Tied to Infinity

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Tied to Infinity

Chapter I: Constantine

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November 1805

Somewhere in the English Countryside

His first memories of his Sire were vague--two cool slim fingers pressed against his jugular...a pair of startlingly deep green eyes...pale hands ghosting over his feverish forehead with a gentleness that left him yearning for more.

For six days, he lay in a near-comatose state, fading in and out of consciousness at irregular intervals. At times he was roused to semi-consciousness, and a steady arm would prop his head up as a bowl of warm liquid was held to his lips. While he reflexively swallowed, a low voice would murmur words of comfort and reassurance that he couldn't quite make out. And then he'd sleep again.

When he'd finally regained enough strength to stir from his fever-induced slumber, he'd lain still for several moments, dazed. He half-wondered where he was, what had happened, only to find his mind clouded by a thick haze of muted noise and blurred images. He tried to open his eyes, and only succeeded in forcing them open a sliver.

"You're awake, finally."

He turned in the direction of the soft voice, but could only make out a dark figure several feet away. It approached him, and he felt his head being tilted up and a smooth surface pressed to his mouth. A sweet, coppery-smelling liquid sloshed under his nose.

"Drink. You'll feel better."

Too tired and unfocused to protest, he obeyed. Warmth trickled down his throat, and it ignited a strange fire in the depths of his belly. Before he knew it, he was eagerly taking the offer in swift, hungry gulps. Satisfied, he raised his head and blinked a few times as the world came into focus.

He lay in the center of an enormous bed, buried under the folds of a luxurious spread. The curtains were drawn, but he could tell by the dusty orange-pink light filtering through that it was near sundown. Everything in the room looked as lavish as the bed. One glance at the brilliant oriental silk tapestry hung on the opposite wall, the intricately carved lamp-holders, or the exquisite wood work of the desk and chairs told him he was in the home of some very wealthy noble. Unaccustomed to such finery, he wondered again why he was here and tried once more to dredge up his memories.

Nothing came.

Startled at this void, but at the same time numbed by a strange resignation, he turned his attention elsewhere. Like the arm that was still cradling his head.

"Mrrrghhh..." he moaned as he tried to twist his head and get a better view of the other. But from his position, he couldn't catch anything more than a green-clad chest and arms.

An amused chuckle sounded above him, and he felt the arms lift him with startling ease. His unseen host pulled him towards a slim chest, one arm supporting his head while the other wrapped around his waist securely.

"Rest for now. I'll wait as long as you need," the voice whispered tenderly.

Under any other circumstances, he would have protested at being cradled in such an intimate manner, like a defenseless child. But here, feeling safer than he had since the start of the damned war, he surrendered his trust entirely to the stranger who held him.

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He did not know how long it was before he woke a second time. But when he did, the pervasive fog that had shrouded his mind before was gone, and he reached for his memories again.

Who was he?

Draco. His name was Draco Lucius Malfoy, eldest son of a Parisian tailor and cadet in the Marine Nationale--the French naval forces. He'd been born in Palaiseau, moved with his father and mother to Paris when he was twelve, and conscripted into military service when he was eighteen--two years ago.

The memories were trickling back faster now. What had happened?

Brief images flashed before his mind's eye: his captain receiving orders from Vice-Admiral Villeneuve to assume battle positions at Cape Trafalgar...the still weather that delayed their arrival...the British fleet, completely prepared for their not-so-surprise attack...the devastating counterattack...the harsh thunder of cannons grating his ears and the heat of fire licking at his skin...the acrid smells of gunpowder and blood, seawater and sweat.

The French fleets and their Spanish allies had been completely destroyed. Draco had been among those taken captive and force-marched through enemy territory to prisoner camps. His eyes darkened. There, he and his comrades had been starved, stripped of their dignity and pride, and left at the mercy of the approaching winter. With the knowledge that only a peace treaty or death would free them from the hated camps, he'd gathered those whose spirits hadn't been crushed completely and conspired an escape.

