He Spoke of Want || Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (Abe/Henry)
Title: He Spoke of Want
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Abe/Henry (bookverse)
Word Count: 2,000
Warnings: slight self-harm
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned or played with in this piece. This is merely based on fictional representations of historical-ish events and characters from Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.
Summary: "You're not a monster." Sort of post-canon.
There's a bed and a voice. He feels as though he knows this scene well.
"Abraham, you're awake," says the voice and of course he knows this; it's Henry. "How do you feel?"
He considers the answer. Considers the answer deeply, because he's not so certain himself. How does he feel?
A theatre, the boys, a bullet--like a flood, it comes rushing in. These shackles are metal and there is a look on Henry's face and something isn't right because he feels the trepidation rising within himself but there is no warmth, no heartbeat. This isn't right at all.
How does he feel? He feels sick.
Much like the time before, he refuses to eat, refuses to listen. He berates his captor about tyranny and imprisonment, for he does not know this man who reads to him every day. Henry is not Henry because Abe is not Abe. And this is not at all like before.
If ever he starts off on resisting Henry's helpful gestures only to feel his new pair of murderous fangs protruding where there should be teeth, he pays little mind.
When the madness induced by hunger sets in, he allows Henry to spoon-feed him pig blood. He feels his strength return, but the sensation is overpowered by disgust and anger. He turns toward the wall and his tears burn on his cheeks.
"I swear to you, my friend, it gets easier," he hears Henry say like a plea.
Always, the question is why and the answer is insufficient. There is a cruelty in Henry's patience and understanding. Abe no longer buys into Henry's comforting lies. Abe is not a boy anymore. Nor is he a man, for that matter.
You are your best weapon, Henry tells him.
"Anything you've wanted," Henry offers, "you can now take as your own. The impossible is yours to have."
"Must I remind you that I'm still chained to a wall?" he replies bitterly. He receives no real answer. If anything, Abe finds Henry's expression to be unreadable. He doesn't understand what Henry could possibly be hiding from him; every article of bad news has already been made apparent. "How many days have you kept me here?"
"23 days," Henry answers without pretense.
He wishes he knew if that was the truth.
He feels his own resistance crumbling beneath his feet and this infuriates him. Now and then, he feels as though he is 16 again, a vindictive tenacity bubbling under his skin. All the while, the familiarity of Henry's strange persistence comes to him as a threatening reminder of their past life together and everything that came along with it.
But no. He'd been cast off from that life the moment he was ripped from the embrace of death, assuming that life ever existed. More and more, he wonders if those memories are even his own. His only constant is Henry. Henry who waits on Abe. Who tests him, watches him. But for what?
"You say you want freedom," Henry says gravely, sitting at the edge of Abe's bed. "So go ahead--take it for yourself. I want you to drink from me."
"What?"
This is new. Perhaps Abe isn't the only one losing his mind.
"There is no fortification in the animal blood that I feed you. You need human blood."
"You are no human," Abe scoffs.
Henry cuts into his own wrist and fresh, hot blood flows from the wound. The scent is intoxicating. It pervades the senses in ways unimaginable. The blood is all that Abe can see.
A day--maybe two days later, Abe feels restless and smothered, more than he ever had before. He can feel this new strength inside him. He pulls against the chains around his wrists and they break with ease.
Henry is nearby, Abe can smell him. He smells of herbal oils and dusty books and the blood that has stuck in Abe's mind ever since his first taste of it.
Henry chances upon him in the library, not a single hint of surprise on his face. "Good to see you out of your room, Abraham. How would you feel about going outside?"
In moonlight, Abe relearns the sensations of the outside. The wind is harsher and the earth is coarser than he remembers. Nonetheless, he knows that soon it will grow to yield beneath his touch.
He craves blood and he suspects that Henry knows this as well. He has gone months devoid of interacting with or seeing people, save for Henry. For now, his company is enough.
He never thought it possible to lust after the blood of other vampires. Or, rather, one vampire. Just Henry's. He wants it more than anything.
Anything you've wanted...
Despite the vastness of Henry's mansion or the wide open space of the woods, Abe's proximity to Henry is nearly constant. He cannot help but indulge in it. It's his scent and his presence, burning sweetly in Abe's senses like a dull ache.
At times, when he is doubtless that Henry has noticed, Henry lingers closely, a feigned obliviousness. Abe looms over him with a want that grows like a gathering storm, yet in the back of his mind, he knows it's Henry who will tear him asunder.
"How badly do you want it?"
"Badly enough." And Henry will give it to him.
Won't he?
"What will you do when you're surrounded by dozens of warm, enticing bodies? What then when the hunger is unbearable? When there is enough hot, pulsing blood at your disposal that your whole body rings out with want, would you reach out and take it?"
