Chapter Text
In the hallowed halls of a garnished manor stood a couple of newlyweds. A young, blonde woman admires their commissioned portrait with her husband. The painting featured the woman in a lavish, elegant white dress poised in a sophisticated manner on a chair. The man beside her had his hands resting on her shoulders, looking straight at the viewer. The artist emphasized the silver wedding bands, as shown in the slight glittering sheen contrasting with the dimness of the background. Below the portrait’s frame, the following identifier had been transcribed on a golden plaque:
‘Joined together in Holy Matrimony: The Right Honorable Lord Barok van Zieks weds Lady Sharlene, née Sholmes. July 28, 1897.’
Barok glanced at his wife from the corner of his eye just to be met with the excitable woman tugging his arm and laughing merrily. She pulled him along the corridor, taking in the sight of her new home whilst squeezing Barok’s hand lovingly, her face bright and inquisitive of all the peculiar things she would have to become accustomed to now that she was Barok’s spouse. Barok could not say that their relationship had changed drastically after he put that ring on her finger, as the blasted woman still had a taste for her teasing and eccentricities, aggravating traits that unfortunately grew into rather endearing qualities over time.
Barok subconsciously rubbed the band on his finger as he listened to the woman chatter about one thing and another until a particular topic garnered his undivided attention.
“What are your sentiments about the name, ‘Iris’?” Sharlene had asked him.
Suddenly, the jubilant setting dimmed, and the scenery changed to Barok tossing and turning in his bed in the dead of night. He screamed as blood dripped from his neck and the silver ring burned his skin, the smell of charring flesh filling his nostrils as he worked to swiftly pull the ring off and throw it across the room. Pants escaped his mouth until they couldn’t any longer.
As if a bolt of lightning struck him, Barok violently woke from his slumber, nearly losing his balance on the overhang he had perched himself on. He blinked and closed his eyes before opening them again slowly, stretching out his bat wings and flying to the ground to gradually metamorphose back into his humanoid form. Although he no longer needed to breathe, he let out an exasperated sigh anyway. Those troubled memories still plagued his mind and would continue to do so for all eternity. On most days, he longed for the mortality he had been denied, yearning to escape this miserable, monstrous reality of loneliness into oblivion like he naturally should have many centuries ago.
He could only find solace in the everlasting silence of his old manor, as it gave him the chance to reminisce about her. The image of his long-deceased lover was still vivid in his mind, yet he meticulously made sure to remember her every day, fearful of finally forgetting her face.
Vibrant emerald eyes, soft blonde hair. A warm smile and a gentle touch.
“Absolutely useless! That bloody pawnbroker mucked everything up!”
The warlock tossed the offending spell book across his nook, vaporizing it immediately in the furnace that emitted a glowing green fire as soon as the book went in. Afterward, the fire returned back to its standard reddish color. With the flick of the sorcerer’s wrist, he brought forth his wand and broom, planning to make a trip into the city as soon as possible. He dreaded the arduous, distant commute, but it couldn’t be helped. It took him weeks to prepare the ingredients for this potion, and he was not going to let a forged book ruin his plans. He had to perfect this concoction by the end of the day or he would have to start all over again, and if there was one thing he had qualms about doing, it was needlessly repeating his hard work.
He wished he lived closer to the city. Even though Britain has come a long way in improving the discriminatory sentiments against magic-users, there still existed those with strong opinions against sorcerers living amongst regular humans. Therefore, most people with magical abilities and other “oddities” dwelled in the outskirts of the cities in quaint little houses typically put together by a mixture of manual labor and intermediate-level crafting spells.
“Do you think Mr. Windibank intentionally gave me a faulty spell book, Iris?”
The unusual familiar, which presented as a small bear cub, made no sound or sign of answering the question and simply lounged by the windowsill, looking at the man expectantly.
“Yes, yes, I know. I will be sure to return with the fruits you fancy so much. And perhaps I shall throw in a bit of honey if you behave yourself while I’m gone,” the warlock promised as he headed out the door.