Draco could see now that the plan had been doomed to fail. Scantily clad, underfed, and poorly equipped, he and the twenty-odd prisoners who had followed him hadn't stood a fighting chance against the Redcoats sent to retrieve them.

In the sheer desperation of the time though, Draco hadn't considered that. But he remembered with terrifying clarity the way his heart had hammered in his chest when the British soldiers had caught up with them. He remembered the mind-numbing terror when he flung himself in the cover of a fallen tree while his comrades were shot or bayoneted. He remembered twisting his foot at a cruel angle, falling and lifting his head to meet the cold stare of one of the Redcoats before the acid fire of a bayonet being shoved at an upward angle through his ribs.

When the Redcoats left him for dead, he had thought for certain he would die.

"I give you a choice, to die right now...or to live for all eternity. Choose your path, Draco Malfoy."

Those words had been whispered into his ear as he lay tasting the sickly sweet tang of blood flooding his mouth with every erratic breath.

Green eyes...it was all Draco could see. He wondered if green would be the last thing he'd ever see.

He'd been given a choice. And Draco, terrified of the unknown void of death, had chosen the alternative.

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After regaining some of his equilibrium, Draco sat up. The beautifully luxurious bedroom around him painted a stark contrast to the bloodied forest thicket where he had awaited certain death.

Where was he now? Had he been captured again? To be interrogated or tortured for sport?

Draco discarded the possibility quickly. No enemy would give a captive such lavish accommodations.

He pushed back the covers and inspected himself, picking curiously at the quality silk covering his limbs. Beneath the thin fabric he could feel the slightly bulky swath of bandages wrapped firmly across his chest and ankle.

His heart sped up. Some unknown benefactor had tended to his injuries and was housing him. Someone had bathed him and changed him out of his tattered uniform into a very comfortable set of silken sleepwear.

A very wealthy someone, if the room was any indication.

Could it be the same person who had spoken to him in those last moments in the forest? A memory of green eyes surfaced--it was the only memory Draco had of him, though he also gathered the impression of a confidence and self poise he often associated with his father.

Draco wondered if the man might be somewhere around in this...mansion.

He tested his foot gingerly. While swollen and a tad sore, it was not impossible to walk on.

Steadying himself with one hand, he took a few tentative steps. His legs felt strangely unstable, as though the bones had softened and could bend at any moment and give out.

Slowly, he left the warm comfort of the bed and ventured forth to the heavy oak door. The corridor was empty.

The white marble felt cold beneath his bare feet. Draco padded his footfalls as best as he could, although what exactly he was being cautious of he did not know.

High windows lined the walls, although drawn shut behind heavy black curtains. As he passed, Draco could not resist peeking into some of the open rooms. Some of them were bedrooms like the one he had woken up in. Others were art rooms, tastefully decorated with paintings and sculptures from cultures Draco did not recognize. Draco had paused for a good five minutes in front of what looked to be a weaponry room, awed by the racks of polished swords and exotic daggers.

At the end of the hallway a grand staircase wound its way downward. Draco eyed the massive crystal chandelier hung overhead and wondered yet again what manner of man his host might be.

His feet led him to the base of the stairs, then past the foyer and kitchens. Draco came to a stop at the threshold of an ornate dinner hall, because sitting at the head of a long dining table was a man clad in dark green robes.

Seeing the man for the first time with a clear mind, Draco was rather startled to realize he was really not as old as he'd imagined: eighteen, perhaps twenty at the most. Barely a grown man, really.

He was of slight build, a good two inches shorter than himself, with a narrow chest and slender limbs that put him in mind of a frail bird. Dark locks of hair framed a finely boned face, falling in graceful tresses across his forehead and past his shoulders before being swept up in a low ponytail at his nape. Draco took in the high set of his cheekbones, the sharp arch of the eyebrows, and dignified set of the jaw--all marks of an aristocratic birth. Even the refined, even movements of delicately tapered fingers stirring the hot tea set this man apart as a lord of noble upbringing.

