#cecilio vtm | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blanketempress · 7 months

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One final night

Plot : I got a little carried away and wrote something for Mariella. A conversation with Cecilio right after she died. Set in 1962.

Warnings : a bit of gore here and there. Reflection on parental abuse.

Length : 2600 words give or take

Setting : Vampire the Masquerade - our Los Angeles campaign

this is backstory for backstory characters who never show up in the campaign itself

Her breath escapes as white smoke from her lips. If only it was cigarette smoke.

The mausoleum was never her favorite place. Understatement. Cecilio’s weird lab is, always has been, fucking creepy. Now though, there’s something strangely comforting about it. A familiarity, the whispers that used to usher her away now murmuring welcome home, welcome home. The air clings to her form, wrapping around her, thick, like a coat. Dragging her.. elsewhere.

It’s always been cold. Not that she can really feel it anymore. Everywhere is cold. Everything. Everyone.

Her eyes drift back to Cecilio. He’s humming to himself. Or to her? She’s lying in front of him, unmoving, she can see herself from where she’s sitting, on the edge of the table. Funny how that works. His hands are gentle on her skin, she can see it. Cleaning away the gore, mending what still can be mended. He’s not looking at her, not really. Neither the corpse, nor the ghost. There’s only the task at hand, preparations he must have done a hundred times.

It’s almost touching, really. Like a parent tending to their child’s bath. One last time. Something stirs at the thought. The gentle twirl of air seems to heat up. It’s not relief, it’s anger. Burning.

“Where’s Livia ?”

The question escapes translucent lips, along with a wisp of smoke. From the corner of her eye she can see that he’s stopped, only for a second. He heard. He takes his time, cleaning up a sponge, wetting it with hot water to try to erase the traces of the fight from her face. Hah. Nothing much he can do there. The nose is broken, skin caked in brown dried blood, teeth missing, more than she cares to remember losing.

“Your mother is busy, Mariella.”

Not the right words. She heard them before. Times and times and times again. From her, from tutors, from strangers. On the phone, on letters, scribbled notes left on the kitchen’s counter.

She’s busy, Mariella.

A meeting. An important affair. A business trip.

An empty chair at a recital. A birthday with no messages.

She learned not to expect any. Not from Livia.

She turns again and suddenly forgets the words, the cutting expression.

Not from Livia, no.

“You came for me.”

There were times. Warm embraces. Actual chats. Sure it was boring most of the time. How is school. How did the rehearsal go. When she got into the secrets of the family she realized that none of it had ever been genuine. Still. At least he tried. Even if it had just been some game to him, there had never been a word louder than the other, never an angry glare. Never a hit. Just that unnerving smile. Satisfied, patient.

The same one he is wearing now as he cleans up what was left of her.

“Well, I have come to reclaim every single one of my descendants.”

He nods to the wall, to the hundred alcoves lining it. Some are closed, some are open, some have names. One, she knows is for her. He’s even brought lilies to that one. White ones.

“Why?”

This time, he looks at her. At the ghost sitting on the operation table. The smile is still there, though hesitant. As if he’s wondering if he’ll tell her. Wondering what he’ll tell her.

“Why, because you are mine. You are all my blood. I would never let anyone else get their hands on any of you.”

Possessive. At least that makes sense. At least he doesn’t do her the offense of talking about love and care. His hand is frozen, and he looks down on it. On her face. He did a rather good job actually. Without a heartbeat the blood doesn’t gush out that much, maybe with a bit of makeup and some work the right side might look decent in the end. Unlike the left. Nothing to salvage there. Skull caved right in. At least it had been quick. Not even vampire vitae can heal half a brain. A mercy, compared to what it felt like when her lungs started to fill up with her own blood. Burning, drowning.

She looks away.

“You know-” the voice is Cecilio’s. He’s still staring at his hand. “-your grandmother was a ghoul as well. Not the one you know, no. Anzola. My first wife. You are hers, as well as mine.”

Through the apathy, through the weariness, she still takes the bait.

“What happened to her?”

“Same as you. She died.”

