Chapter Text
Crimson ran down his hollowed cheeks, soaking into the mud at his bare feet. Owen knew he shouldn't have lost focus mid swing, but now he had to pay the price.
He had nothing. No food, no money, no home, and nothing to cover the gash on his cheek. He was dying. He knew it, everyone around him knew it, but he was too stubborn for his own good. Even as the rain soaked the handle of his splintered axe, even as his arms ached, shook, pulsed with desperation for a rest, his grip didn't falter.
Swing after swing, the steel embedded itself further into the trunk of the sickly tree. The lucky shit. Didn't get ostracised for something it couldn't help, it was still useful as the rest of the trees. So what if it was sick? So what if it was different? Wood was wood, why would a damn illness affect it?
It clearly did. He barely got paid, no one would take his money even if he did.
He missed the creaks, the groans, the splinters. He missed it all. He was ‘lucky’ he didn't die as he furiously swung that axe. It was the snap that brought him back, that made him jump, trip on his own feet. The branches cracked under the weight of the tree as it crashed at his feet.
He was soaked. The splash from the puddle; the drips from the rain in his unkept hair. He was a mess, he was tired, yet he kept going, hauling the log through the mud. He just had to keep going.
It was a small tree. He told himself over and over as he dragged it through the mulch of the ground back into the town; The safe walls he had helped put up, the ones he had been chased out of. He hated them, and yet he still needed them. Needed the safety, the refuge.
Doors slammed, one by one as he trudged through the squelching mud of the well used paths in the town. He wondered if anyone would ever ask the mayor about new paths, it's not like he could talk to someone so important about anything.
Louis was a kind man. He was fair, he wanted equality for the humble town of Oakhurst. But Owen wasn't deserving of comfort. Owen wasn't good enough to be seen as more than some dirt on someone's shoe. A stain to be removed. He was a liability and everyone knew it.
He walked through the town until someone took enough pity to stop and give him an offer,
"Two shillings, take it or leave it, leper." They said, the harsh tone hitting ears like a brick. Two shillings? That was barely enough for a loaf of bread! It wasn't like he had a choice, he just had to smile through it, accept the two measly coins he was given.
Buying the bread was the hardest part. No one wanted him near their food. Sherrill, she was a baker, she was ‘nice’ for Owen's standards, she let him buy the bread she was going to throw away, the burnt, stale or molding ones were the best he could get.
He was lucky today, being able to spend his earnings on a stale loaf insead of the mold he bought the week before. It was stone cold, it hurt to chew, even as the rain ate away at his meal.
It was pathetic, he had no home to seek shelter in, instead he just sat at the stump of the tree, axe by his side as his teeth ripped the bread apart. The whole thing was animalistic, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
It was a horrible noise, the loud tearing of teeth against the thing he called his meal. His eyes were clamped shut with the strain of feasting on such dry food,
"Hey, why art thou out in the rain, thou may catch cold, no?" The voice was kind, a foreign sound Owen hadn't dreamt of hearing since all the scars and his diagnosis. A pale soft hand gently outstretched. As if he was worthy of even a slither of care. He wasn't being treated like a wild animal, or something infectious, but a person.
Looking up, the man was...strange. He didn't look right, his eyes uneven, the left lower than the other. And the colour? It was hard to tell. They were red, that was for sure, but the shade? It just wasn't right. One second it would be bright, like freshly shines rubies, the next it was a bloody hue, then it would be like the roses that littered the town.
His hair too, it was snow white, but it changed. Half was short, half was long, falling over unnaturally pointed ears. The mans face was uncanny, too long to be natural, too thin. It wasn't human and it wasn't him. At least, it wasn't the Louis that Owen remembered.
What did Louis look like? White hair, red eyes. Other than that, he couldn’t recall. How had Owen been so imbecilic to have forgotten the only person who ever thought well of him? The Louis he was living for. His muse, his motivation.
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Owen’s eyes snapped open. He was cold, not unusual for a vampire such as himself. He'd gotten used to the cold embrace of death after the two centuries he'd been alone.
His eyes were drawn to a swish of red cloak, a soft smile, the white hair, the red eyes. It was almost like his beloved Louis. Almost. But the hand wasn't for him, nor was the soft smile, the kind eyes. No, he was nothing in comparison to Scott's ‘dear Avid’. What made him so special? They were both sick. They both found a cure in vampirism. Why should he deserve a loving sire?
He felt numb. Not the good kind. Not the kind Owen had come to like, when he wasn't plagued with the weight of feelings that broke his back. No, this one was unusual. He only felt it around Avid. Maybe it was jealousy, or envy.
He hated it.
"I can't wait to burn the town down!"