peccatore | Marco's Heart

Marco's Heart

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.

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Ah. It's not the blood that bothers me, specifically.

"The cost, then?"

The pain, the fear.

"... I see."

Either she doesn't know what to say to that, or she simply doesn't have a response. One way or another, a memory begins to take shape.

On the other side of the door is a cobblestone street under a cloudy night. The buildings seem relatively antiquated - definitely European, if that would mean anything to Adrien. 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.

(And it is delicious, but probably at least a little bit bizarre; it's not as if it doesn't smell like blood - it's a thick, heavy, metallic scent. It just... also happens to be incredibly appealing, somehow.)

[exhaaaales

moving along toward the smell. to agnes,] I want Marco to let himself enjoy his food. When it's given freely, he should savor it without worrying. Is there anything I can do here to . . . show him that?

Edited 2025-07-12 20:24 (UTC)

"Hm. I have wondered this myself."

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 who is obviously Marco steps 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 It is obviously Agnes, albeit wearing clothes that must have been outdated even on the day this happened.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.

"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...?"

[watching from a slight distance, curious, waiting for the conversation to continue]

Agnes seems to be 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 Adrien signals at him to come along as well. The room they take them to contains dozens and dozens of bottles filled with blood, like some kind of bar.

"I would like to reassure you," Agnes tells Adrien, "that it is ethically sourced."

[follows. then he's quiet for. like. a significant amount of time, observing, until:] . . . I'd like to have some.

[from what he knows of these dreams, symbolic gestures count for something. maybe something like joining marco in a meal will make a difference. even if the idea doesn't thrill him conceptually]

Agnes's eyes go very, very wide.

"Excuse me?"

Marco believes, for whatever reason, that I'm a good person. This place is him, so blood is food. If he sees that I'd have no problem with drinking, in his place, maybe it'll help.

Agnes seems to ponder this. Despite the fact that her eyebrows are several inches higher than they were moments before Adrien's request, she apparently sees no reason to object.

"Very well."

So she pours some blood into a cup for Adrien while the Agnes of the past does the same for Marco. Poetry.

[inclining his head in thanks

he moves to stand next to marco, trying to determine if this marco can see him]

Marco gives him a decidedly nervous look. He's looking at him, even as he goes through the motions of this memory.

. . . Santé.

[and he'll raise his glass]

Marco offers a very small nod before he drinks his blood like a man dying of thirsty. That is how it went, originally.

[drinking more slowly, not a lot, but willingly]

There's a little more to this memory, but... when Marco puts his cup down, he's too curious not to ask.

"... How does it taste?"

[shrugs]

It tastes like blood. But somehow here it's pleasant enough.

"..." He nods. "I'm glad it's not... not... pleasant."

The Agnes of the past decides to nudge the memory back into place.

"How long?" She asks him.

"Ah..." Marco 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 in poorly disguised shock.

"A century-old vampire wandering the streets in this state... 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.

[adrien is also curious about those questions; he just listens]

"... I'm not actually sure what I told her anymore," Marco mumbles. "I know I haven't remembered anything about the person who turned me."

Mm. They shouldn't have abandoned you.

"I've wondered if they were clueless, too. Scared."

Oh. Maybe.

Your friend Agnes seems as though she did some of that work, though.

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peccatore - 2025-07-13 19:34 (UTC) - Expand

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