Shadows Of Desire
Black Wedding

Killian paced back and forth in front of the window. He couldn’t believe that he had actually agreed to go through with this. Just what the hell was he thinking? There was no way that this was going to go well. No way at all.

Servants came and went and he barely spoke to them. He was bathed, dressed in his finest tunic, breeches, and surcoat, and then sat with a blank expression on his face as his newly washed hair was dried, combed, and tied at neatly at the nape of his neck with a bit of black silk. It was sham, all of it. The wedding. The excitement of the servants as they scurried about. Even the congratulations that he received from friends and family. None of it was real.

He was marrying Lady Emilia but he didn’t love her. He didn’t love the child she carried. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want the life that she wanted and expected. He wanted Rowan. His lost Prince. When he had actually fallen in love with the boy he had no idea but, he had. As much as he tried to deny it, he loved him. But, he was gone, dead, and with him any chance that Killian had to ever love again had also died. No one would ever replace Rowan in his heart. His heart was slowly dying too.

Killian’s father had entered the room earlier, barking orders at the servants and telling Killian what was expected--demanded--of him. Everything had been planned out from the walk down the isle to the vows that would spoken and even the reception afterwards. All Killian had to do was show up, smile, say I do, and then escort his new bride into the ball room where the reception would take place.

A grand feast had been planned. Wine would be abundant, and there would be dancing and merry making and Killian cared about none of it. For him, this wasn’t a wedding. For him, it was a funeral. A time to mourn the death of the life he once new as he entered into a new kind of hell of royals, nobility, and a legacy he never wanted. With Rowan by his side, he could have managed. With Emilia though, he prayed for a quick death. At least that way he’d be free of her.

He supposed he could have fled. He could have taken his horse and rode so far south that no one would ever replace him. Of course that would mean giving up his land, titles, and his inheritance. The one thing his father had to hold over him. Killian had never had to work a day in his life. Never had to toil for endless hours in a field or even hunt for his own food. He had never gone without. He wasn’t fit for the life of a popper. He wouldn’t survive a single winter. That much he knew for sure. Marrying that wretch of a girl was the only way to ensure his life of comfort and luxury. It didn’t seem worth it in the end.

A servant had placed a glass of blood wine in his hand. Killian had held it, untouched, for thirty minutes before he finally stood, looked at the drink, then threw it hard against the stone wall. The glass shattered and the thick, crimson, liquid pooled on the floor, seeping into the decorative rug. He walked to the window, the shards of broken glass cracked under his boots, and he pushed the window open. A gust of cold, autumn, air blew in through the opened window and slapped him in the face.

Below was the rose garden. The last place he had seen Rowan. The last place he had held his hands and spoken to him. Such awful things he’d said that night. He’ll never forget the horrified look in Rowan’s eyes. The fear and loathing in them. It had thrilled Killian at the time but now, now he regretted being the cause of such distress in his beloved. If only he could take it all back. If only he could change the past and bring Rowan back from the dead. He would do things differently then. He would make amends. He could change. For Rowan, he could change. If only he’d had the chance. He would set things right.

A cool breeze blew through the tops of the trees and rattled Killian’s nerves. He looked down into the garden, now covered in a blanket of darkness, and saw a familiar face glance up at him. Killian shivered. The eyes were dark, haunted, and the face gaunt and severe. The lips, once full and pink, now tinged with blue, opened and the only sound that came out was a strangled sob. Killian fell to his knees and put his head in his hands as he began to sob. “Forgive me.” He whispered over and over again to the phantom below him. “Please, my love, forgive me.”

***

Killian was led down the narrow corridor by two guards on either side of him. His father followed behind. Servants fussed making sure his hair and clothing were in perfect order while his father rattled on about duty and responsibility. Killian was barely listening. His mood sullen and his face expressionless. He was a groom, walking to meet his bride but felt more like a prisoner being led to his execution.

They stopped outside the chapel doors. His father adjusted Killian’s cloak. Now was the time to escape if he were going to do it at all. He looked back to his father and saw the stern look on the Grand Dukes face. He wondered if he ran now if the guards would drag him back or if they were ordered to just kill him. The latter would be better. He took a deep breath then raised his head high, accepting his fate. In the end, he was too vain to run, too proud, and death seemed too easy. He didn’t deserve easy. He deserved to suffer. He deserved this hell.