Iris was a self-reliant creature who was more than capable of staying home by herself for long periods of time. Sometimes, the warlock wondered if she even needed him at all. After all, he went through lengths to have his own familiar in the first place. On some days, it almost seemed she regretted her decision to connect with him; however, he was always proven wrong when the little cub welcomed him home with unique, rare ingredients for his cauldron without asking. Iris was sometimes difficult to read, but he believed there was genuine affection there.
He smiled softly and rested both hands on his broomstick, shutting the door behind him.
Barok avoided the gazes of various strangers as he strolled about, looking for an adequate location to purchase the items he needed for the day. Accommodations for vampires were generally lacking, as it was difficult to ethically sustain their inherent bloodlust. Still, there were shops where he could purchase pints of blood, usually from a slaughtered animal instead of an actual human, which he found satisfactory to quell his appetite in most cases. It was no question that people were fearful of him. Humankind even bestowed him his very own moniker, ‘The Reaper of the Bailey.’ In such a world, normal humans made up a little over ninety percent of the population, with the rest being supernatural creatures of some kind. Of course, it was not until relatively recently that those with mystical qualities felt comfortable coming out of hiding after millennia of blending in with humanity.
He purchased an adequate supply from the sketchy vendor—he knew that he could trust the authenticity of the blood sold here—to last him a couple of days, the sealed bags of plasma nestled neatly inside a bag he carried at his side.
On his trek back to his manor, he heard something off. A draft of wind hit him from the back, and a man on a broom yelled from the sky in distress, spinning out of control before finally crashing into Barok before the vampire had any chance to move.
The warlock was aghast and scrambled quickly to his feet, eyes wide and blabbering apologies as if his life depended on it. He could have sworn that the blond man was close to tears as he begged for his life. Barok raised an eyebrow as the warlock bowed his head and clasped his hands.
“I am woefully sorry, Mr. Vampire! I lost control of my broom, you see. I tried to slow down, but alas. I completely understand if you want compensation for this, but I must inform you that I haven’t much money… Sorcery doesn’t pay well these days, it’s most unfortunate.”
Good Lord, he was acting like Barok was going to eat him alive.
Barok took a brief moment to gather his things and returned to look at the man, glaring at the mess of blond hair before responding.
“I am not interested in anything you have to offer. Next time, do not fly if you lack control of your bearing. You will put innocent people at risk since you lack every semblance of care and caution. Now, excuse me.”
And just like that, Barok continued walking past the young man, much to the sorcerer’s surprise.
“Just wait a minute! I can make it up to you, at least. One of your blood bags is leaking out, Mr. Vampire.”
“I have more.”
“I know a retrieval spell for this if you would give me the chance—”
“I do not require your help. Stop following me before I lose my patience.”
“It’s honestly swift, I wouldn’t want you to starve—”
Irritated, Barok stopped in his tracks and turned to fully face the man with a scowl. However, what he saw struck a conglomeration of emotions in his heart.
Vibrant emerald eyes, soft blonde hair…
He had seen many people with such features, but none of them had those same droopy eyes and facial structure as his late wife, therefore the man’s appearance had stunned him. The resemblance was so uncanny that it was almost painful to bear the sight of him. Consumed in a trance, Barok started to reach for him, only to stop himself just in time before the man noticed.
Sharlene… You’re alive…
“I’m Sherlock Holmes," the man started, snapping Barok out of his trance, "pleased to make your acquaintance."
Sherlock… Holmes?
"I must say you’re the first vampire I have seen in a long time.”
Right, this was wishful thinking on Barok’s part. How could he ever think…
Barok examined the wizard’s appearance thoroughly this time, visually inciting discomfort within the man. Holmes simply smiled sheepishly and tightened his grip on his defective broom as Barok’s scrutinizing gaze paralyzed him.