Draco didn't have to wait long to be noticed. The man raised his head, and for the first time Draco got a good view of his eyes.

His breath caught in his throat.

Draco had seen them before, in the midst of blood and the threat of his own death perched on the edge of consciousness.

Perhaps he'd been too hasty in his judgment of age. An ageless balance of ancient wisdom and youthful vivacity, those fathomless green eyes glittered with a keen intelligence and subtle power under iron control. But for all that, the man smiled upon him like a doting father upon a beloved son.

"I thought you'd be awake soon," the man said mildly. "I'd have preferred if you stayed in bed a while longer, but since you feel well enough to roam the mansion, you might as well take a seat."

Draco faltered at the unexpected invitation, but, regaining his bearings, walked towards the table. He blinked in surprise when the young lord courteously pulled out a chair for him. Surely he must realize their disparity in social class?

His father had always told Draco he carried himself proudly--even arrogantly at times. And while this seemed to please his father most of the time, it would not do to appear as such right now before his host.

Draco sat down as gracefully as his stiff body allowed and wondered what do with his hands. Did nobles customarily lay them in their lap or fold them on the table? After several moments of debate, he settled for placing them in his lap, and then noticed the silence. Should he try to initiate a conversation or would that seem presumptuous? Did he look too nervous? Appropriately humble? Draco was shifting through his meager knowledge of patrician etiquette when he realized the man was peering at him over the rim of his teacup. He cringed inwardly.

"How do you feel?"

Whatever Draco had been expecting, it wasn't that. "Fine. I feel--fine." He wondered if his reply was too curt.

"Fair enough. Tea?" The man gestured towards a steaming pot.

"Er...yes, please."

The man reached for the teapot, and Draco shifted uncomfortably at the notion of a nobleman serving him. "Sir, you needn't--"

He was answered by a soft laugh. "There is no need for formalities between us."

Draco wasn't sure how to reply, and the man went on.

"I am Constantine."

"Draco Malfoy, Sir--Constantine."

Constantine nodded in acknowledgement, one slender hand curling around the teacup and bringing it to his lips.

Draco was suddenly reminded of his own, and trying to play the part of the appreciative guest, nearly scalded his tongue as he took a hasty gulp of the hot liquid. Constantine smiled, but there was no ridicule.

"Careful. You have enough injuries as it is."

He nodded dumbly.

They finished their tea in silence. Although Constantine seemed perfectly at ease, Draco had to forcefully restrain himself from squirming.

At last, Constantine stood up. "I'd like to see how your wounds are. Let's get you back to bed."

Draco started to rise, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Constantine motioned for him to stay still, and placing one arm across his back and the other beneath his knees, he hoisted the other man clean out of his seat.

"I'd rather you leave the pressure off that leg and let it heal properly," Constantine explained matter-of-factly as they returned down the path Draco had come by.

The soldier nodded, stunned wordless at being carried by a man a third smaller than himself.

The route back to the bedroom was far shorter than Draco remembered. The entire time he remained uncomfortably aware of the slight pressure against his bicep where long elegant fingers clutched him, of the hard planes of Constantine's chest pressing against his shoulder, and of the long column of his throat above him.

Draco fancied he almost felt a faint pulse there.

Constantine carefully laid Draco on his back amidst the soft blankets and set about untying the white bandages with practiced fingers. The gentle handling was a balm to his nerves, and the soldier felt himself relaxing into the touch.

"Your wounds have fully closed, I'm pleased to see. So long as you take it easy for a few days, I don't believe you need any more bed rest."

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows and was mildly surprised to see only a faint raised scar where the bayonet had broken the skin. The smaller injuries had disappeared altogether.