The guard to his right knocked on the chapel doors and a moment later they both were pulled open by two servants. The scene in front of Killian made his head drop and he groaned. It seemed as though anyone of any great status had been invited to the event. The pews were filled with nobles of every class. Some of the guests he knew, others he did not. All were dressed in dark, sullen, colors. Fitting, he thought. This was not a time for celebration. It was a time for mourning. The country was still mourning the loss of their Prince. A prince that most of these people had never even met. They mourned him still and mourned what his death represented. The loss of hope.

With Rowan went any chance that the Kingdom of Basmorte would one day be delivered out of the hands of it’s tyrant King. Any hope for peace was now gone. The people knew that Killian would be no better than King Desmond. They saw him as a monster and they were right. He didn’t care to rule the people with an iron fist as King Desmond did. Killian didn’t care about them at all. Peasants, nobility, none of them mattered. They were all dead anyway. Dead, like he was dead. Dead like Rowan was dead. A dead King ruling a dead nation for that’s all that they were. Corpses pretending to be alive, waiting for their own bodies to rot away until the vampire Kingdom became nothing but one giant graveyard.

He smiled thinking of the eventual fall of Basmorte. It was the one happy thought he’d had in days. When the Kingdom fell, he would fall with it and finally then maybe he would be at peace. As he walked down the isle looking at the faces that turned to look back at him he couldn’t help but wonder if they all felt it too. Their eminent demise. Many of the faces smiled forced smiles as though they had been instructed to do so. The rest were hard and stoic. They didn’t want this union anymore than he did but were powerless to stop it. They looked defeated.

A dark cloud of despair had fallen over the cathedral and the entire place was as silent as the grave. Candles lit the way, cutting a line through the darkness but it only added to the eeriness as though they were all in attendance awaiting a black mass. A requiem for the dead. Perhaps that’s what is was. It seemed disrespectful to hold a wedding so close to the King laying his only son to rest but then, Killian was the only one present who had any real respect for the young Prince. Respect that came far too late it seemed or it would be Rowan that he would be joining at the alter and not the Lady Emilia.

Killian looked to the dais where the priest stood, the King to his right. The priest was dressed in a black cassock under traditional ceremonial robes and a black coif on his head. In his hands he held the book of Sheul, the vampire God of darkness and death. The perfect deity to bless a marriage. Killian thought with a smirk. The King himself was the only one who wore any semblance of bright color. A black tunic with a blood red surcoat, the insignia of his house, a ravens skull, stitched onto the coat. Over his shoulders he wore a red cloak lined with black fur, the collar framed in ravens feathers and atop his head, his ceremonial crown.

Killian despised the sight of the man and hated even more to be standing on the dais across from him with the entire room staring at him. He hesitated a brief moment, only to be given a slight shove from his father before finally stepping up and standing before the priest. The two guards stood one on either side of the dais and Killian’s father stood just below the dais on Killian’s left. Slight murmurs from the guests could be heard as Killian took his place but the sounds quickly died down as the main chapel doors were once again opened and the arrival of Lady Caroline and Lady Emilia was announced.

All eyes turned to the women as they entered the chapel and even Killian had to admit that they were a vision in their gowns. Lady Caroline wore a gown a red velvet and a cloak that matched that of the King. Her hair was pulled up into a complicated braid that circled her head like a crown of gold. A red veil covered her face and head and a train of red lace swept the floor behind her as she walked slowly towards the dais. In her hand was a bouquet of red roses. She was truly stunning.

Lady Emilia walked beside her wearing a gown of emerald silk, Killian’s colors, and a cloak with a pin depicting his family crest, a gold dragon made of vines and thorns, closing the cloak at her neck. Like her mother she wore a veil over her face and head but this one was green to match her gown, as was the train that trailed behind her. Her hair was pulled back by two braids on the sides while the rest, a fountain of dark curls, flowed down her back. In her hands she held a bouquet of black roses and green thorns. She smiled when she saw Killian staring at her. He turned his eyes away and frowned.

