They were silent on the way back - which was to say, quieter than normal. Prospero’s body continued to crave blood even as they wandered far from the Gorgon’s corpse. It would be another 12 hours before the urge subsided. When their silhouettes were spotted emerging from the mist by the fairies, the dour mood from earlier was lifted in an instant, and the entire colony was out in force to celebrate Prospero’s victory over the Gorgon.

  The judging glances he’d received earlier were now alight with newfound admiration. He couldn’t understand a word of their thanks, but seeing the colony in good spirits did well to lift his own. Time to consider his situation had removed the worst of his self-loathing, but there was still much to consider as to where the future would lead him.

  Out from a crevice in the infested pine tree came a quartet of fairies lugging a blade with all their might. It was only a shortsword by human measure, but to the spritelings, it was a weapon capable of slaying any measure of abominations. He recognised its hiltless, silver blade from the notebook Grimhilde had shown him; the sword forged with pure intentions, but which had led to the dissolution of the alliance between humans and fairies.

  Grimhilde held both arms towards the blade and smiled, nodding enthusiastically. Prospero could understand their intention, but raised a palm in refusal. “I cannot accept this,” he said. “-Not for lack of want, mind you. It’s a beautiful sword. But knowing now what I do about your propensity for gifts - it would be in bad taste for me to receive anything of the sort.”

  The celebration simmered. Prospero lowered his hand and said, “If you could do anything for me, then please; place value in the gifts you create for yourselves. Reserve your treasures for those who deserve them. Beauty cannot be so disposable.”

  He felt somewhat conscious of his words. “Among humans, it may be considered rude to refuse a gift of such quality. I’m sorry if my words offended you. I only want to make sure that your skills aren’t being taken advantage of. I had something to gain from defeating the beast myself, so it’s not as if my actions were completely selfless.”

  There was also the facet of a sword not suiting him in the slightest, but he decided to omit that. Selling it would always be an option, he supposed, but teaching the fairies to act a little more miserly with their treasures was a lesson they couldn’t afford not to learn. Disappointed but understanding of his reason, the sword was placed back in its hollowed-out pocket in the tree.

  Perhaps someone truly worthy of the blade will appear one day, he thought. I never expected to meet with fairies of all things on this realm, but I’m glad to have preserved their home. With the Gorgon gone, they can begin to rebuild what they’ve lost… If I can’t guarantee the same for myself, then better to spare others from the same fate.

  Soon, a spark of revelry had taken hold of those tiny people of the woods. They danced like fireflies in the night, recited folk songs with their melodious voices, and ate their fill of the spriteling delicacies tucked away in the cupboards and pantries of their little carved hovels. Once their attention had been captured fully by the celebration, Prospero curled his fingers to suppress the oncoming bloodthirst and slipped away from the pine trees.

  Not a minute passed traversing the fog on his way back to the cliff face before a familiar glow buzzed past and looped back. Grimhilde’s smile remained unmelted in the cold.

  “Grimhilde,” Prospero began. “You shouldn’t follow someone like me. Not when you have your own kin to consider. A few nights more, and I’ll be on my way from this realm. A Vampire stalks me across the Incandescence. Remaining here would put you at risk.”

  She puffed out her cheeks and stood her ground. He was divided from her by language, but Prospero couldn’t interpret her reaction as anything less than stark refusal. No matter how fiercely you insist, he could imagine her saying, I’m going to come with you.

  “You’ve seen the curse my power bestows,” he said. “A great hunger for blood. Even now, its influence is difficult to resist. Would you still choose to follow a wretch like myself?”

  She nodded - a gesture so swift and certain that he couldn’t help but wonder if his words were even registering. Across the breadth of their time spent together, his emotions and thoughts had been on full display. To receive a fairy’s guidance in spite of his terrible urges was living proof that Prospero had yet to lose his humanity.

  “...If you’re so convinced, then no amount of words will send you away. I’ll gladly accept whatever good company is offered,” he said. “Perhaps, if the opportunity arises, I could learn a thing or two about your language. It would be nice to share a conversation that isn’t so one-sided for once.”

  She giggled, and he couldn’t stop himself from sharing in her enthusiasm. He was glad to know another he could call an ally. Without the aid of Alto and the Sunflowers, he would never have left Glassoph. The loneliness he’d been expecting from his journey had turned out to be nothing more than a misplaced worry.

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  “...I need to rest,” he rubbed his forehead. “It would be too dangerous for me to change forms when I’m in this state. There are still two more nights to waste before my allies arrive, so let’s return to that cave from before.”

  Straying too far from Victima’s landing spot was risky. Keeping the enormous cliff in sight would allow him to retrace his steps on the final day. Keen to offer her guidance, Grimhilde led him on the long and uneventful walk back to their primitive abode. Having spent so long in the guise of beasts, Prospero was surprised to find himself more agile than before. The boosts to his attributes, however small, were beginning to have a noticeable effect on his strength.