For a moment they both stay quiet. He’s never been one to overshare. She knew, of course. She’d been in the mausoleum more than once. She saw the names on the alcoves. Now there’s a hint of genuine curiosity. As it turns out, she doesn’t need to push him at all to get the rest of the story.

“Her master let her die at my feet. I never got to find her. He was a busy man, you see. Maybe dawn was closing in on him, I cannot say that I remember. He saw that his blood was not enough, so he took me instead, and we left her there.”

It sounds like such a distant memory, like a man describing a painting he has stared at for hours rather than a retelling of a moment filled with grief and anger. Well. He did have centuries to get over it.

He continues.

“When our oldest son died, ah- I was a ghoul still. His master wanted him for himself. So, well… I killed him.” The laugh is genuinely fond. A fondness that strangely doesn’t sound so out of place. And he waves his finger, like a grandfather who let out a family secret. “Don’t you go tell on me. His Sire is still sore about that, you know? Pitiful old man. Anyway- I took my son, and brought him here. It wasn’t much, back then. More of an alchemist’s lair than anything. And that night, I killed my master as well. The funny thing about having a servant who hates you is- no matter how much blood you feed them, if someone comes with more blood, and the promise of your head on a spike, my, my. I still remember his face when he realized how lazy he had grown, and for how long his blood had been replaced in my veins with his enemy’s.”

“And you still were embraced after that?”

“Oh my darling, of course! Granted, it was a gamble. Since I was able to kill a former master, you are very right, my Sire could have feared that I would turn against him as well… But he liked me, and he liked my work. He helped me give my son a decent funeral, and we worked together for the next couple decades. It is a shame that he was killed. Though I can swear I had no part in it, I was rather fond of him… I still have his wraith in my pocket watch!”

That last bit sounds so cheery, the way he grabs the watch to show off is so genuinely excited, Mariella cannot hold back the laugh that escapes her. Only in this fucking family… He places the watch back in his pocket, dark eyes lingering for a second on her translucent shape before turning away again. Back to work. Cosmetics, preservation products. She cannot smell but the memory is vivid enough, mundane enough that she can imagine the chemical and floral scents filling the air.

It takes hours until he’s satisfied. Candles are burning, and weird symbols are traced all around her, all over her white skin. Everything ends, eventually.

The anger is back, burning in her chest. Somehow this time she can feel the edge of the table when she grasps it. Is that really all she can hope for? The care of a half senile, controlling old man, not a single friend, not a single familiar face to say goodbye to. Only the disdain of those who survived, the continued indifference of her mother. Living or dying, it all happens the same, doesn’t it.

Cecilio clears his throat, and there’s the rattle of metal. Tools clattering as they drop back down.

“My, my… Quite powerful already, are you not? I would appreciate it, however, if you left my instruments alone for the time being. You will need some guidance until you can make something out of that energy of yours.”

One blink. The room looks the same. She doesn’t feel the same, though. When she gets up, the stone has chipped under her fingers.

“What if I don’t want to become anything? What if I just want to fade?”

The smile doesn’t wither, but he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t scold her for the outburst. “My darling, you have already made your choice. You want more. Now the real question should be… what is it? It takes a lot of work to bring back something of a person once they are dead, you know? A violent death helps, sure. But you, my dear, you did most of the job all by yourself, I have to say, I am impressed. You will be so beautiful…”

“Oh, shut up Cecilio.”

For a second there’s an old instinct, an old, deep fear ingrained in her surfacing. But it’s not Livia in front of her. It’s an old man, smiling patiently, as if he had dealt with hundreds of petulant children before.

Maybe he will be the last person she ever sees, or talks to. The idea is revulsing. And yet as soon as the first words get out of her mouth, she knows she’ll get them all out. “I’m dead.” Frustration, anger, years and years of shattered hopes, of folding in half for someone else’s plans. Trampled dreams and swallowed bile. “I’m fucking dead, because of her. She knew this mission was compromised, she knew we wouldn’t make it out. She didn’t care to give me a warning. And all she has to say is that she’s busy?” The air trembles again, turning to ice, turning to fire. “You know what? Actually I’m fucking glad she’s not there, she’d only come to let me know how disappointed she is that I failed that mission.”