The women approached the Dais then stepped up to take their places next to the men. The moon shone through the stained glass windows, casting a haunting glow on the surroundings. The priest looked to each of the couples and in a soft command, told them to take each others hands and kneel before the alter that sat in the center of the dais. Killian took Emilia’s hand though begrudgingly and did as instructed. Her hand was cold as though made of ice and he shivered. As he looked up at the priest he suddenly wanted to scream. To rise to his feet and storm out of the chapel, leaving his bride to be standing at the alter but, he knew that he could not. It was too late for that now.

The priest opened the book in his hands, an old and faded tome holding the dark secrets of their race. Secrets that’s no other species had privy too. Only the old ones knew the truth of what lay in those hallowed pages for their history was long and dark. Killian himself only knew the teachings of his youth, the fractured retelling of their kind and how they came into existence. It was the same story that all vampire children were taught. It was of the birth of the first vampire and from that one sprang the race that now infected the world. The same story was told again by the old priest as he began the ceremony.

“In the time when darkness covered the land and the night ruled the earth there was one being, above all else, who loved the night and took her as his bride. His name was Sheul, the God of darkness and Death.” The Priest began. “Together, they begot three children. Falodra, Inuduna, and Morrigu. Falodra took as her mate the King of the Tuath, Arawn and begot the Fae and Elven race. Inuduna took as her mate a warrior wolf named Lycanon and begot the children of the moon. Morrigu, the youngest of the siblings took as her mate, the demon Lord Vammurin and together they begot the vampire race from which all of us are born.

The vampire race was the strongest and most fierce with demons blood burning through our veins and so Sheul blessed us as his children and gave us the mother night to love and protect us. They bestowed upon us long life and health and taught us the ways to live within the darkness. And so, to honor them, we hunt, we kill, and we drink the blood of our enemies that we might live forever in the grace and beauty of the night.

On this extraordinary night, we gather under the watchful eye of our God, Sheul, to join together not only the hearts of King Desmond of Basmorte and Lady Caroline Mahony of Elderidge but also Lord Killian Thorn, Duke of Grayholm and Lady Emilia Mahony of Elderidge in the bonds of matrimony. Let us now invoke the ancient powers of darkness and death to bless these unions.”

The priest picked up a golden chalice from the alter and held it high above his head as he spoke the next words. ” In this sacred chamber where we invoke the presence of the vampire God Sheul and seek the blessings of the Mother Night upon these unions we offer this blood that our souls may be entwined with the eternal power that flows through the veins of the immortal realm. O Sheul, ancient lord of darkness and death, hear our call and witness this solemn union. We offer this sacred blood as a token of our devotion and seek your benevolent gaze upon these blessed unions. Grant your wisdom and blessings to our ruler, King Desmond and Lady Caroline, and to Lord Killian and Lady Emilia.

Mother Night, we offer this blood as a symbol of the everlasting bond between King Desmond and Lady Caroline, and Lord Killian and Lady Emilia. May their love be as timeless as your existence and as eternal as the night itself. Bestow upon them your blessings of strength, wisdom, and enduring passion. shroud us in your divine darkness, and may your everlasting embrace bless these unions with eternal love and unbreakable bonds. King Desmond, Lady Caroline, Lord Killian, and Lady Emilia, in this sacred act, you offer your commitment and love to each other. By partaking of this sacred blood, you symbolize the eternal connection that will bind you throughout the ages.”

The priest then turned to each of the couples and asked them in turn, “King Desmond, do you take Lady Caroline to be your eternal companion, to cherish and protect her, to share the night and the darkness, and to stand by her side through all the ages to come?”

“I do.” King Desmond said. His voice was deep and commanding but his face emotionless and cold. The ceremony, his marriage, it was nothing to him. He had done it all before, many times. He had no love for his future wife and this marriage to her was just a contract to be fulfilled. If she failed to deliver on her end, she would meet a swift end at a sharp knife. That was the burden that she carried. She was but a vessel to be used to carry his heir and if she proved unable to do so then her usefulness to him would cease to exist. She would be discarded as were the wives who had come and gone before her.

