#but my dear friend puff rightly pointed out the inherent hilarity of lily being labelled narcissus by a wounded painter

[pinkestlittlebutterfly]

Servamps are immortal, and lead lives that span far back into what we consider the fogs of history today. Every now and then, however, they leave tracks along the paths they walk, whispers of their presence that can be traced through the centuries, leaving an imprint on the world to this day. 

Sometimes this is intentional. Hugh was always conscious of images, and took great care to construct the picture painted of him and his kin in fables and stories and whispers on the street. To be a vampire is to be noble and elegant and a little bit prideful; it’s black velvet capes and charming, fanged smiles and hunting for virgin blood at night, for a dash of purposeful fear to keep away unwanted attention. He’s quite proud of how far his legacy carried. 

Sometimes the traces left are accidental. Kuro would never know, but there is a little patch of land in England, a cluster no bigger than a few, tiny villages, where old, weathered grandmothers still tell the young children the bedtime stories of their youth, of a cat and a wolf that walked together at night. The tales have warped over time, embellished with charming detail of the adventures they would have had together, but if Kuro were to listen in, he’d remember those walks with bittersweet fondness. 

Sometimes remnants of a Servamp’s life are plentiful, proof of their presence brought into tangible form, to be found and locked away centuries later in the dimly lit cellar of a mansion shrouded in secrets. 

Lily spent his immortal life among the noble and eccentric; men with money and time to invest in the beautiful things in life. He mingled with poets and painters, had his fair skin and gold hair woven into songs and sonnets still read to this day, and captured on canvas whenever he did not quite manage to escape another artist looking for a new model. He has been Adonis and Antinuous and Troilus; and once an artist whose advances he rejected named his painting Narcissus. Lily still gets annoyed whenever he lays eyes on it – it was not him who spent hours staring at his face; and he has never had much love for his own beauty.