  Soon, the cliff face rose into view. Prospero wasn’t tired in the slightest, but he needed to rest for at least 12 hours to begin lowering his Beasthood. Familiar now to his presence, the bats in the cave scattered as soon as his moonlit shadow crossed into the mouth. Rubbing his palms for warmth, he settled down against a wall far from the entrance and cupped his face in both hands.

  “...I can’t distract myself from the thought of blood,” he said. “I’ve never felt this way about anything. It’s as if… nothing else in the world matters. I feel so anxious without it.”

  Just a drop of the most slovenly, impure blood he could get his hands on would be enough. He could sleep peacefully with nothing more than a taste; just enough to satisfy himself.

  Then the scent resurged, that wonderful spice of iron flicking on all the lights in his brain. He looked towards the source, where Grimhilde’s teeth had scored a tiny puncture on her index finger. She held the digit out and resisted the urge to wince. A droplet formed, grew heavy, and fell from the tip. Prospero held out his hand to catch it, terrified of his own desperation, and watched with heavy eyes as a shallow pool formed in the centre of his palm.

  Without missing a beat, he lapped the delicacy up with his tongue. For a blissful few seconds, he was free from the chill wind blowing through the cavern. Free from tribulation. In another moment, the warmth faded, and he was lonely again. He swallowed the urge to beg for another drop and sighed. “...Thank you, Grimhilde.”

  It would have to last him the night. The fairy was too generous; he knew that receiving more would be a simple matter of asking kindly. But how much more would be needed to satisfy himself? More than Grimhilde has to give, he supposed. Always more.

  He drew the mantle of his cape close and brought both knees up to his chest. He couldn’t bear to face the world in his pitiful state. He could only remind himself of the warmth experienced moments ago, reciting a mantra of abstinence to himself until the act exhausted him enough to enjoy what few hours of sleep his condition would allow.

  Prospero dreamt most nights. Oftentimes, they were quite mundane, though he could rarely recall them. He was not the sort of man who awoke, suddenly, from the dopey lull and took control of his own fantasies. He went along with whatever strange activities they invited. That was why, when he appeared sound of mind and action in a place unfamiliar to him, he knew that this was no ordinary dream.

  The room was dilapidated, but retained an element or two of grace: tattered banners and faded checkerboard flooring; long, thin windows that reminded Prospero of a smaller Baptista estate. A long table had been set out in the foreroom, behind which stood a small arch and stairway leading to a sparsely-decorated lounge. The fireplace there was stone and gargantuan - the grate was large enough to fit a crouching man or small child, but it remained unused.

  Orlok sat at the far end of the table, statuesque aside from his tiny eyes which tracked Prospero’s every twitch. When he raised his overturned hand towards the chair at the opposite end, they were not clawed and fearsome as they were before, only pale and emaciated. “Sit,” he requested, “Supper will arrive shortly.”

  A dream? A nightmare? Somehow, Prospero knew it was neither. The Orlok in front of him was no phantom of his guilt or fear. The world surrounding them was imperfect and shifting, logical in one moment and fractured in the next, but the two of them were real.

  Prospero clenched his fists and stepped forward to take the flimsy wooden chair in both hands. He hurled it across the length of the table, striking Orlok square in the chest and knocking him to the floor. Unfazed and unbothered by the gesture, he brushed off his coat on the way back up and calmly stood his chair before tucking it under the table. “Your fury is not misplaced,” he began. “-Were it me in your place, I’ve no doubt my reaction would be identical.”

  “You’re… you’re the real thing,” Prospero replied. “But how?”

  “Because your heart tells you so. The heart which now circulates the Founder’s Blood and boils in the presence of its kin,” Orlok answered. “I am no spirit conjured by your ailing mind, but neither am I physical or vulnerable, true as my presence may be. This power, mine by right, is an extension of my bloodline, just as shapeshifting is an extension of yours.”

  He seated himself again. “Dreams are the domain of those who call themselves ‘Nosferatu’. But dreams are ephemeral things, so my ‘domain’ is of very little use for anything more sophisticated than simple conversation.”

  Prospero shut his eyes for a second to gather his thoughts. “You killed my father,” he said. “-And one day, I will kill you. Be certain of that.”

  Orlok joined his hands. “There was no other way.”

  “No other way to accomplish what, exactly!?” Prospero snapped. “I still don’t have a clue what any of this means! You desired the Beastblood; I know that now! But why!?”

  “It is a means to an end - a bloodline of great potential and prestige. The path towards peace,” Orlok explained. “That it now belongs to you is not to suggest it can no longer be used to achieve this goal. I realise this now that acquiring it is no longer an option. But a son of Gaspar is not fit to wield the Beastblood’s power.”