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Living as of late had been an insufferable torture. Society has been more obnoxious and irrational than before - Regulus had no idea this was even a possibility. Humans were strange creatures in his eyes. Their obsession with beauty and youth created a surprising amount of material for him to explore. Each new body that had been thrown on the cold wood was more modified; more poisoned and most importantly - more grotesque.
Regulus had been alive for many centuries - his existence itself made him question the reality of people around him. Being born in fourteen hundreds made Regulus an extremely religious person. His whole life was filled with God - his world circled around faith. Holy Mary used to be his image of an ideal woman; young, pure and loyal to her calling. He can’t point out the exact date he stopped believing in a higher power. Perhaps it was the moment when he became one himself.
He was old - he saw unspeakable things, done by him or others - because of that there were very few things that frightened Regulus. Throughout the years he beat countless fears he had developed as a human - a fear of darkness, spiders, heights. And many more, he doesn’t remember all of them clearly as memories of his mortal life fade over time. Recalling them means to look through the thick, milky fog. One thing he does remember clearly is his overwhelming hunger. First after waking up, it hit him; crushing his bones and making him a vessel to his new instincts. The thing he craved was human blood. Slaughtering an entire village hadn’t been as hard as he could have imagined. People seemed to be moving slower, almost not moving, only their eyes showed the fear they felt. It was empowering - to hold the ability of ending everything through one, short outburst.
Killing felt natural for him. Blood used to make him sick - it brought stomach to his throat, making it almost impossible to breathe. When he stopped being a human, he stopped feeling like one. Mortality became a concept. He couldn’t grasp the idea of aging after a while; his soul wasn’t a physical thing anymore, just a suggestion others used to make death easier. The truth is Regulus quite liked immortality. Over the years he grew fond of it. Many texts were created, stories had been told, how being alive - having the ability to end it - was the greatest definition of humanity.
Regulus couldn’t understand it. Why would they want this? How could they desire death? Being a mindless piece of flesh, rotting beneath the ground wasn’t a miracle - it was a sin. Life became meaningless when it ended so suddenly. Why do people have this need of making up unimaginable stories, that limited the enormous world open for them to explore throughout their time on Earth? Thus, making mortality decreasingly appealing.
Even if Regulus liked the way his existence turned out, it still was a mystery to him. He once woke up as something more and he stayed that way. Never, once in his mortal life, he saw a similar man to him.
The years flew by, taken by Regulus’s research and reading ancient myths - later replaced by cutting himself open, testing the limits of his new body. Because of that he remembered every part of his insides, every fold, every bump, each moving organ, pulsating under his fingernails. He thought of taking his life with those experiments, but he quickly realised it’s not possible. His skin grew back; cuts healed not scaring the pale skin of his torso; as his veins closed itself patiently waiting to connect back to each other. He spent countless nights sticking things inside of him hoping to bleed out or at least to pass out. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the pain never came. Regulus lost the ability to feel each emotion but his newfound rage and hunger.
He learned how to control it. The last thing he wanted his new life to become was an instinct: to kill, to ruin and to destroy everyone around him. It turned his blood to ice. How shall he control something he was unable to acknowledge? Hunger was only felt when pushed to its limit. Never for a snack or a light meal. Only a feast out of a crowd or two.
As he grew older - he became a master at hiding. Created his own aristocratic line, rebuilt an old castle and added many hidden rooms with corridors. There were multiple ways of entering and exiting the manor and he used them wisely in times of utter despair. Regulus began working on his biggest research project in early 1844, when he got a grasp of a man selling human bodies. Regulus began buying them to find an anomaly. What was the biological difference between the two species? Why was one more powerful than the other if their physical side is a perfect replica?
The bodies were bought in the name of science - was what he said to the salesman every week. It wasn’t exactly a lie. The dead ones were an object of his private research and series of experiments. In the nineteenth century a fashion for death began and Regulus couldn’t have been more pleased with humans. Their love for little things - silly details that wouldn’t matter in the next five years - were supposed to make his job easier. Or so he thought.
Turns out - which Regulus forgot after not participating in the society for over four hundred years - people will do terrific procedures to stay young. They will eat worms; they’ll poison themselves with various acids and many more things Regulus would rather not think about. Because of that the bodies he brought on the table weren’t raw. Not in a sense they weren’t fresh - he always tried to get the best meat he could find - but they were touched, modified.
