Noir

It was a dark and stormy Night-Mare that galloped down the forbidden paths of the faithless slaves of the Dreaded Sire. On its back, young Werther was in a frantic agitation, barely hanging on in the Hellish Horse's saddle as it jumped over the occasional fleeing spirit escaped from the Sire's service. The pale glow of the ethereal slaves darting between dark and twisted trees didn't distract him from his dire quest. Barbarossa had taken yet another wife, who would undoubtedly end up in the Broken Tower. That wife was Werther's beloved Little Christie.  

One of the ghoulish, triffid-like Huorn-trees nearly grabbed Werther's plumed hat, but he punched the branch away before it could get close. The swing was too long and it nearly caused him to lose balance and break his neck, especially since one of the Dreaded Sire's Headless Horsemen darted right before him, making his Night-Mare rise on two legs. The young man did not have the time to pity whatever unfortunate slaves the Headless would catch, but tried to make himself inconspicuous instead. The Horseman galloped further, not paying him an ounce of attention. Those human-looking mindless demons the Dreaded Sire owned had never been known to stray from their tasks, which could sometimes be an advantage.

He urged his Mare to a gallop once more, leaning low in the saddle, hoping to keep balance and protect himself from straying, thieving branches. Soon he was out of the forbidding forests and his target loomed out before him in plain sight. The tall, creaking, ominous Groaning Castle which held his one true love seemed abandoned in the plains like a twig from a raven's nest dropped on dark stone. He could hear the soft, wailing song of a banshee circling the Broken Tower and it made his hair stand on its ends, a feeling that made him shiver, but not unpleasantly.

He jumped off the Night-Mare as it slowed down before the building, aiming for a heroic landing that he would sprout from in a graceful run through the castle. Instead, his knees gave in and he fell most pathetically and disappointingly, ending up on knees and elbows and getting all muddy. The Hellish Horse trotted off, looking quite imposing, proud and deadly. A lightning bolt illuminated the landscape for a second.

Werther got up and was about to rush off when a black cat jumped before him, mewing.

"Fever... Fever... Fever all through the night," she purred, rubbing herself against him, changing her shape and growing into a beautiful, poisonous witch.

"Get off me," he growled. "I need to get to Christie."

"Passed her door, but she ain't livin' there anymore," the witch said playfully, licking her teeth, her green eyes attempting to fix Werther in place. However, he wasn't fixed at all. "I'll get a spell on you, and then you'll be miiiine..."

He tried to shove her away, but she remained in place, attempting to languorously land a few kisses on his jaw. Werther wondered why Barbarossa bothered to marry when his army of lovers practically filled the place - but his army was quite willing to be there for him, while his wives were eternally unwilling. Perhaps Barbarossa was then a romantic?...

Werther knew then that what the witch did not have was common sense, or eyes.

He nuzzled her neck in reply, getting a happy sigh. Then he bit and sucked and killed.

"Au revoir, ma cherie."

He wiped the blood from his mouth, stepped over her body and entered the Groaning Castle. To his surprise, most of Barbarossa's servants were lying dead, no signs of violence upon their bodies, almost as if they had fallen into an enchanted slumber. He couldn't feel the beatings of their hearts, though, and that was a dead giveaway about their true state (unless they had much more in common with Werther than he had suspected). He walked past them, letting himself be guided by Christie's beautiful song that got louder and louder the closer he got to the Broken Tower. He steeled himself to face Barbarossa if needed.

As he opened the door that led to the winding, narrow staircase that went up to the chamber that she would be locked in, he saw a burgundy red stream dribbling down from step to step. He leaned down, gathered a bit on the tip of his fingers and licked it off. That it was blood, was obvious. That it was A positive was also quite visible. That is was Rh-negative could be deduced. What was utterly baffling, however, was that, upon tasting it, his opinion that it belonged to a single person was confirmed.

He knew the stairs, how high, almost unending, they were - what he had before him was a literal fountain of blood. It was a fairy tale that his eternally young grandmother had told him. A legend that his kind had until now chosen to disbelieve. It couldn't be otherwise. There was no other possible way for the stream to have become so great as to reach the ground floor, dribbling down step by slow step.

Aside from such considerations, he was terrified to discover that it was Little Christie's blood.

He ran up the stairs like a madman, floating and jumping almost as fast as the Night-Mare had carried him in her gallop. He punched down the door to the torture chamber and saw before him the whipped and bloodied body of his beloved hanging on the wall, her arms to her sides, forming a cross. A dead torturer was at her feet, blood flowing from the places where she had been impaled with silver blades. The red stream wouldn't clog, but it flowed on and on, sparkling in the moonlight, almost mesmerizing him. Her rich, black hair covered her face, her white wedding dress was in tatters, soaked in rose patterns by blood. She raised her face towards him, pale, her eyes burning, then she ceased her song - for it was, indeed, she who had been wailing her banshee's melody.

"What took you so long?" she asked, sweetly, smiling a deranged smile. His heart leaped to see her alive.

"I was unaware of your problems... I apologize profoundly."

"Please," she said, enchantingly. "Get the silver off of me. I am much affected by it in all possible ways."

Werther looked around, saw a curtain, pulled it down and used it to remove the silver blades that secured her to the wall.

"What the heaven, Christie?" he muttered. "Nobody has this much blood."