"Thank you," he whispered. He buttoned his shirt back up as Constantine gathered the soiled bandages and left them in a heap on the floor. "You brought me here?"

"Yes."

"You have my gratitude, Sir. But--if I may ask--why did you save me?"

To Draco's surprise, Constantine's lips tightened and when he spoke, his voice was even with forced composure.

"Before I explain, Draco, I want you to understand I mean you no harm."

Sparing a glance at Constantine's earnest face, Draco nodded slowly.

Constantine stared at him for a moment, and then slowly, very deliberately, bared his teeth.

The bed creaked as Draco flung himself backwards with an alarmed cry. For across the perfectly straight lines of white teeth, two very prominent elongated canines glimmered in the dim light.

The other man leaned forward with an almost anxious gleam in his eyes. "Draco, I--"

But Draco wasn't listening, because with an unpleasant shock he realized that Constantine's eyes glittered with a far greater intensity than could be natural.

Demon! Oh dear God, Draco wished he were back in the prisoner camp. He was in so much more danger here--

A strange grimace flitted across Constantine's features at his reaction. "Draco--please, wait."

Draco pressed up as far as he could against the headboard. To his surprise, Constantine obligingly backed up to give him room.

"Draco, you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to hurt you!"

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing." Constantine stood up, carefully concealing his fangs again. "Nothing but to protect and guide you to the best of my abilities; for that, I give you my word."

The solemn pledge shocked Draco. "Protect me? Why?"

"It is the responsibility I accepted the moment I saved you, a responsibility I intend to honor."

Draco stared.

"Do you remember? Back in the forest, I gave you a choice. I granted you your wish of eternal life."

"Eternal life?"

"I...could not bear to watch you die, Draco," Constantine admitted. "I am grateful you chose to live."

Eternal life? Is that what he had now? "How?" he demanded, voice rising. "What did you do to me?!"

"Turned you away from death, healed you. I apologize if that is not what you want now." To Draco's utter shock, Constantine knelt down and bowed his head. "Forgive me."

The show of humility and submission did not sit well with Draco. It felt wrong to see someone as dignified as Constantine in this position. "Stop that. I...what are you?"

"I am not human, Draco." Constantine paused, seemingly uncomfortable with the change of subject.

"I gathered as much."

"My people live in general seclusion from what you have been raised with. We can live indefinitely, so long as we are not killed. We are possessed of great strength and keen senses, but we rely on one source of sustenance."

Dry-mouthed, Draco ventured a questioning look.

"Have you ever heard of vampires, Draco?"

"Old wives' tale. What parents tell to frighten little children," Draco snapped with a good deal more conviction than he felt.

The other man shook his head. "I am a vampire. As are you, now."

Dread settled at the bottom of Draco's stomach like heavy stones. "No." He shook his head--thrashed, more like. "You're delusional. You're not a vampire. And I sure as hell am not either!"

Constantine looked pained, but he reached out to Draco tentatively. "I know this can't be easy--"

"LIKE HELL YOU DO!" Molten rage erupted in Draco's chest and then he was lunging, rearing his arm back with every intention of wiping that Constantine's unbearable sympathetic expression right off his face.

Constantine staggered backwards from the force of the blow, head whipped to the side. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Draco sat back cradling his throbbing hand, chest heaving but his sudden anger had dissipated with the strike. Fearfully, he wondered if the other man would retaliate.

He didn't. Draco watched in fascination as dark red trickled down the vampire's face, tracing his elegant jaw line before falling to stain the carpet. He looked back at his own hand, tipped with quickly receding claws.

Claws. He had claws. Draco's head sank down into his arms and he moaned in despair.

The bed dipped beside him and a hand rubbed his back in soothing circles. Draco didn't have the energy to pull away.

"I'm sorry."

Even in his state, he could hear the deep contrition in Constantine's voice. Not that Draco cared.

He smelt the coppery sweetness of Constantine's still running wound. It sickened him that he couldn't help but wonder what it tasted like.