“And Lady Caroline,” The priest addressed her now. “Do you take King Desmond to be your eternal companion, to love and honor him, to share the night and the darkness, and to stand by his side through all the ages to come?”

Caroline smiled as she bowed her head. “I do.” Her voice rang like a bell, echoing throughout the chapel. She seemed pleased, and confident in her own ability to give the King what he wanted. There was no fear in her face nor worry that things would not work in her favor. She was a shrewd woman, like her daughter, and Killian might have almost liked her, had she not had a hand in his being forced to wed her deplorable child.

The priest nodded to the Lady, acknowledging her words and turned to the King. “Then, my King, place the ring on her finger.” King Desmond turned to a small boy who held a black pillow where sat a ring more dazzling that Killian had ever seen in his life. It had a gold band and many small diamonds that were set along the band. In the center though was a blood red jewel, a ruby, large and as exquisite as the woman who meant to wear it. The light of the candles caught the jewel and cascaded off the stone and onto the floor. Ripples of light gave the appearance of a pool of blood just below the alter. It was beautifully horrific.

King Desmond took the ring and slid it onto Caroline’s waiting finger. She smiled down at it and for a moment Killian saw something flash across her eyes. Something dangerous and dark. The King picked up her hand in his and lightly kissed her knuckles though his eyes landed on her and a look of indifference crossed his face. He was bored. Killian could tell that at once and he nearly laughed out loud. King Desmond was bored at his own wedding.

The priest then turned to Killian and asked the same. “Lord Killian Thorn, do you take Lady Emilia to be your eternal companion, to cherish and protect her, to share the night and the darkness, and to stand by her side through all the ages to come?”

Killian a hesitated only a moment, earning him an angry glare from Emilia. Finally, he sighed. “I do.” He said though his voice was raw and steeped in anger. In his mind he was screaming No no no! He imagined pulling a dagger from his belt rather than a ring and plunging the blade deep into Emilia’s chest. The blood from her body laying crumpled on the stone dais would slowly ooze out of her and form a real pool of blood where the shimmering light had once been. How would his future in laws like that? To have their wedding clothes stained with the blood of the bitch who had ensnared him.

Emilia narrowed her eyes then turned back to the priest, ignoring Killian’s defiance.

“Lady Emilia.” The Priest continued. “Do you take Lord Killian Thorn to be your eternal companion, to love and honor him, to share the night and the darkness, and to stand by his side through all the ages to come?”

Emilia smiled, proudly. “I do.” She said loudly, for all to hear.

To Killian the priest repeated, “Lord Killian, please place the ring on the lady’s finger.”

Killian turned to his side where his father waited, holding a simple gold band that he handed to Killian. It wasn’t near as beautiful or expensive as the ring the King had placed onto Caroline’s finger but it was pure gold and shimmered elegantly in the candle light. Emilia put her hand out, waiting for the ring and Killian slipped it on as quickly as he could then withdrew as though he could no longer bear to touch her.

The priest lowered the chalice of blood, and each of the couples drank from it, completing their vows.

Killian nearly gagged on the blood. Swine blood mixed with wine. It was revolting. In the old days it would have come from a human sacrifice, killed before the entire congregation but, such things were no longer permitted. It was written in the treaty that humans and other kin were no longer to be used as food. God, how Killian missed those days. There was nothing more exhilarating than hunting down prey and draining them where they stood. Feeling the heart stop as the last drop of blood passed by his lips.

That was truly what it meant to be a vampire. To hunt and kill and take what they wanted and never for a moment feel shame for being what they were or doing what they were meant to do. They were monsters, killers, and they were meant to rule the night. Not hide away in their castles and houses like frightened little rodents scurrying around in shadows taking whatever scraps they could replace. King Desmond and his damn treaty had made their race weak. No one feared them as they once did. It sicked Killian to his core. Desmond wasn’t a King. He was a coward. He hated him.

The priest continued speaking but Killian barely heard a word of it. The words spoken were of little importance to him. He had no intention of actually abiding by the vows he spoke. It was all a pretense. “As the blood flows through your veins, may you be forever bound by the mysteries of the night and the eternal power of Sheul. Let your love be as deep as the endless abyss and as strong as the darkness that veils the stars. Mother Night, wrap these unions in your comforting darkness, and let your wisdom guide them through the trials of life and death. Bless their journeys as they walk the path of love hand in hand, side by side, for all eternity.”

