ALRIGHT so I was supposed to write a ficlet for an anon back in December about Krolfred dancing all night at the Mitternachtsball, long after all of their guests left, and life got very busy as I left to go home for a week. TLDR; I didn’t finish it.
So, for you, I went ahead and tried my hand at completing it. They don’t dance all night, but I thought it might be nice to catch them in a meaningful moment at the end of all of the festivities. I hope you like it!
A cold, late night wind filtered through the cracks of
the ancient slate-grey walls of Schloss von Krolock, just before the clock
struck the first hour of the early morning. The pale and beautiful faces of the
Mitternachtsball began to dwindle, one by one, drifting like loose dandelion
seeds back to their guest chambers.
The ball had been different that year. December 21st,
the night of the solstice, as it had been since the first ball, four hundred
years and counting. However, as the other balls had been grand celebrations of
blood sacrifice, willing or not, the 405th Mitternachtsball held a
highly dissonant tone by comparison to balls long past.
No living guests wandered the labyrinthine halls, and
no hellish monsters gorged themselves on mortal blood. Each guest was to arrive
having eaten beforehand, to gather within the palace walls as civil, orderly,
presentable undead nobles. The new Consort had seen to that. The first four
balls at which he’d attempted the change in tradition were all rough, and
sometimes the guests even took to feeding on each other, but he’d known it
would take on the fifth try. He’d applied his skilled hand and entirely devoted
himself to the improvement of the castle itself, to repairing the guest accommodations,
replacing the heavy curtains that kept them all alive, and even to reorganizing
the feeding schedules and methods.
The new Consort was a busy dead man, indeed.
In return, the Count had dedicated the 405th
Mitternachtsball in his honor. Gold and moss green decorations replaced the
typical black and silver that haunted the massive ballroom, lending a light and
a life that none of the ball guests had yet witnessed in their un-lifetimes. The
tall, arching windows were left uncovered to reveal the vast forest and clear
sky. It was fortunate weather, and good weather was to be taken as an omen for
the rest of the year’s feedings. The Consort did not understand this tradition
and insisted that it was likely not linked to scientific thought. The Count
maintained that it was their one
tradition they had kept since the beginning, and they would continue to keep it
until time ran dry. The Consort was not amused, but understood it was harmless
enough.
The ball went off with few hitches, but the Viscount
ensured that such interruptions were dealt with swiftly and easily. It was
difficult to pursue argument against a fellow with half as fierce of a wit and
with half as decorous of an outfit, let alone the glittering, fire-spitting
beast that was the Viscount that night. Between a Chaconne and a Minuet, the
Viscount could be seen casting a watchful eye around the ballroom, daring any
guest to break from the decorum and earn his wrath. A performance comprised of equal
shares of theater and terror; a quality all Mitternachtsballs were required to
feature. The theatrics, too, came to a close, and like the loose leaves that
had fled the trees some months ago, the Viscount joined the ranks of the
enchanted undead, retiring to his glamorous bower.
The Consort stood for some time after the departure of
their guests, watching the sky for the first signs of the new day. For them,
the birth of the new year. Like a rich, deep blue velvet dotted with crystals, the sky gave
no sign of the swiftly ending year.
“My dear, perhaps it is time
that we too take our leave.”
They were the last of the revelers, the orchestra having
taken their exit some time ago.
“I believe I should like
to watch, this time.”
The Count could not deny the Consort anything that was
asked of him, having once promised to provide anything that the Consort might
require, and the Consort required a reminder of the life that he had been forced
to sacrifice. Such a request could not go unanswered, much less unsatisfied.
“Of
course, Alfred.”
Like two carved stone likenesses, they stood, watching
for signs of the rising star before the vast window, the last window that
remained uncovered.
“What
a privilege it is-”
The Consort murmured,
“-to
never tire of this.”
The darkness lightened from a never ending deep blue to
an amethyst glow, framing the beauty of the trees and catching the reflective
white of the snow. The Count cast his eyes down and away, but the Consort watched
the purple and grey give way to gold, highlighting the golden accents adorning
the ballroom still. At long last the Count joined the Consort once more,
watching the great star threaten to become visible just above the line of the
mountains, and then he turned his gaze to the sun-gold curls of his partner in
undeath.
Even after four hundred and five years, the Count
supposed that it was true.
He never could tire of watching the dawn.
Penhales 