“Come now, I do not think that she knew.” There’s the smile. Not a trace of worry. Oh, he’s prodding, she knows he’s trying to nudge something, trying to get a reaction out of her. Right now she doesn’t care enough to stop. Too many times tasting blood from biting her tongue, and this time might be the last.

“And that's supposed to make it better? Either she knew and she didn’t care, or she straight up didn’t bother to check anything before sending me in.” There’s a crackling sound, rain on a powerline, and the candles flicker. For all her rage, she still finds it in her to be surprised that her voice hasn’t cracked yet. Instead it booms, bouncing on the walls, reaching sleeping things in the drawers and the alcoves. One tries to rise and she shuts it down with one wave of her hand. “She’s never been there. She was waiting for me to kick it from the day I was born, but she was too proud to off me herself, too much of a coward to face the family if she gave up on me. I was hers. But now I’m not, that must be quite a relief. You want to know what’s fueling me? You want to know why I’m still here? I want her dead. I want to tear her apart and watch her bleed. I want to see her crawl and hear her plead, beg, apologize, anything.”

The last echo fades, the light slowly grows back to normal, candles now half consumed. And all is still again. Quiet.

Cecilio keeps staring, focused, mouth slightly open in a hungry smile, with an intensity that makes him look insane. Drinking her words, admiring her form.

“So what’s with all that?” she asks, eventually, gesturing at the table “You’re going to bind me, but what do you want me to do? Because here it is. You want another watchdog, I want to kill my mother. I don’t see how that’s compatible.”

A laugh, a chuckle really. “Oh my darling. You are already bound. All I did was make sure that it would be stable, and on some fertile soil.” He extends a hand to touch her cheek, and somehow she can feel it. Solid. He catches her tear with a soft brush of his thumb. “Mariella, my heart. I cannot let you achieve your goal. You are very right, I am in the business of making watchers, protectors. I cannot let you harm one of my children, you are my bond to this world, all of you. But yours is this anger. What will become of you once it is gone? I cannot let this happen.”

He turns back to the table and slowly starts snuffing out the candles. One by one. So the ritual is already done, then. Done and over.

Anger is still there, but coiled, dormant for now. Only waiting for a spark to ignite it again.

“You had a very eventful night, my dear.” The voice is soft, exactly that of a parent gently coaxing a child to bed. “Sleep for now. I will make sure that nobody comes to disturb you until you feel rested.”

He put the shroud over her broken body, like a cover, leaving her face visible only for one last kiss on her forehead, a masquerade of affection before he covers it. There’s a finality to it when he turns back.

“Now… Before you go, would it be rude of me to ask you for a little help? I would be able to figure it out with some work, but it will be day soon. May I know what your anchor is? I will take good care of it, I promise…”

She can feel apathy growing again, as if the world started dissolving around her. Or maybe she’s the one slowly fading. She shrugs and points at the other side of the room, at the low table on which her clothes are piled. “My jacket.”

“Ah! Brilliant.”

A pointed look, as if he wants to ask more. Well. She did want to tell someone. She thought she’d get to tell a friend one day. As a funny story maybe.

Beggars aren’t choosers.

“It’s the first thing I bought with my money. Without her breathing down my neck. I hid it for weeks from her. She didn’t care when she saw me wearing it though. Didn’t notice.”

Maybe it’s only fitting to end up as a ghost.

Cecilio nods, folding the jacket with a certain reverence. For a moment Mariella takes the time to really look at him, an old man, a shadow of someone who couldn’t let go of his loved ones. Vampire, ghost. Not much of a difference, is there. Maybe he really could only ever see reflections of his lost love in all of his children. But that was so much more than anyone else gave her. He was there. Fake or not, it was still a comfort. Someone to talk to, someone who cared, no matter why he did.

She holds up her hand, and he seems surprised, almost startled when she puts it to rest over his cheek. Not quite material. Not quite gone yet.

“Hey, gramps?”

“My heart?”

“Thank you.”

Welcome home, the mausoleum says, embracing her.

#how much of Cecilio's attitude is genuine and how much is manipulation is a mystery even to Cecilio #Mariella was 25 when she died btw she was only a ghoul for a few months #the giovamilly late night show #mariella vtm #cecilio vtm

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