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mcsquirmus · 4 months ago

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Mind the Large Print

Cirque du Sang Versé: Prologue.

[a series of third person "reader-insert" one shots from the perspective of.... everyone else but the reader] (save for this chapter we need context, babes.) Part one of a series of commissions I've gotten. I've fallen in love with these characters I was asked to make and I thought I might as well post them. They are currently being cross-posted on my AO3 After becoming more than just a volunteer to a traveling circus' disappearing act, a human finds themselves at the mercy of a coven of hungry strigoi. Luckily their manager Lysander, an unseelie fae, is there to keep them from getting killed. But at what cost?

The box had smelled of cheap pleather and pennies, the air inside was warm.

It was significantly colder when the lamb had first been ushered inside. Innocently stumbling across a creaking wooden stage in front of a throng of faceless onlookers.

Though now, with time, the memory began to fade. The audience warped into some sort of amalgam blob of flesh and sweet, salted concessions. No doubt the memory of their own existence had succumb to a similar fate. A nameless wisp, meekly inching towards a flashy tomb.

At the time, the human had been quite excited to disappear; always wondering what it would be like behind the scenes of the common trick. What they would see as an active participant, as opposed to a part of the herd.

Nothing too interesting, they’d presumed. Being close to the action was all the fun they’d ever wanted. Realistic expectations for ‘magic’ were nothing more than illusions and theatrics. Magicians had always just been actors in tackier suits, after all.

Half of the trick relies on the willingness to play along. How well one could pretend to be confused and bewildered. This further proves their ‘actor’ theory. The trick simply a less elaborate ‘yes, and’ where the only cue was to pretend that the darkness and stale air had been some sort of huge mystery, and not a cleverly tucked compartment in the very back of a tall box. And they’d be right. Tucked away in a cleverly tucked compartment they had been.

But a cue never came.

The human wasn’t sure how long they’d been left to cook, broiled by the hot air of panicked breaths. Clothes clung to skin, dampened by a gross mixture of sweat and spit. They watched the condensation of the combined fluids roll down the wall in front of their face and down to the box floor, like raindrops racing down a windowpane. They didn’t get to place your bet on one in time. The drops had merged into a single stream before the human considered humoring themselves.

Despite the isolation, it’d been far from quiet. The world outside was still bustling. The circus—the world— moved on from the fodders absence frighteningly fast.

Perhaps the crowd expected the act to be finished later in the show. Like the were some cliffhanger to keep the attention like dangling keys in front of a fussy child.

Or perhaps they’d just forgotten about them.

It’s not like they hadn’t started panicking after the mage’s hasty transition. The man eagerly started his next trick seconds after the box had been spun around. The edges briefly brushed through the thick velvet curtains, and then it was as though he hadn’t started the whole thing in the first place.

They’d tried to be lenient—polite. Maybe this was all planned and he hadn’t remembered to remind them.

Five agonizing minutes crawled—or at least what one could liberally assume was five minutes—before they’d begun to call for help. Boisterous cries were drowned out as five minutes turned to ten. Thrashing at fifteen, and the box had toppled onto its side at twenty when they tried to break the plywood hiding the secret cupboard.

The fruitless endeavor left them worn out, having no other option but to lie restlessly on the side of the box until the thunderous applause and curtain calls nailed a coffin shut

“Sign here, here and—” Lysander drags a spindly finger down the toffee-colored parchment. The table quietly hisses in protest when his nails scrape against the wood. “Here for me, please.”

The feather quill feels unnaturally hefty when they hold it between their fingers. It’s agonizing when shaking hands begin the first stroke, begging reconsideration.

Reconsider what, exactly?

Living?

The man’s gaze burns holes in the paper. Each pen stroke is chaperoned by his watchful eye, keeping the nib glued to the parchment.

His hands bridge under his chin. The action fails to hide the excited twitch of his fingers as he follows it going from dotted line to dotted line.

“Very good.” He preens and plucks it from under their hand. In his haste he narrowly avoids smudging the ink. “Quite a lovely signature you have. Your name looks beautiful written out like this…. Yes, quite the signature indeed” A content sigh falls from his lips when he appraises the work. It’s the most expressive they’ve seen him yet. Though, for strangers, that isn’t saying much.

The human can’t bring themselves to look at him. The look on his face makes them feel like a voyeur if they dare glance upward. “And you promise that I have your protection here?”

“Of course you do. My kind isn’t known for their ability to lie.” He leans back in his chair and tucks a strand of hair behind an elongated ear. “What good would lying to you do anyway? Tell me, what would I get out of that?”

“Well, you—”

“Nothing, the answer is nothing.” He looks down at them from over his silver rimmed spectacles. The borderline debauched look on his face is gone with such speed, if it weren’t for the awkward pit in their stomach, the fool would wonder if it had been there at all.

His face falls back to default: cold, disdained judgement. Lysander looks at them like he’s assessing unhealthy cattle— that, or a particularly foul bug infestation. Even though it had been his hand to help them from the box in the first place. His hand to corral down the hall of hungry onlookers. His hand who passed the inkwell to the other side of the desk. “Nothing good comes from your death. To be frank, though, it wouldn’t be a huge deal. But you’re something I’d rather not go through the trouble of replacing so soon…” he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs “They’ve gone through four of you this month alone. We don’t make enough for them to be so frivolous with their eating habits…”

‘Four of you’ They swallow their tongue. While they’d assumed they weren’t the only one to fall victim to this operation, the blatant ambivalence to death made their stomach churn. The human race is all the same. They’re no different from the human stolen the last town over.

“How many people have you offered this deal to?”