"I'm collecting," she said, rubbing her sore spots as she was released. "I became the world's first vampire banshee, then got a werewolf to byte me. These bastards used steel-silver blades, my one weakness. The banshee side gave me the power to murder them by song, the vampire the power to survive and the werewolf the power to mend my body, since it is a full moon and it has been full for two weeks now."

"I adore you."

"So do I you, dear. But I am married to Barbarossa now. And to the Dreaded Sire. I have to fulfill my wifely duties with them."

"What?! Both?"

"Complicated, dear. Come on. You must aid me in these duties."

Werther nodded and looked out the window.

"The Dreaded Sire's arboretum are coming," he announced, seeing Huorn-trees and Killer Pears and Slithering Trumpet Flowers and Cherry Trees approaching.

"Hm," Christie said, unimpressed. "Let us go, then."

They descended the stairs, went through the armory (where he chose an arbalette and she a torch. They needed no other weapons. They carried their own), then went outside to discover themselves surrounded by the forbidding forest. Christie torched the closest trees, hearing their dying screams and wind-howls as the flames engulfed their branches, their leaves, even their roots, the purring of their lumber signaling their untimely deaths. In a frantic rush to retreat from the scalding death, the Cherry Trees got others afflicted with the quick-acting Red Plague. Werther whistled for his Night-Mare, which galloped to them, unimpressed by both its master and the inferno around them. Behind it, a lightning bolt illuminated the landscape. Werther wondered if he should not have chosen a horse that showed off less.

Little Christie and he rode away under a canopy of disaster, the sweet smell of burning wood surrounding them with death as the arboretum tried to save itself by scattering in all directions. In a spontaneous clearing, the two caught sight of the mounted Barbarossa and Willow-Ween, the Dreaded Sire, who were friends, neighbours and blood-brothers. They rode black stallions and wore long, dark cloaks of pure woven spider silk died red with blood. Even when dying in the pyre, the arboretum would not to go near them.

Werther rose his arbalette and shot at the Dreaded Sire, the arrow swiftly removing the man's carved pumpkin replacement of a head from his shoulders. Barbarossa's and Willow-Ween's horses snorted in surprise and fear, for they too recognized an adversary of their own which far outmatched them. The Night-Mare would be their unmistakable, violent doom.

"That was not polite, wife," the Dreaded Sire said, disdainfully, turning to glance headlessly after his pumpkin.

The men dismounted, all facing each other. The black stallions snorted and retreated from the Hellish Horse, which seemed to sneer a neigh.

"Says the man who suggested the steel-silver combination," Little Christie cooed. "Well, let's get this over with! I shall perform my wifely duties with the both of you, and then I will be off."

"His lover's ancient art will go straight to his heart," came a sing-song voice from one of the non-burning pieces of arboretum which had cleverly disguised itself as a normal pear tree. Werther looked up to see a black cat, much like the one he had murdered not long before, on one of the branches.

"Damned pesky witch parasites," he muttered. "All ladies of the night, I tell you."

Without another word, he jumped against Barbarossa and a fierce fight started, with flames rising high in the background as trees ran around, trying to save themselves and failing. It was the most impressive setting Werther had fought in so far. He turned into bats and bit the man all over his body, but the red-beard struck back with his sword, cutting three of him in halves. Werther reformed and lunged with razor-sharped claws, only for his attention to be distracted by Christie's wail.

"Vere ze hell ees your NECK?!" she demanded, punching the Dreaded Sire madly. "I cannot bite vizout a neck!"

"It must be difficult," Barbarossa said, also distracted, "to keep one's accent straight when it is influenced by so many types of blood running through one's veins. How is she French?"

"Her mother was a veela who used French for seducing," Werther replied helpfully, taking out his trusty broadsword. "I never got my accent right. I could only ever utter a single sentence in the proper way."

"Ah?" Barbarossa tried to swing a rope around his neck to strangle him, which would have been a lost effort even if successful, since Werther found no need to breathe.

"I vant to buy a pair of shooooez," Werther replied, stressing/spitting out the first syllable in a strange melody-like Hungarian sort of way.

As Barbarossa started laughing, Werther put the sword through the read-bearded man's heart. The young man's one secret weapon was distraction. He looked over to see how Christie was doing. She had given up on trying to be a vampire on the Dreaded Sire, had gone through tearing him apart as a werewolf and was now wailing her wonderful song down his lack of a neck. Willow-Ween fell down.

Not far away, the Night-Mare was grazing peacefully on one of the horses' long, elegant necks.

"Well," Christie said. "All done here. I was a good wife and murdered them. 'Til death do us part' is now over. Shall we, dear?"

"Yes, dear."

"So lucky you are already dead," she murmured, as they got up in the saddle and circled his middle with his hands. "I can sing as much as I want with you."

"Do you think they'll be fine?"

"Oh, yes, they'll recover soon enough. Willow-Ween has been through worse. His first wife did the head thing. It was fun being married, while they lasted."

"Hmm," Werther replied.

They rode away from the scene, galloping gently over the fleeing faithless slaves of Dreaded Sire, whose pale, transparent, ghostly white, slightly glowing forms gave off a pleasant, subtle light that much contrasted, in a nice way, the blare of the burning arboretum behind them.