"You speak of freedom and bind me to a wall," Abe spits with contempt. "You entertain my want and lecture me on restraint."
"There lies a difference between motivation and desire. This is crucial for you to come to understand," he says simply, like a slap in the face.
He becomes addicted to exploring his newfound strength. Abe spends as much time training outside as he can. He tests his limits, tests Henry's limits.
Sunlight burns his skin, even when covered in salve. At the first sight of dawn, the night's chill clings to shadows in the face of approaching daylight. Abe, however, welcomes the sun. With eyes shut, he lets the newborn rays prickle and eat away at him until Henry becomes rather panicked.
Henry feels conflicted in training him, Abe can tell. He knows that Abe intends to flee and never return. The day Abe is strong enough, he most certainly will. And Henry will allow this, Abe is certain of it.
It becomes a dance, of sorts. He takes a step closer to the edge, closer to Henry. And Henry either pulls him away from the edge or pulls himself away from Abe. But today is different. Today, Henry pulls him closer, a hand tightly around his wrist.
"Who are you?" Henry asks and Abe wonders if this is a confession or a diagnosis.
"What would you have me answer? Are you not my god and master who commanded me from the cradle and the grave?"
"Abraham," he says, perhaps as a reminder. The insistence of Henry's grasp falls away and leaves nothing more than gentle contact. "Who did you want to be before your life was ruled by vengeance? How old were you before you assigned your life to such a cause?"
"It was far too long ago."
"Try to remember."
He doesn't understand why but he dedicates a night to writing, not training. Henry doesn't comment on it and neither does Abe.
When he was 16 and vengeful, he had spent hour upon hour in awe of the multitude of books Henry owned. He once memorized the spines, the pages, the words. Decades later and Henry's ever-expanding collection of books has remained somewhat familiar. Today, he revisits old books, revisits Shakespeare. And in all he has to choose from, he returns to Macbeth.
"Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."
"What a sigh is there. The heart is sorely charged," Henry responds, knows it well. A stillness is cast upon the room. Henry observes and Abe pretends not to notice. "You're not a monster."
"But I am."
"Tell me."
"In sleep, I can hear the beating hearts of men," he explains, casting his book aside. He takes a pointless breath. Old habits. "I can hear them from miles away and all I feel is hunger. This power leaves me with nothing more than intoxication. I'm as good as an addict. These thoughts of want have overtaken me. Surely, you've never fallen to such lows."
"You know me less than I thought you did," he says, so sure. "Pay heed to your thoughts, Abraham. What you are does not define who you are. Certainly, we are not the same, but God forbid you ever believe that I am a better man than you. You are still yourself, despite new circumstance. Find your footing and, I swear to you, it will get easier."
For the first time in what feels like a very long while, Abe lays eyes on a newspaper. Henry had brought it in with him and set it down on a table. The date on the heading tells Abe little about how long he's been dead. How long had it been before Henry reawakened him? What day was it when he died? What good does it do to remember these dates and numbers?
"I can never see Mary again. Or my sons. Not like this," he realizes aloud. "They can never know what I've become. Are they going to be alright?"
He doesn't hope for an answer. He wishes he could console his family in the face of all this grief he has caused them. He thinks of his family. He thinks of their future. It's like looking down the maw of the unknown, like reaching out into the dark and only feeling the thick of dark nothingness.
"You can continue to look after them, you know. Indirectly."
He can't. He absolutely can't. Day one and that life had already been ripped from his hands. Who can he be to that life now, if not himself? A drunken despondence washes over him like a feverish chill. Abe can only bring himself to grin into his hands like a man finally accepting death. Hands covering his face, he says, "You brought me back for a reason. Why?"
It's not the first time he's asked this. This time, however, Abe knows Henry won't evade the question.
"Because I couldn't bear it," he answers, reluctantly but truthfully. "I couldn't bear the loss of you."
"What makes you any diff--"
"I'm greedier than most," Henry interjects, a concession of guilt. But then he adds quietly, "Perhaps I wanted too much. I wanted you for my own. I saw a way to do it and I let power get the better of me."
Hearing this is not entirely cathartic. It's flimsy and outrageous, but Abe knows it to be true. And, better yet, he understands. He understands all of it. What a fool Abe has been.
When Abe kisses him, it's neither a win nor a loss. In this, there is no score to be kept. It's not something he's taken for himself simply because he can. It's slow and the sensation that blooms along the edges of Abe's senses feels nothing like conquest or addiction. It's more like redemption, for the both of them.
He'll stay, Abe decides. And Henry will allow this, Abe is certain of it.
"Who are you?" Henry asks once more, but not like a challenge or an accusation. It's a reassurance.
"I'm Abe Lincoln," he answers with humor. "Vampire, vampire hunter, and former president."
How does he feel? He feels alright.