“Just you so far.” Lysander leans over the parchment, his pale blue hair forms a curtain around his angular face when it settles onto the desk. His fingers trace the words etched into the document as if he hadn’t drawn it up himself. “We’re in a bit of a pinch, and I’m running out of options. Which is awfully inconvenient for them, seeing as I’m the only option they’ve got.” The fae waves a dismissive hand. “If they go after you, they know then by extension they’re going after me. And it’s best not to bite the hand that feeds—pun not intended.”

“Right, so when you say you’re protecting me… what does that entail exactly?”

A small grin threatens to spread across his face. “You’re only asking this now?” He shakes his head, tutting. “You’d agreed to my terms so eagerly, and yet…”

“I’d assumed it self explanatory when you proposed it to me.”

“Right. And do you not believe it still?”

“No.”

He snorts. “No?”

The lamb wants so much to rip the hair follicles from their head. Assuming the man running this operation to be anything less than some conniving, scum of the earth bastard had been a mistake. And it didn’t seem like a hard mistake to make.

There are a handful of excuses they consider mulling over in order to justify a prolonged lapse in judgement.

The lack of oxygen in that box had gotten to their head, for one. If one chooses to ignore how the door hinges on the other side of the plywood no doubt let in air.

Magic. Sure—they hadn’t known he was at all magical up until they saw him order a hoard of hungry carnies to heel. The way their eyes glazed over, and their bodies froze in place was more than enough to nudge them in the right direction.

And finally, frayed nerves. Obviously, the person helping them out of the box was a good guy, right? A hand coming down from the blinding sky to lift them from a humid tomb.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“If you said that you’ve gone through four humans this month… and it’s—” they fail to recall the exact date. “…early. Then obviously there’s something else, right? There has to be”

Lysander cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t pull away from the table.

“Like, something’s different than usual. I don’t know exactly how many people you usually have, but saying that four is a monumental number for the first week and a half of the month— “

“That much thinking is none of your concern.”

“It is when it’s my problem—”

“Oh, but this isn’t your problem, remember?” Lysander flicks his wrist, and the contract is in his hand, dangling loosely from betwixt his thumb and forefinger. “You are under my protection. That’s why we have this, isn’t it?” He shakes it gingerly for emphasis. “I’m not sure if you’ve thought this far ahead, but it’s only your problem if you’re in danger. Which, in accordance with what is defined here, you are not.”

What?

They lurch forward, eager to take the sheet from his hand. He pulls it away before hands can grasp it, and they fall against the desk.

“You’re confused? Don’t tell me you didn’t read the fine print.” He clicks his tongue. “For shame.” The man turns on his heel and takes a long, elegant step towards the back of the room before clearing his throat. “‘Lysander’s protection shall only be of use if the contractee’s life is in mortal peril. Invoking the contract does not, however, stop the incoming threat. Instead, it keeps the contractee’s heart and soul bound to their body until said danger has passed or until Lysander himself or a designated party arrives to dispel the assailant. This condition is only of use inside circus grounds and nullifies when the contractee is out of reach.’ Though—that last part seems redundant, seeing as you are bound to the backstage until given permission by me. Which at this point in time does not seem likely.”

The next steps towards him are slow, halted by trembling limbs. Be it with rage or fear, one can’t yet discern. Hands itch to pull that damn paper from his hands. To rip it to bits so small there would be no trace left of it. An arm reaches towards him in a fruitless attempt to—

“Sit.”

They’re sat. Legs crumble like sand and they find yourself back in the chair.

Lysander sighs and shakes his head. “Humans are all the same… you assume things simple and get upset when there’s more to it than you thought. Surely a page full of words just meant that I wouldn’t let them eat you, right?” He follows suit and slumps in his seat. The bastard begins lounging back and admires the signature again. “Don’t be upset with me if you didn’t bother to check what you were getting into. Stories of my kind are common enough that you have no right to feign ignorance.”

They open their mouth to protest—

“No. Hush.”

They’re quiet.

“Now, here’s now this is going to work. Because clearly, a refresh is an order.” A sharp nail points past them and to the door. “Out there is a coven of strigoi that need to be fed. Since we’re stuck in this town for the rest of the month and they’re down four cattle, you will be in charge of making sure the cast in are taken care of. When you’re not making yourself useful there, you are to make sure their quarters are clean. After that only then are you allowed to peruse the grounds until next summoned. Do you understand?”

…

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Nod if you understand.”

They nod slowly. They barely feel like moving their head at all. Growing shame and frustration at your own lack of care and attentiveness weigh heavy on their shoulders. Alongside that is the crippling fear that threatens to make their heart beat out of their chest and kill them now.

The sheep wonders if a fear driven heart attack falls under his protective jurisdictions.

“Good.” He waves his hand again and their mouth is free once more to move again. His finger points at them before curling inward. With force they’ve been plucked from the chair as if tugged by string. “Now, Casimir is waiting outside. He’s going to introduce you to the current brood human.” He spins the digit around again and they’ve walked to the door. “Try not to be too mad at him when you see his face, hm?”

They swallow bile when they turn the knob.

“Oh—and one more thing!” Their head whips around, preparing for his next words is like bracing for impact. The parchment floats from his hand and into the air. The ink in which they so easily signed their name pulls itself from the paper. Liquid ink floats in the air around him before the penmanship gently falls into his palm. He looks longingly at it for a moment until he crushes it with all the force of bear trap. The black ichor oozes past his knuckles and down his arm. He raises it to his mouth with an , taking one last look at your horrified face.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

#original character #writeblr #Lysander (mcsquirmus)#Cirque du Sang Verse #hey yall its not my normal vampire series. sorry. these two are NOT at all related so dont even think about it #not a script. its worse. its fiction. its lit #lit... fiction...

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