"I'm a monster now," Draco muttered flatly.

"Being a vampire does not make you a monster."

"You would say that."

"You are still the same person."

Draco didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his head to stare at Constantine's face. Or more precisely, the three long claw marks across his cheeks. The blood had stopped flowing, but the scent of it still tickled his nose.

"Are you hungry?"

Draco gritted his teeth stubbornly. He would not succumb to these demonic urges. He would retain his humanity, no matter how this bastard tried to corrupt him. "NO." Yes.

"Very well. Do you wish for me to leave?"

"Please do." Draco was long past caring about being rude.

"You are free to explore my manor as you please--it is as much your home as mine now. If you feel hungry, there'll be something for you in the kitchen." Constantine paused at the doorway. "You are my Childe now. The last thing I want is to harm you."

Draco only glowered at him in return. Once the vampire was gone, he sank back into the bed with an almighty scowl.

Harm me, indeed.

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Well, that certainly could have gone better.

Sitting in the dining room, Constantine sighed tiredly, gingerly touching the cuts on his face. Temper aside, his Childe seemed to be doing well for a vampire fledgling. He had matured into his changes nicely, if those claws were anything to go by, although that was hardly unexpected given he had been feeding off Constantine's own blood for almost an entire week.

Fledglings Sired by powerful vampires always tended to be highly demanding for a period after their turning.

"Eva," he called.

Crack!

A tiny house-elf dressed in a neatly pressed yellow tunic bearing her master's insignia appeared before him. She ducked her head in a low bow.

"Master Constantine, you be hurt!" she squeaked, eyeing his cheek with something akin to horror.

"It's alright, Eva. It'll heal soon. I need your help again."

"Eva be happy to help. What is Master Constantine be needing?" she queried, not taking her eyes off his cuts, but knowing he would not allow her to heal them.

For a fledgling's first several feedings, it needed its Sire's blood, pure and undiluted by external magic.

Constantine led them into the kitchen. A dozen other house-elves dressed in identical yellow tunics turned from their tasks to greet him enthusiastically.

The vampire smiled and turned to one of them. "Kinny, fetch me the bleeding equipment, please."

"Yes Sir!"

Eva's long ears drooped. "Master be bleeding himself again?"

"Draco needs the nourishment." At Eva's downcast look, he laughed. "Don't worry about me. I'm going to the Academy to feed as soon as we finish."

One of the elves burst into hiccupping sobs. "Master be so selfless!"

Constantine winced and set about calming the elf before they all started crying. Dressing house-elves in clothes and treating them respectfully did have a drawback--they tended to become terribly overprotective and emotional.

Kinny returned with a clean bottle, a small knife, and a funnel-shaped length of tubing.

The vampire sat down and held back his hair while Eva brought the knife to the side of his neck.

The house-elves covered their eyes and whimpered as Eva skillfully made an incision. Kinny held the funnel and bottle under the bleeding wound.

Constantine massaged his throat to keep the blood flowing, noting how unusually slowly the wound was healing.

By the time the bottle was full, Constantine was feeling rather light-headed and dizzy. A towel was pressed to his neck until the wound slowly closed itself.

"I'm going to the Academy. Draco is awake and I've given him permission to explore the manor." He stood up, steadying himself. "I've warded off any dangerous rooms, but make sure he stays out of trouble all the same."

The elves nodded eagerly.

"Kinny, leave my blood on the kitchen. I'm sure Draco will feel hungry before I return. If there's any trouble, call me immediately."

"Yes, Master," the elves chorused.

He did not miss their pitying looks. Constantine knew he looked less than healthy. Bleeding himself constantly to feed Draco was tiring, but necessary if the fledgling vampire was to pass the transition phase safely.

He was a Sire now, Constantine reminded himself. His Childe would come first.

Stopping only to grab a cloak, the vampire drew upon a mental image of the Academy before Shadowing out.