---------
Macbeth quote from Act V, scene I. Lines 52-56.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Abe/Henry (bookverse)
Word Count: 2,000
Warnings: slight self-harm
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned or played with in this piece. This is merely based on fictional representations of historical-ish events and characters from Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.
Summary: "You're not a monster." Sort of post-canon.
There's a bed and a voice. He feels as though he knows this scene well.
"Abraham, you're awake," says the voice and of course he knows this; it's Henry. "How do you feel?"
He considers the answer. Considers the answer deeply, because he's not so certain himself. How does he feel?
A theatre, the boys, a bullet--like a flood, it comes rushing in. These shackles are metal and there is a look on Henry's face and something isn't right because he feels the trepidation rising within himself but there is no warmth, no heartbeat. This isn't right at all.
How does he feel? He feels sick.
Much like the time before, he refuses to eat, refuses to listen. He berates his captor about tyranny and imprisonment, for he does not know this man who reads to him every day. Henry is not Henry because Abe is not Abe. And this is not at all like before.
If ever he starts off on resisting Henry's helpful gestures only to feel his new pair of murderous fangs protruding where there should be teeth, he pays little mind.
When the madness induced by hunger sets in, he allows Henry to spoon-feed him pig blood. He feels his strength return, but the sensation is overpowered by disgust and anger. He turns toward the wall and his tears burn on his cheeks.
"I swear to you, my friend, it gets easier," he hears Henry say like a plea.
Always, the question is why and the answer is insufficient. There is a cruelty in Henry's patience and understanding. Abe no longer buys into Henry's comforting lies. Abe is not a boy anymore. Nor is he a man, for that matter.
You are your best weapon, Henry tells him.
"Anything you've wanted," Henry offers, "you can now take as your own. The impossible is yours to have."
"Must I remind you that I'm still chained to a wall?" he replies bitterly. He receives no real answer. If anything, Abe finds Henry's expression to be unreadable. He doesn't understand what Henry could possibly be hiding from him; every article of bad news has already been made apparent. "How many days have you kept me here?"
"23 days," Henry answers without pretense.
He wishes he knew if that was the truth.
He feels his own resistance crumbling beneath his feet and this infuriates him. Now and then, he feels as though he is 16 again, a vindictive tenacity bubbling under his skin. All the while, the familiarity of Henry's strange persistence comes to him as a threatening reminder of their past life together and everything that came along with it.
But no. He'd been cast off from that life the moment he was ripped from the embrace of death, assuming that life ever existed. More and more, he wonders if those memories are even his own. His only constant is Henry. Henry who waits on Abe. Who tests him, watches him. But for what?
"You say you want freedom," Henry says gravely, sitting at the edge of Abe's bed. "So go ahead--take it for yourself. I want you to drink from me."
"What?"
This is new. Perhaps Abe isn't the only one losing his mind.
"There is no fortification in the animal blood that I feed you. You need human blood."
"You are no human," Abe scoffs.
Henry cuts into his own wrist and fresh, hot blood flows from the wound. The scent is intoxicating. It pervades the senses in ways unimaginable. The blood is all that Abe can see.
A day--maybe two days later, Abe feels restless and smothered, more than he ever had before. He can feel this new strength inside him. He pulls against the chains around his wrists and they break with ease.
Henry is nearby, Abe can smell him. He smells of herbal oils and dusty books and the blood that has stuck in Abe's mind ever since his first taste of it.
Henry chances upon him in the library, not a single hint of surprise on his face. "Good to see you out of your room, Abraham. How would you feel about going outside?"
In moonlight, Abe relearns the sensations of the outside. The wind is harsher and the earth is coarser than he remembers. Nonetheless, he knows that soon it will grow to yield beneath his touch.
He craves blood and he suspects that Henry knows this as well. He has gone months devoid of interacting with or seeing people, save for Henry. For now, his company is enough.
He never thought it possible to lust after the blood of other vampires. Or, rather, one vampire. Just Henry's. He wants it more than anything.
Anything you've wanted...
Despite the vastness of Henry's mansion or the wide open space of the woods, Abe's proximity to Henry is nearly constant. He cannot help but indulge in it. It's his scent and his presence, burning sweetly in Abe's senses like a dull ache.
At times, when he is doubtless that Henry has noticed, Henry lingers closely, a feigned obliviousness. Abe looms over him with a want that grows like a gathering storm, yet in the back of his mind, he knows it's Henry who will tear him asunder.
"How badly do you want it?"
"Badly enough." And Henry will give it to him.
Won't he?
"What will you do when you're surrounded by dozens of warm, enticing bodies? What then when the hunger is unbearable? When there is enough hot, pulsing blood at your disposal that your whole body rings out with want, would you reach out and take it?"
"You speak of freedom and bind me to a wall," Abe spits with contempt. "You entertain my want and lecture me on restraint."