The priest sat the chalice aside and once again picked the ancient book up and held it in his hands. “May your love shine through the ages, guided by the eternal wisdom of Sheul and the nurturing embrace of Mother Night. And, let it be known that on this night, under the watchful gaze of Sheul and Mother Night, King Desmond and Lady Caroline, and Lord Killian and Lady Emilia are forever bound in the embrace of darkness and blessed with the gifts of their undying love. Rise now, and greet your people as husbands and wives.”

The two couples stood and turned, facing the congregation as they held hands, presenting themselves as newly wed couples. A cacophony of applause erupted from the crowd along with shouts of congratulations. Killian groaned. This was possibly the worst night of his life.

***

No words could describe the torment that attending the King’s reception was for Lord Killian. The King’s reception. That’s what it was. Though meant for both couples it certainly wasn’t that. Nobles lined the room, approaching the throne one by one to give congratulations and gifts to their King. King Desmond yawn and leaned his head on his hand while Caroline, now Queen, greeted each of their guests and thanked them for their offerings with false sincerity.

Killian sat at the long banquet table next to Emilia and glowered at anyone that came near them. He swore, the next person to congratulate him would be met with his fangs. Lady Emilia seemed at ease and quite in her element. Charming each and every person who came to speak to her. Even without the grand gifts that the King and Queen received, Emilia appeared to be enjoying the reception and the attention of her guests. Women that would have ordinarily paid her no mind were now hovering at her side. She was the daughter of the King now, her status elevated.

Not yet a princess, officially. The King himself would have to give her that title but the Queen would see to it that he did. Nevertheless, Emilia acted the part. She sat up straight, head held high, and a wide, beautiful smile played across her blood red lips. She sipped at her wine and tipped her head to those who addressed her. Killian merely slouched in his seat giving the occasional grunt when someone greeted him. He was tired of the whole affair. Tired of the fake smiles and the insincerity of the wedding guests. People who were no doubt whispering about the royal family behind their backs.

He downed his fourth goblet of wine...or was it his fifth? He didn’t know. He’d lost count. He drank it down quickly then slammed the goblet on the table and stood up on wobbly legs. It took a lot to get him drunk but the wine was strong. Still, it only took him a moment to steady himself and then he stalked away from the table. Emilia looked at him, an angry snarl on her face

“I have to piss.” He gruffly snapped at her. “I didn’t think I needed your permission for that.”

Emilia huffed then waved him off and he gave her a half-assed bow before stumbling away from the table. Killian pushed his way through a crowd of nobles who were no doubt deep in their gossip. They gasped as he rudely pushed them aside and made for the door. Once he’d made it outside of the banquette hall he leaned against the wall and sighed a breath of relief. He couldn’t stand being in that place for second longer. It was as if the very air were being sucked out of the room. It was suffocating, even for a vampire.

Killian pushed off the wall and headed down the corridor. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he needed to get away. The silence that spread out around him offered him no solace though. The clicking of his boots against the stone floor was an unnerving as the idle chatter of the banquette hall. The massive corridor seemed to grow darker the further he walked and all around him the scent of death clung to the air. The castle, this massive stone structure, was little more than a crypt he realized with alarm. Rowan was the only one who had breathed life into the palace and with him gone, it was dying and so was everything within it’s festering walls.

On and on he walked, with no destination in mind. He stopped occasionally, looking around when he thought he heard voices coming from somewhere deep within the shadows. He couldn’t make out words. They were only whispers and they seemed to be following him, growing louder and louder until the whispers were all he could hear as they filled his head. He put his hands to his ears and tried to block them out but it did no good and finally he stopped, unable to bear anymore, and he slammed his fist into the wall.

“Leave me be!” He screamed into the darkness. “It wasn’t my fault! He took his own life. It wasn’t my fault.” Killian slid down the wall, holding his head in his hands as he wept. “Please.” He begged. “Just leave me in peace.”

