oneman_onevote | Extremely melodramatic AU: The revenge!

The castle is chill, in the hallways, and dark apart from pools of light created by torches placed at wide intervals on the walls.

Havelock is moving, if possible, even more silently than usual. He'd be twitchy if that wasn't a surefire way to mess up your stealth. The shadows are blending obligingly around him, more strongly here than they had in the bar.

Puck can take care of himself, he knows that, but also holds out no hope that any of this is going to be particularly pleasant.

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Puck has been engaged in a mission of reconnaissance with the castle bats. All such castles have bats, of course, typically loyal to the master or mistress of the house, and Puck's hope initially was to infiltrate their ranks and follow Havelock about undetected.

Unfortunately, due either to the natural cliquishness of bats or to his garbled Uberwald dialect, the creatures have by and large rejected him.

Which leaves a lone bat hanging at the ceiling in a large number of the places Havelock happens to be.

The bat's presence is both massively unsubtle and strangely comforting.

It is early dusk, by this time, and Havelock has mostly spent the time exploring. For a castle he had been in for several days, it is oddly difficult to map out in his mind, and he still occasionally comes across places he doesn't recognise as he goes from room to room.

(He only skips two rooms - each of them contains a coffin. One has the lid closed, and the other stands conspicuously open and empty.)

As the night begins to draw in outside, more candles are lit without apparent outside agency.

Puck takes note of the two avoided rooms, and isn't sure why he expected there to be more vampires flitting about the place.

Perhaps because it is no comfort to him that Havelock should be an especial favorite of the lady's. He has always been Puck's own most dearly kept secret.

At any rate, as night begins to fall, the solitary bat resists the urge to light upon Havelock's shoulder or hang from the underside of his elbow.

Unsubtle is one thing; pointlessly reckless is another.

... In Puck's mind, anyway.

Havelock understands that there are some who like to band together, particularly the younger ones - but it seems that they become solitary creatures the older they grow.

The room in which they have stopped, for now, is very large and grand - roaring fire, dramatic chandeliers, impressive drapes hanging from the high ceiling - despite the armchairs, which are distinctly pink and... chintz-y. One of them has some knitting left on the arm.

There is a bare patch in front of the fire where the carpet is missing. Havelock stops there, regarding the fire impassively. It is probably by somebody's design that the warm light of the fire makes vampiric skin look warm and alive.

The bat looks left.

And it looks right.

And, after a moment's hard decision, it does flap down to Havelock's shoulder, whereupon it resolves itself unto a delicate-legged spider.

Because spiders = totally subtle.

This one's even small.

"Still not sleeping, boy?"

From behind them, without the door opening, soft white mist resolves into a woman with dark eyes that rest lightly on the back of Havelock's head.

She is dressed like somebody's wealthy and slightly old-fashioned mother; soft wool cardigan, sensible skirt, pearls. Only the length of her teeth and the look in her eyes marks her as something dangerous.

That, and the little embroidered bats around her neckline.

"You only inconvenience yourself, you know."

Havelock tenses, just a little.

"Then I will continue in the knowledge that it burdens no-one," he says flatly, before turning.

Control is all very well, but having her behind him makes his neck itch.

"My lady."

It may be difficult to envision a little spider's hackles raising, but that is precisely what happens.

He knew who occupied the second coffin, of course, but somehow actually seeing her, so close and speaking to Havelock as if she had any right to, rekindles the desire in him to tear out her throat.

Presuming that would do any good.

Not much, sadly.

Margolotta rolls her eyes delicately at Havelock, and shrugs.

"You have the time to get over these things," she says briskly. "Come, now. Vhat do you wish to learn tonight?"

Havelock eyes her.

(And, for the record, tries to telepathically soothe the spider. It fails, because he doesn't actually know how to do that.)

"Control is still a problem," he says unwillingly. "That first."

The spider would be highly offended if it knew Havelock were attempting any such thing!

As things stand, he's not certain he ought to stay for this. He scuttles over the back of Havelock's shoulder and down to the floor-- which, as prime spider-stompy territory, is quickly vacated for a safe spot above the fireplace.

Margolotta laughs.

"Havelock, you have had less than a veek. This is very normal. You vill do fine on your own, I think."

She reaches out a hand to him, imperious and fond.

"Your physical capabilities need vork. Bring me a sword, and let us see the difference from last time, hmm?"

Havelock looks vaguely mutinous, but turns automatically. There is a rack beside the fireplace filled with various forms of elegant weaponry.

He looks uncharacteristically hesitant about choosing one.

Margolotta examines her fingernails calmly.

"Automatic control vill come in time. Precision and subtlety is more difficult. And you vill need those, yes?"

She extends a haughty hand for a sword hilt.

Havelock exhales slowly, and nods, drawing two blades from the rack before turning and offering one to her, hilt first.

"I will."

Margolotta nods once.

"Good."

Her attack is sudden, a quick stab to the chest that he would have missed last time they tried this.

He deflects it almost without thinking, a classic parry that matches her speed, and she smiles at him.

"Yes."

She lunges again, to begin the fight properly.

She is very good.

And so is he, but... his training and his speed and strength don't mesh yet, because he hasn't tested them. It shows.

Margolotta halts them after a few minutes, her hand catching the wrist that holds his sword, her own laid flat against his throat.

"You don't know yourself anymore. You need to forget the past, or you cannot make use of the present."

His jaw is set, but he says nothing, waiting to be released.

Puck has been watching.

He's been very good about watching, in fact, with his spider-hands folded neatly in his spider-lap (metaphorically speaking). It's the proper thing to do to leave Havelock to it; he has made quite the good start, and he is-- even as he is now, after his transformation-- a thrill to see with a weapon.

It wouldn't do to interfere.

It could quite spoil his confidence.

But Puck hates Margolotta so, so much.

There's not a great deal he can do about the sword itself at the moment, cold steel being constituted in a large part out of iron, but all at once, the grip and the guard and the pommel of her sword--

Turn into grape jelly.

Havelock's ability to remain expressionless has been tested before.

But suddenly it is far more of an effort than it usually is.

He stands perfectly still - the sword is still sharp, unhilted though it may be, and raises one polite eyebrow.

Margolotta's head inclines slowly to one side, regarding the gently melting handle.

"Vell now," she says, accent slightly more pronounced than usual, and looks up at him as if to read the thoughts behind his eyes.

"That vasn't you, Havelock."

The idea had been that with its handle rendered viscous, the blade would slip free and clatter to uselessness on the floor, but Puck admittedly does not have the universe's best grasp of physics.

The spider has disappeared mysteriously off the mantel, by now-- but when Margolotta speaks, bright laughter echoes throughout the room, quickly stifled like somebody putting their hands to a ringing bell.

He can apologize to Havelock later, if need be.

Oh dear.

Ah well, work with what you have.

"No," he says softly. "It wasn't."

"Hmm," she says, lowering her own sword, and releasing his wrist. She leans the sticky weapon* against the wall, and pulls out a handkerchief to dry her hands.

"And who might you be?"

* There is no way to write that without it sounding like a euphemism, sadly.

"Oh, I might be any number of whos, I suppose."

Between the fire and the weapons rack, there manifests a short, slim fellow with tousled hair and bright, reckless eyes.

His arms are folded over his chest; he looks very amused.

"I'm terribly sorry-- you did seem to be in the middle of something."