Two weeks to three months. That’s what the captain had told Eliot when they first boarded the ship in February and he had inquired about how long the trip to America would take. But that was before a series of misfortunes had beset them in those long months following their departure from England.
And now it was May of 1865, and they had still not reached American shores. In the perilous months that had stretched from winter to now late spring, the captain and most of the crew had succumbed to various tragedies. Some were related to the storms that had plagued their voyage, though most were a result of illness. And most of that illness had been caused by multiple weather-related delays leading to re-routing, which then led to massive shortages of supplies that had been stretched so thin over the extended trip that nearly everyone on board was so malnourished that they were unable to stave off sickness. That turn of events then caused already difficult living conditions to worsen, in turn causing even more illness. Conditions had grown so terrible that there were now less than a dozen living souls left aboard the ship.
Of course, there was one unliving soul left as well. Claire, being what she was, she was immune to any and all physical illness. Though her mental state as she watched all the men around her succumbing to illness and eventual death; that was another story. Watching as death took one man after another, it wreaked havoc with her conscience, which had already been a constant source of pain to her for three centuries now. She found herself giving into dark thoughts about the old superstition that had convinced many in years past that bringing any woman on board a ship would lead to their own doom. The evidence of there being some truth to that old belief now seemed to be spelled out all around her night after night as one man after another fell.
She tried in vain to remind herself that she had taken other trips across the sea that had never been as tragic as this one had. And some nights, she almost managed to convince herself that her mere presence could not possibly be the cause of all this tragedy. On other nights, she was in a constant state of guilt over things like whether her occasional feeding on the men on board could have been the thing that broke them and made them too weak to fight the illnesses that eventually took them. Of course, that question also had to give way to the one about what she would do if the last of the men died. She would be left there alone, in the middle of the ocean with no clear idea on how to even make her way back home, and no way to sustain her own life after all.
It was true that she had longed for a final and decisive end to all of her inner pain on more than one dark occasion. And she also couldn’t forget the prophecy of that death coming to her at last, which was always at the corners of her mind. Though she was not sure how being trapped on a ship surrounded by men dying all around her actually fulfilled a prophecy of snakes coming to devour love and trying to eat it all away. But her death did seem to be imminent if the few remaining companions she had left did also wither away like all their peers before them. But another truth was that she couldn’t bear the thought of giving into the ending that death would bring without seeing Sean one last time before she did.
And all of those thoughts combined to lead her to a conundrum about whether she should try to save the last of those still living, the only way she could. But would saving their lives only to steal their will away really be salvation at all? Though the full force of this question only hit her once Eliot fell ill as well.
On this night, Claire was seated on the weathered wooden boards of the floor of their cabin. Her back was against the bed, her arms wrapped around her legs as her knees were pulled up to her chest, her face buried as she tried to force down red tears. She knew crying would solve nothing and only lead to her growing hungrier sooner. She then scolded herself for even thinking of her own hunger when the few humans left alive aboard the ship were very rapidly losing their battle to find enough food and fresh water to sustain their own lives from one hour to the next. On that thought she had to stave off the urge for more tears.
Atop the bed, Eliot was laying feverish, his breath raspy and wheezing as he continuously drifted in and out of consciousness. She sniffled again at the sound of another pained breath escaping his lips as he lay behind her, where he likely wasn’t even aware of her presence through the fever and continued fight to stay conscious.
She had only known the young man for five months and now it was likely that he would not even see his twentieth birthday. That thought tore at her and caused another sniffle when put next to the fact that she had just passed her 297th birthday only one month prior. Despite how minuscule five months seemed, or even twenty years seemed, next to three centuries, it didn’t lessen the pain that the thought of letting him die now caused her.
In the time she had known Eliot, they had developed the deepest of friendships. It was possibly the closest thing she had ever had to a real friend at all since Chantarell, all those years ago; back when she herself had been just as human as the young man now fighting for his life mere feet from her. It was true that he was more than a friend, and had, surprisingly enough, become and remained her lover for the last four months as well. But somehow that side of their relationship paled in comparison to the deep, deep connection they had found in those months. It was a connection that seemed much greater than just the mere pleasure of one another’s touch.
And in the back of her mind, Claire knew exactly why she had developed such a deep and real friendship with the young man. It was completely due to the fact that it was real. There was no compulsion other than one to not bring harm, and most importantly, there was no blood bond. Every single piece of that connection, while likely affected by her very allure, it was still real. It was still what was actually in his heart. It wasn’t something implanted in his brain or running through his veins. He cared for her simply because he did. And that was what made her feel that same connection to him just as deeply. And now, it was all about to be torn away. And the only way she could save him was by giving him that blood that would twist all his feelings for her, and take away all the things that made their connection so deep; so pure.
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It was then that Claire couldn’t help remembering how she had seethed at Hollister’s words to her. She hated him for telling her how foolhardy it was to care for a mortal. For reminding her of how ‘temporary’ any connection to them would be, and how much pain it would lead to. She knew in her heart that his words were true, and that was precisely why she had left on this cursed ship at all. But that night, Claire’s words were also true. Caring for humans did make her feel like she was at least a little bit human still as well. And giving that up was something she could never let herself do, despite all the pain their very mortality was now drowning her in that night.
Before she could continue to crumble under such deep and dark thoughts, the door of their cabin was slammed open, startling her to her feet. The man who entered with anger flaring in his eyes was one of the few crew members left aboard the ship, a man she only knew by his surname, Kaplan.