How on Earth was he going to figure out the difference if all the participants were in a worse condition, then him?
“Another one with inbreeding” Regulus said, throwing the body around the table, yet still cutting it open with a serological precision. “I can’t use this one for my research.” He couldn’t handle another disappointment; he had enough of those in the last centuries.
“I’ll take him,” said a shaky voice in the corner. Regulus' irritation only grew but he held it in, looking at the other man dryly. Peter was a dealer, who sold bodies in great condition. They looked good and the decomposing process wasn’t as advanced as it’s in many different bodies on the market. It almost looked as if the man was Death himself and collected souls each week just to meet Regulus's absurdly high standards.
“Is that all you’ve got for today?” He couldn’t help but let the smallest hint of bitterness onto his tongue. Out of seven bodies none was good enough for Regulus to use. Again.
“I have one more, but…” Peter was sweating as he took off the thorn body from the table. There was hesitation in his voice that brought Regulus's attention, who was taking off leather gloves. He always covered his hands before working on the dead. It was an old habit he picked up in medical school to not have contact with blood.
“But what, Peter? You know me, money is never a problem.”
“It’s not about the money Sir.” The short man chuckled nervously. “But I don’t have it with me. It was buried roughly a few hours ago so it’s not safe to dig out yet.”
Inside Regulus’s head an idea formed. Peter always dug out the bodies a few days after the main funeral ceremony and then slightly corrected them - like cutting off the most rotten parts of the flesh and putting some of the left-out organs into jars. He couldn’t risk getting caught as it would put him, his pregnant wife and their unborn off spring at danger. However, Regulus was faster, stronger than any human so he could easily get the body and make dinner out of anyone who noticed his presence.
Peter wrote information about the grave - its exact number and name - so that Regulus wouldn’t be forced to wander around the graveyard unable to locate the stone through the thick fog. The man had no plans of inviting Peter to join his escapade, and it seemed like the other man had no intentions of joining him - even if invited. His job ended at trading the bodies, not helping someone else with the crime.
The graveyard wasn’t Regulus’s favourite place. Many might view it as odd- after all an immortal creature should be fascinated with death and its culture. In Regulus’s opinion the stereotype was laughable. Why would he be interested in humanity's biggest weakness? He learned to adore the life he received - the mystery of it; dark hallways and windows that needed to be covered at all times. It was his reality, and he would never trade it for something less. The research was supposed to help him create more of his species, so that he’d have someone to lead through immortality. It was supposed to make him even stronger; simply better than everyone surrounding him.
The tombstone, Peter wrote down for him, was pearly white and simple. It almost pained Regulus to ruin it by taking out its owner of the stone's cold arms. The ground around it became solid. London's weather was humid, but the nights were chilly - sharp air tugged on his long coat making him almost unnoticeable. After a few minutes of work Regulus’s spade hit something hard.
The coffin was just as boring as the tombstone; a diamond shaped wooden frame sparkled with gold in few places. Lifting it wasn’t an issue - weights became unnoticeable for Regulus the first day after waking up - what became a problem was transporting it to the other side of the gate without damaging the body inside. Just as he was about to cover the hole in the ground, Regulus heard a voice from behind:
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot you!” He slowly turned around, eyes meeting a terrified young man - the graveyard guard. In a blink of an eye Regulus jumped on the man, biting into the pulsating skin on his neck. Warm, thick liquid filled his mouth, and he needed to hold back a sigh. Eating was always a pleasure for Regulus. The sweet, yet savoury taste of blood on his tastebuds, delicate ringing in his ears as he listened to the man’s heart slowing its rhythm and feeling his grip on Reguluss’ coat ease. It felt ecstatic. Almost animalistic.
Soon the man let out a loud crack, which meant Regulus broke the man's neck in the process. Slowly, he pulled away, letting the guard's body fall on the ground beneath his feet. He looked like a piece of wood under the moonlight.
Coming down from the high and carrying the coffin was harder than Regulus expected. Usually after a meal he needed a minute to cool down. Blood - or whatever filled his veins after so many years - would stop roaring in his head; the world would stop spinning. Regulus needed the world to stop moving immediately. Slowly he began walking, the wooden box shifting uncomfortably on his shoulder. The fog helped him as it made his frame blend with the dark surrounding. It gave him a comfort of invisibility, that when used wisely, could be a true blessing.