While his face was similar to hers, there were areas in which the warlock differed. The first, most obvious observation was that he was male. Secondly, he was far taller than her. Sharlene had been tall for a woman, standing at 177 centimeters, but this man significantly outmatched her in height—he had to have been at least 183 centimeters tall. Thirdly, Sharlene had no magic to speak of. She certainly never mentioned it or made it known to anyone if she did. The woman did have a penchant for keeping some secrets, but he felt that he would have at least known that she possessed a magical gift. Though, it was possible that due to the stigma of witches of the time, she kept such information hidden. From what he remembers, they had been a regular human couple just starting their lives together.
Furthermore, ‘Sherlock Holmes’ did sound incredibly similar to ‘Sharlene Sholmes.’ Even still, the woman has been dead for centuries.
“As much as I am flattered by the attention, would it not be polite to know your name as well?”
Oh. The warlock was blushing. How long had he been staring at him? He had to have been for quite some time, judging by the diffident expression on Holmes’ face.
“Barok van Zieks,” he uttered pensively.
Suddenly, Holmes fell quiet for a moment, pure horror on his face as he looked at his broom. It seemed that he had just realized that the wooden pole had snapped in half. Barok watched the man fall to his knees and pull at his hair; those green eyes filled with anguish. Evidently, it was a prized possession.
“My broom! Oh, today has been simply horrid! How am I supposed to return home when my only source of transportation is in smithereens?!”
Not quite torn asunder. A brief observation said the broom was easily mendable with the right tools. Then again, Barok was merely a vampire and had limited knowledge about enchanted materials. Perhaps the broom really has lost its function so readily.
“Poor Iris, the trek back is nearly a day’s journey!”
…
Iris?
That name…
It was the height of a bright summer afternoon, just a week after their wedding. The intriguing conversation from before had been brought up again.
“With a man like you, we would most certainly create a girl. Besides, female children are common in my maternal lineage.”
“What do you mean by ‘A man like me’?”
He could have sworn he saw her smirk before she raised her hand to giggle behind it.
“Oh, come now. You carry yourself with such grace and elegance. I dare say you would embarrass the Queen in her own court.”
It was true. Barok’s impeccable posture never faltered or slouched as they strolled together in the garden. Sharlene held her parasol over the sun’s rays between them with the rod resting on her left shoulder. Barok thumbed the ring on Sharlene’s right hand, at ease as he listened to the birds whistle and the plants sway in the zephyr.
“How treasonous,” Barok replied with a half-hearted scoff, “Remind me to never invite you along with me on the occasion that I am summoned.”
“You know, quite a handful of men are kind to their wives. I do wonder when you will take after them,” Sharlene retorted in her usual flirtatious manner. It was never-ending banter with this woman.
“Pray, forgive the discourtesy of not worshiping the ground you walk on.”
Sharlene chuckled and leaned more onto Barok, her arm interlocking with his. There were a few beats of silence before she finally spoke again.
“…Do you remember? On my birthday in January. You gave me a bouquet of roses and irises a couple of months into our relationship. I know not how you managed it, but you cultivated those beautiful flowers in a season where they should not have been viable.”
Yes, he remembers. Barok had used the assistance of a greenhouse and handpicked a striking bouquet for his lover. Roses to show his passion and love, and irises to show his trust and hope for their future. He remembered thinking that he rarely expressed his true emotions to her—physically—and that it was time to make a switch.
Barok nodded affirmatively, and Sharlene continued.
“Iris will be her name… Barok, I… I want to share a part of myself with you…”
“Sharlene…”
“For goodness’ sake, man, my name is Sherlock. I thought vampires were supposed to have fantastic memory? No matter, I have to get going before the sun sets. I’m afraid I can no longer fly.”
“I can take you,” Barok offered a little too quickly.
“What?” Holmes was taken aback.
Barok stepped back and lengthened his jet-black wings, his blue eyes alight and staring deep into Holmes’ soul. The magnificent sight was unlike anything the warlock has ever seen.