“Is something wrong?” Claire asked warily, trying to remain calm in the face of his obvious anger, reminding herself that he was quite ill too, just not to the point of being bed-ridden just yet, as Eliot had been all evening.
“Everything is wrong!” Kaplan growled as he took a heavy step toward her and tossed the door shut behind him with a slam. “And it’s all your fault, you vile witch!” he spat at her as he took another step toward her.
“My fault?” Claire swallowed. Her mind easily flying back to her recent moments of entertaining that very thought herself. But blaming herself for misfortunes was something she had done for all of her long life. When others also blamed her, it cut even deeper.
“Woman!” he bit out the word as if it burnt his tongue, “we never should have let you aboard the ship. And now death is coming for all of us!”
“Kaplan, that’s just an old superstition. You know I did nothing to cause...”
“And isn’t it interesting how you’re the only one here who isn’t sick at all?” he interrupted accusingly as he moved in close, “witch!” he spat the word again.
Forcing a calm tone and refusing to cower from his angry recriminations, she stood straighter, “but you are sick. You’re not thinking straight. You know full well that it was the storms and...”
But before she could repeat her attempt to make Kaplan see sense, his hands were around her neck as he pushed her back against the nearest wall, “yeah, the last of us are all sick and dying. But you’re still gonna die first, witch!” and with that he began to squeeze her pale neck with all the strength he still had left.
Pushing down the instinct to panic, Claire braced herself and brought her own hands up to his wrists. With a strength that was many times greater than his, even had he been in perfect health, she wrenched his grip from her neck. In the same moment, she turned the tables on him, and her pale hand was now upon his throat, wheeling him around and smashing his back painfully against the wall of the small cabin.
Then she leaned in close as he struggled in futility to free himself from her grip. Then speaking in that eerie tone, she looked into his dark, watering eyes and spoke, “you will never raise your hand to me again, and you will abandon this insane belief that I caused any of this. And most importantly, you will remember nothing about this night other than passing out drunk, and my words, of course. Now get out!” she growled the final words as she shoved him toward the door, which he quickly scurried through.
It was then that the sound of Eliot having another violent coughing fit caused her to turn her eyes back to the bed. There, he was once more conscious and looking a bit shaken. Though Claire couldn’t help the feeling that it wasn’t his illness that caused his unease at that particular moment.
“Eliot, you’re awake” she whispered as she moved toward the bed, noting the wary expression on his face.
“It got a bit loud” he responded hoarsely, casting her another cautious look.
“I’m sorry” she told him softly, daring to take another step toward the bed, “so, how much of that did you even hear...or see?” Claire couldn’t help asking.
“Enough to make me remember” he murmured as he tried to push himself up to his elbows shakily, despite his weakened state.
“Remember?” she repeated, forcing herself to remain standing near the bed rather than joining him upon it and taking him into her arms, which was what she honestly wanted to do right then.
“Remember what I always seem to let myself forget” he stated after another cough.
“What’s that?” she made herself ask, though her voice was barely above a whisper.
“What you are” he stated, his own words a choked whisper.
“Eliot...” she stated sadly, not even sure how she meant to end that sentence.
“It’s all right Claire. It’s not like I don’t know” he coughed again, “like I said, I just always tend to let myself forget.”
“Eliot, you know I would never hurt anyone just to hurt them...”
“Calm down Claire” he stated softly as he finally managed to push himself up into a seat leaning back against the headboard. “I’m not making any accusations. Just observations. And he was trying to kill you. You have nothing to make explanations for. It’s surprising that you actually didn’t kill him. I wanted to” he added in a shaky whisper.
“Eliot...” she whispered again, finally letting herself move to the bed and gently wrap her arms around him, propping her head against him as she sniffled again.
Eliot sniffled then too, too weak to return her embrace, though he did manage to move his hand up to cover hers. Through another shaky breath, he made himself speak again, “you’re strong, and you can make anyone do any thing you want them to, just by telling them to do it. You can even make them forget anything you don’t want them to remember. And you’re eternal... immortal. You’re practically a god” he whispered the last bit.
“I don’t know if that’s an accurate comparison” she swallowed as she pressed closer to him.
“Since when do you even believe in god?” Eliot returned with a sad smile.
“And you do?” she returned with an equally sorrowful smile.
“No, I don’t. Not really” he admitted with another raspy breath, “which I guess is a pretty terrifying thing to admit on my death bed” he added, the tremor in his voice obvious.
“Eliot, you don’t know that...”
He shook his head as he interjected, “but I do believe in you Claire.”
“Me?” she asked, caught by that statement, looking up at him quickly.
“I believe that despite everything you can do. All of that god-like power you have. You’re still good, and sweet, and loving, and so, so strong. And I trust you when you say you’re not a monster. When you say that others like you don’t have to be monsters either. I know that I can believe what you say. I can believe in you. And I know I can trust you... with my very life.”
Claire swallowed again as she looked up into those dark eyes, “what exactly are you saying, Eliot?” she whispered.
“I’m only nineteen years old, Claire” he began, tears welling up in those pretty eyes, “I don’t want to die. I’m not ready to” he stated as he tried to hold back a sob. “And I know that with you... I don’t have to, do I?”
His eyes pleaded with her as she looked back at him in shock, just then realizing what it was that he was actually saying to her. What he was asking her for, and it shook her to the core in more ways than one.