When Regulus began his project, not once did he look at the body and thought to himself “I’ll wait with cutting it”. He would never even think about putting things off; giving the dead a new name that he would address them with - he’d simply do his job, make notes and give the best organs to Peter in a fancy jar. This time was different. The person he dug out. He was different.
The name his parents had picked for him at birth hadn’t described his beauty enough. It lay on his shoulders like a slur. was dry and painfully performative, so Regulus renamed him. His dead years shall be spent under a better name, James.
The boy was gorgeous - was what he thought when he lifted the lid of the coffin in the safety of the manor. James looked ethereal even after death - or maybe especially after death. It suited him. His skin was still tanned, sometimes it looked purpleish under the right light. His eyes were sewed together with a delicate thread and Regulus felt anger bubble in his throat. How was he able to see James if not through his eyes?
He lay on his back - naturally as it was the position he was buried in - so after flipping him over he saw dark bruises on his hands and feet. Something held him back from taking off the black suit, which was odd as he usually never cared about this sort of thing. It troubled him at first but after looking at the human body for so long the differences and shame began to blur. Yet cutting that shirt open seemed borderline dirty to Regulus. He could almost feel James’ judgemental glare and despair on the thought of taking the last part of his dignity. Regulus already stole the man from his family, his peace and freewill - shall he also steal this?
James didn’t move. Not even once. Regulus sat in his chair - a few meters from the table he put him on - and stared. He thought. James was still, but when he delicately touched his seemingly lifeless hand, it felt warm. They stayed like this: He held their joined hands and his new discovered treasure stayed unconscious.
Hours passed; days went by, and Regulus still did nothing to James. In fact - he was terrified of doing anything. Each time he looked upon him, he looked more alive than before. The bloody bruises on James’ back faded, leaving only kilometers of smooth skin. His soft, warm curls seemed to be glowing under the candlelight. He looked like he was asleep, just taking a short nap, not like a person who had been dead for almost a week. James didn’t stink like the bodies usually do - his scent reminded Regulus of freshly baked goods and blood. Normally, the smell of blood made him hungry, it would wake up a part of him that thrived on humans. This time it was sweet. A delicate, almost impossible to find, made him want to sit by the man's side for eternity.
Regulus was anxious - he feared the moment Peter visits him and finds James’ body in such good condition. What if he was buried alive? He often wondered, when he began looking fresh. What if I saved him from death and he will wake up soon? What if he’s already awake, the only things that are holding him back from walking and functioning like a normal person are his sewed eyes?
With shaking hands, Regulus grabbed the knife. It was the most precise one in his collection as his libs went cold at the thought of hurting his beloved James. The thread was thin but used on his honey like skin made a terrific comparison. Slowly he began discarding the sew. One by one, the eyelid came back to its natural shape - not the harsh line, but a soft one that almost made his beloved look awake.
James’ eyes were just as beautiful as he was. Their delicate chocolaty shade complemented his features and earth combed hair. He was an angel sent on Earth to guide Regulus away from sin. Or maybe Regulus was wrong all this time. Maybe James himself was a God. A son of Aphrodite, born from the ocean waves and spring breeze. Maybe his soul was sewed using exotic flowers, fresh cinnamon and rose gold that flickered in his hair under the smallest movement. Maybe James was the son of Hades - the fruit which juices keep Regulus in the glass cage of heaven.
Regulus didn’t believe in God for a long time, but he’s ready to believe again. He’s ready to convert and fully commit his life to God if only James was the one he would pray to. He owned a kind of beauty that belonged to the stained-glass windows - he was haunting Regulus’ mind. Consuming what was left from his sanity, carefully unraveling the delicate threads of the sensibility right from his hands.
He didn’t dare to move James for many weeks. His figure laid on the table, then on the soft cushion of the bed. Regulus changed his clothes only once - on top of that only the outside part of his party suit. From pitch black cotton to the softest red silk, he could’ve found. No decomposition process took place - he stayed untouched and Regulus felt as if he was becoming more and more alive with every passing hour.