The whispering voices faded away, slowly and he was met with unnatural silence once more. There was nothing, nothing but the sounds of his own sobs. No rats scurrying in the walls, and he was too deep within the castle now to hear the wind outside or the music from the banquette hall. There was nothing, only silence. He did not know how long he sat there, huddled against the wall, before a new sound invaded his mind. He shook his head and cried, willing it to go away. It was coming closer. Slowly, painfully, closer.

At first he heard the padding of bare feet against the stone floor, then the gentle rustling of fabric, soft, and light, like the gossamer fibers of a funeral shroud. Killian dared a glance up and was met with a bone-chilling sight. Out of the darkness, an eerie spectral figure emerged, shrouded in black, drifting silently along the cold, unforgiving, stone floor. Each step taken by the ghostly presence seemed to send shivers through the very foundation of the ancient castle.

The figure was tall and slender, their ghostly form partially obscured by the dark, billowing fabric of the funeral shroud that trailed behind them like a shadowy mist. The shroud seemed to have an unnatural life of its own, as if it had a will to haunt and torment those who crossed its path. The pale skin of their bare feet seemed to blend, almost seamlessly with the cold, gray, stone beneath. With each step, the sound of a faint echo resonated through the eerie silence of the castle, like a mournful whisper of a long-forgotten past and an overwhelming sense of sorrow and despair emanated from the figure, like a dark cloud surrounding it.

The chilling presence seemed to float just above the floor, defying the laws of gravity as it glided forward with a spectral grace. It was as if the weight of the world rested on its shoulders, leaving behind a palpable feeling of heaviness and dread in its wake. As the figure moved closer, the black shroud unfurled and danced like ethereal tendrils in the moonlit air. It seemed to reach out for something—or someone—with a sinister, almost malevolent intent. It advanced on Killian leaving a trail of darkness and despair in its wake.

Killian began to shiver, his head shaking as the phantom grew closer, its hand, covered in pale, shrunken flesh, reaching towards him, the tips of the fingers brushed along the side of his face and then, he screamed.

The sounds of Killian’s screams echoed throughout the black corridor, crashing against the stone walls before replaceing their way back to Killian’s ears. Even sound could not escape this fearsome ghoul and Killian suddenly began to wonder if this night would be his last.

***

It was nearly dawn when Queen Caroline leaned over and gently placed a kiss against her husband’s cheek. “Come, my love. Let us retire to our chambers.” She whispered.

The King looked at her with suspicion. “Are you worn out from the festivities, my dear, or does this mean that you are finally willing to share my bed?”

“I’m eager to fulfill my purpose.” She told him with a coy smile. “The sooner we conceive an heir, the sooner my place at your side will be secured.”

“Are you so confident in your abilities to please me?” The King raised a brow as he watched her, carefully.

“Let me prove my abilities to you, my King.” Caroline took his hand in hers then stood, urging him to follow. “I promise this to be a night you will not soon forget.”

Desmond stood and allowed his wife to lead him away from the table. The guests that still remained bowed as the King and Queen bid them goodnight then made their way out of the banquette hall and to their chambers.

The Lady Emilia had long since retired to her own rooms, hoping to replace her own husband already there and waiting for her, eager to have a taste of her before sleep took them over.

With the royal family gone for the night, and the festivities coming to an end, the guests slowly departed, returning to their guests suits to rest before making the long journey back to their own homes. The Grand Duke would also be leaving the following night to return to Grayholm. Killian and Emilia were set to leave for Grayholm a week later.

Servants busied themselves cleaning up after the reception and restoring the banquette hall to it’s former gloom and staunch decadence. Any sign of merriment now gone. That was the way the King liked it. Dark, cold, and void of emotion, like the King himself. The tyrant King, hated by all. Locked in a world of self-deprecating soberness. How the people of Basmorte longed to be released from his icy grip. Too long had they all remained cowering, shrouded in darkness, looking like mourners at their own funerals.

It was time for change. Time to claw their way back out of the shadows and end the rule of their loathsome King once and for all. An ill wind swept through the castle that night and with it brought a sense of dread. A storm was coming. A terrible, thundering tempest, that only the strongest would survive.