"There lies a difference between motivation and desire. This is crucial for you to come to understand," he says simply, like a slap in the face.
He becomes addicted to exploring his newfound strength. Abe spends as much time training outside as he can. He tests his limits, tests Henry's limits.
Sunlight burns his skin, even when covered in salve. At the first sight of dawn, the night's chill clings to shadows in the face of approaching daylight. Abe, however, welcomes the sun. With eyes shut, he lets the newborn rays prickle and eat away at him until Henry becomes rather panicked.
Henry feels conflicted in training him, Abe can tell. He knows that Abe intends to flee and never return. The day Abe is strong enough, he most certainly will. And Henry will allow this, Abe is certain of it.
It becomes a dance, of sorts. He takes a step closer to the edge, closer to Henry. And Henry either pulls him away from the edge or pulls himself away from Abe. But today is different. Today, Henry pulls him closer, a hand tightly around his wrist.
"Who are you?" Henry asks and Abe wonders if this is a confession or a diagnosis.
"What would you have me answer? Are you not my god and master who commanded me from the cradle and the grave?"
"Abraham," he says, perhaps as a reminder. The insistence of Henry's grasp falls away and leaves nothing more than gentle contact. "Who did you want to be before your life was ruled by vengeance? How old were you before you assigned your life to such a cause?"
"It was far too long ago."
"Try to remember."
He doesn't understand why but he dedicates a night to writing, not training. Henry doesn't comment on it and neither does Abe.
When he was 16 and vengeful, he had spent hour upon hour in awe of the multitude of books Henry owned. He once memorized the spines, the pages, the words. Decades later and Henry's ever-expanding collection of books has remained somewhat familiar. Today, he revisits old books, revisits Shakespeare. And in all he has to choose from, he returns to Macbeth.
"Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."
"What a sigh is there. The heart is sorely charged," Henry responds, knows it well. A stillness is cast upon the room. Henry observes and Abe pretends not to notice. "You're not a monster."
"But I am."
"Tell me."
"In sleep, I can hear the beating hearts of men," he explains, casting his book aside. He takes a pointless breath. Old habits. "I can hear them from miles away and all I feel is hunger. This power leaves me with nothing more than intoxication. I'm as good as an addict. These thoughts of want have overtaken me. Surely, you've never fallen to such lows."
"You know me less than I thought you did," he says, so sure. "Pay heed to your thoughts, Abraham. What you are does not define who you are. Certainly, we are not the same, but God forbid you ever believe that I am a better man than you. You are still yourself, despite new circumstance. Find your footing and, I swear to you, it will get easier."
For the first time in what feels like a very long while, Abe lays eyes on a newspaper. Henry had brought it in with him and set it down on a table. The date on the heading tells Abe little about how long he's been dead. How long had it been before Henry reawakened him? What day was it when he died? What good does it do to remember these dates and numbers?
"I can never see Mary again. Or my sons. Not like this," he realizes aloud. "They can never know what I've become. Are they going to be alright?"
He doesn't hope for an answer. He wishes he could console his family in the face of all this grief he has caused them. He thinks of his family. He thinks of their future. It's like looking down the maw of the unknown, like reaching out into the dark and only feeling the thick of dark nothingness.
"You can continue to look after them, you know. Indirectly."
He can't. He absolutely can't. Day one and that life had already been ripped from his hands. Who can he be to that life now, if not himself? A drunken despondence washes over him like a feverish chill. Abe can only bring himself to grin into his hands like a man finally accepting death. Hands covering his face, he says, "You brought me back for a reason. Why?"
It's not the first time he's asked this. This time, however, Abe knows Henry won't evade the question.
"Because I couldn't bear it," he answers, reluctantly but truthfully. "I couldn't bear the loss of you."
"What makes you any diff--"
"I'm greedier than most," Henry interjects, a concession of guilt. But then he adds quietly, "Perhaps I wanted too much. I wanted you for my own. I saw a way to do it and I let power get the better of me."
Hearing this is not entirely cathartic. It's flimsy and outrageous, but Abe knows it to be true. And, better yet, he understands. He understands all of it. What a fool Abe has been.
When Abe kisses him, it's neither a win nor a loss. In this, there is no score to be kept. It's not something he's taken for himself simply because he can. It's slow and the sensation that blooms along the edges of Abe's senses feels nothing like conquest or addiction. It's more like redemption, for the both of them.
He'll stay, Abe decides. And Henry will allow this, Abe is certain of it.
"Who are you?" Henry asks once more, but not like a challenge or an accusation. It's a reassurance.
"I'm Abe Lincoln," he answers with humor. "Vampire, vampire hunter, and former president."
How does he feel? He feels alright.
---------
Macbeth quote from Act V, scene I. Lines 52-56.