A fragile sense of peace settled over Myra as consciousness returned, a quiet acceptance blooming in her heart despite the lingering ache in her body. The terror of the night remained a stark memory, a chilling testament to Freya's true nature. Yet, amidst the fear, the overwhelming love she felt for the ancient vampire persisted, a bond forged in unexpected intimacy and a growing understanding that transcended the boundaries of species and mortality. Whatever had happened, whatever Freya was, Myra knew her feelings were real, a deep and unwavering affection that even the brutal reality of the previous night couldn't extinguish.
A slow, hazy awareness began to seep back into Myra’s senses, like the gradual return of light after a long, dark night. Her eyelids felt heavy, gritty, as if glued together, and it took a monumental effort to finally pry them open. Blinking against the muted light filtering through thick, velvet curtains, her vision slowly adjusted, revealing a room she vaguely recognized but hadn't truly seen before in its entirety.
She was lying in a rge, ornate bed draped with heavy, dark fabrics. The wood of the bed frame was intricately carved, hinting at a bygone era of opulence. The room itself was spacious, though dimly lit, the heavy curtains effectively blocking out the harsh midday sun. Dust motes danced in the few shafts of light that managed to penetrate the gloom, creating an ethereal, almost timeless atmosphere.
The air was thick with a strange, almost medicinal scent, a blend of earthy herbs, something faintly metallic, and the underlying familiar fragrance of old wood and aged paper that permeated the entire antique shop. It was a peculiar aroma, both comforting in its familiarity and unsettling in its medicinal sharpness, a clear indication that someone had been tending to her.
A dull, throbbing ache permeated her body, a constant reminder of the previous night’s horrifying events. Her neck and shoulder felt particurly stiff and sore, tender to the touch. Despite the pain, she was dressed in a soft, clean nightgown that she didn’t recognize, a clear sign that someone had carefully tended to her injuries and changed her clothes.
Lifting her head slightly, a wave of dizziness momentarily washed over her. She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the heavy furniture draped with protective cloths, the stacks of antique books piled high on shelves, and the various curious artifacts scattered around. It was undoubtedly Freya’s private chamber, a space she had only glimpsed before. But where was Freya? A knot of worry tightened in Myra’s chest as she realized she was alone.
Just as a fresh wave of anxiety began to wash over Myra at Freya’s absence, the heavy wooden door to the room creaked open, and Freya stepped inside. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her usual fluid grace repced by a weary caution. Her crimson eyes, though still holding a hint of darkness, were fixed on Myra with an intensity that spoke volumes of her concern. She carried a small tray in her hands, upon which rested a steaming cup and a small pte with what looked like finely chopped fruit. The relief that washed over Myra at seeing Freya was immediate and profound, easing the knot of fear that had begun to tighten in her chest.
Freya approached the bedside with a quiet reverence, her gaze never leaving Myra’s face. She pced the tray carefully on a small table beside the bed and then turned her full attention to the still-weak mortal. Her crimson eyes, usually so enigmatic, now held a profound sadness, a weight of guilt and worry that seemed to dim their usual vibrant hue.
With gentle hands, so unlike the brutal grip of the night before, Freya carefully helped Myra to sit up, supporting her back with a tenderness that brought tears pricking at the corners of Myra’s eyes. Her touch was feather-light, mindful of Myra’s injuries, every movement conveying a deep regret and a fervent desire to soothe the pain she had inflicted.
She brought the steaming cup to Myra’s lips, the fragrant aroma of herbs and something subtly sweet filling the air. Freya’s gaze was locked on Myra’s as she encouraged her to drink, her silence speaking volumes. The unspoken apology hung heavy in the air between them, a palpable weight of the previous night’s terror and Freya’s subsequent remorse.
Myra sipped the warm liquid, its soothing warmth easing the rawness in her throat. Freya’s eyes never left hers, and in their depths, Myra saw a silent scream of anguish, a profound sorrow that mirrored the lingering ache in her own body. There were no words of expnation or apology, just a raw, visible remorse and a quiet, unwavering focus on tending to Myra’s needs, a desperate attempt to mend the wounds she had caused, both physical and emotional. Freya’s every action was a silent testament to her regret, her only desire to help Myra recover, to erase the horror of the night before, even though she knew the memory would forever haunt them both.