Eventually, the bliss of quiet mornings and nights spent restlessly by James’ side, had to end. Peter had been trying to contact Regulus for a while - first he would knock on the main door, his figure barely visible through the fog and darkness, but soon after he realised Regulus wasn't willing to open, he began writing letters. Peter wasn’t a highly educated man - he barely had any school years on his back, and all his academic ability could be summed up to two words: reading and writing. On the basic level of course. That’s why his letters hadn’t been the longest, most grammatically correct texts - if Regulus is being fully honest there had been some criminally obvious spelling mistakes that made him feel human again, mostly because they were so bad it gave him feeling comparable to embarrassment in Peter’s name.
The letters basically covered the carpet in the hall - as Peter eventually gave up on putting the letters in the box and began throwing them under the gap in the door. They were mostly short, purely informational texts, in one or two the man added a cut out from the daily mail. Something about James’ old family missing their child and being desperate to find his body. Regulus couldn’t understand why Peter - and James’ old family - were so pressed about his whereabouts. After all, he was safe and warm with him.
Speaking of James, recently Regulus could hear his voice. It began small. Barely noticeable for a human being, hums of melody echoing through the thick walls of his manor, and the slight tremble of James’ lips when he said his new name. He saw that; he saw him. Sometimes, when the sun was already long gone and he walked around the bedroom he lay in, he could see him opening his eyes. With the corner of the eye, he saw silent gestures; single twitch of her finger, delicate movement of his body as if he tried to find a more comfortable position to spend his eternity in.
Regulus felt, seeing with all his heart, that those signs were a signal of him soon to be awakened. Of James turning into what Regulus was, or rather of what he had become a long time ago, to bind what's left from their souls in an unbreakable bond. To make them one and immortal beings.
Regulus allowed Peter into his manor after a few months of no contact. The shorter man came through the door, worry pulling some of his features to the inside of his face, making him look more like a mouse and less like a person. Regulus never planned this. He never planned on eating Peter - they were some kind of friends after all - but he was done waiting. Those months he spent hungry, away from any mortal in case his sun rose up and he missed it. The only thing he needed was to admire his loved one as he stepped fully into his new design.
However, when he saw Peter; heard the blood rambling through his body, he understood he had been a fool. How shall James wake up if he never prepared a welcome gift? This felt like a necessity, after all he was a man - a newborn man on top of that - he might not be strong enough to wake up on his own, let alone walk by his side through the world.
Peter was dear to him, but James was his life. He was the air he breathed, the blood he needed to consume and the fire he needed to condone in order to live a fulfilled life, so when he broke his mortal friends’ neck it didn’t feel like murder. It felt like an offering.
He took Peter’s body to the highest floor, his corpse leaving a thick coat of red on the delicate Persian carpets, marking the way to the world for James. When he got to the circle attic, he threw the body on the wooden floor, dust clinging to the body and slowly turning red with every second that passed. Regulus walked out and down the stairs to James’ room, his mind filled with nothing, but his sun- taking him in his arms the second he got to his bed. In the dim candlelight he seemed to be glowing. When he picked him up, he stumbled backwards, knocking over a candle holder - not noticing the flame catching onto the velvet curtains.
When he delicately laid James down onto the table in the attic and completely disabled Peter’s head from the rest of the body, to let a few crimson drops slide through the open lips of his beloved, it made him fill with hope. Shall he become his soon or will the universe try to punish him by waiting again? If he were waiting for James, he’d wait as long as he’d told him to.
Slowly, James opened his eyes, meeting his gaze and smiling softly. Regulus fell on his knees holding onto the table so hard he’d think it would leave bruises on the moist wood. When he was catching his breath, looking up at James, he sat up, holding Regulus’ chin upwards even more. His eyes became cold, a sharp smile on his beloved lips and a smooth surface of his skin, drilled holes in Regulus’ stomach. For the first time in his hundreds of years of living, he was frozen in fear. Because in the flames around them and light coming through the broken roof, he didn’t look human. He didn’t look like him, or dead, let alone alive.
James looked like a God; and he was ready to take Regulus away from Earth.
Before he could form another word, James spoke, his voice sliding through Regulus’ body like a bucket of icy water. He would never hear another voice again - droning out all the other distractions - as flames consumed the world around them.