatore]

This Agnes nods. The Agnes at the counter seems to be reaching the same conclusion, scrutinizing Marco's dishevelled manner and clumsy use of the language silently until she finally says:

"Come with me."

She walks through a door at the back of the establishment, and Marco follows her. Likewise, the Agnes guiding Mal signals at her to come along as well.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal follows alongpolitely with Agnes.]

If this is going where I think it is, how grisly will it be? I don't doubt you are capable of presenting a manner of feeding that is preferable to biting in a back alley, but...

[peccatore]

"I ran a respectable establishment, even back then."

Indeed, the Agnes from the past pours blood from a bottle into a cup, then hands it to Marco, who drinks it like a man dying of thirst. He may very well have been, as Mal guessed. She sighs, but there's no sign of exasperation in the sound.

"How long?" She asks him.

"Ah..." He is visibly trying to do the math in a language he doesn't have the most solid grasp on yet. The words take longer to come to him than the numbers. "Maybe, a... cccentury... Not exactly..."

She blinks. Surely, he must have the wrong word.

[queenamongrooks]

A CENTURY?

Is that... that shouldn't be possible, right? Even vampires have to have a limit.

[Mal takes a few steps closer to examine Marco more closely.]

[peccatore]

"Since I'd turned," Marco whispers to Mal.

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal sighs in relief and puts a hand on his shoulder.]

Darling, you gave me quite the fright there.

[peccatore]

Marco smiles, despite himself. He makes no move to evade Mal's touch before the memory continues.

"A century-old vampire wandering the streets in this state..." Despite the clarification, Agnes looks no less shocked. "Do you not know how to hunt? Where is your sire?"

For his part, Marco seems less eager to answer these questions, and not because of the language barrier; he doesn't even start trying.

[queenamongrooks]

Did... did you even know your sire? I thought you had just been turned randomly and left to your own devices?

[peccatore]

The answer actually comes from the Agnes guiding Mal.

"Indeed. So I..."

The background blurs. When it coalesces into a solid shape again, Marco and Agnes are sitting at a table; he's gripping a book, staring it down intently.

"... But perhaps you don't need to see this," Agnes says, with relatively good humour. "He has told you already, I believe."

[queenamongrooks]

[She smiles sweetly at the scene, none the less.]

Mm. He has, it's nice to see in person though. What did you use to teach him?

[peccatore]

"Books."

She doesn't seem to understand the question. Meanwhile, Marco is squinting at the words on the page, apparently struggling to find a good viewing distance.

"... I must admit, perhaps I wasn't the most qualified for the position."

[queenamongrooks]

[Mal snorts at the short answer.]

I meant which books, Agnes. I was taught on Bible stories, but that hardly seems appropriate here.

Oh heavens, his glasses...

[peccatore]

"... Ah. I don't believe I had much learner-appropriate literature at the time. For the most part, I had miscellaneous contemporary works..."

Indeed, Marco and Agnes are currently finding out he needs glasses. The pair she has on hand for him doesn't suit him terribly well, but it helps; he still reads somewhat haltingly, but he's no longer squinting.

[queenamongrooks]

Hard to think he goes on to run such a large business looking at him like this.

[peccatore]

"I've told him I am proud of him. I suppose... he must remember it, if I am telling you this."

Already, this memory is fading. It seems there wasn't that much to see. Their surroundings take a little longer to solidify this time, but once they do, Marco is sitting alone at a desk in a sparsely-decorated room. It looks like he's writing a letter.

"... Ah," Agnes says. "This is... after he set out on his own again."