WILD & WICKED / © yllwjckts
040 ⸻ When The Sun Sets

Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh, take me back to the start

— The Scientist, Coldplay

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trigger warning for this chapter, nothing explicitly terrible happens/is shown BUT a glimpse into philip's perspective via his old journals is provided. they frankly made me feel sick to write so just a warning. again, nothing explicit, but his mindset is very warped and disturbing (imo) to read.

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January 4th, 1978 ✦ Scotland

Fulk Ingelger had always preferred the warmth to cold.

Despite the endless stretch of sun on summer days, the nights where he could sprawl out without needing a blanket for comfort, where he could bask in the heat and let it absorb into him, the closest he could ever get to light.

Now, in the beginning of January, as he shivered next to the fireplace in the abandoned manor he'd slid into, he'd regretted ever encountering Albus Dumbledore. It was times like this when he and Lux would sit next to each other, never touching, but close enough to absorb each other's body heat.

Then, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Without it, his body felt like it was missing a limb, a bit of him ripped off as he struggled to gather every bit of heat that he could.

In the few days he'd been gone, he'd not made good progress. Barely any at all, trudging through the snow at a snail's pace, without any clue where he was headed.

Apparation was forbidden by Dumbledore, and while in any other circumstance, he would have gone against any order than old man gave him, with Lux under his watchful eye, he wouldn't be taking any chances.

He hugged his knees to his chest, inching as close as he could to the fireplace as he safely could.

It was impossible, navigating the pool of regret he swam in as the cold gusts of wind caused the manor to shake. It was in a worse state of disarray than his cabin with Lux was — a cabin he found himself aching for with every passing moment. A girl he found he missed with every fiber of his being.

He shouldn't have left. He should've laughed in Dumbledore's face at the request, told him to fuck off. He should've told Lux to pack her bags, run off into the night, just the two of them. They'd survived on their own before, they'd make it through again.

But when the plan had been presented to him, he'd only thought of Lux. Only thought that Dumbledore would find a way to make her pay, one way or another, if he refused his plans.

He'd only thought of how to keep her safe, not understanding that the only way to do as much was to have an eye on her. Out here, in Merlin-knows-where, he hadn't a single way to protect her.

Fulk forced himself to look away from the dancing flames in front of him, using them as a source of light as he scanned the bedroom. The manor he'd found himself in felt oddly familiar. Not that he'd been there, he'd have remembered such a place, but almost like he'd heard of it before. Reminiscent of a story told to a child, almost, one that clings to your mind even as you age.

His eyes scaled the bed, one he'd thought about moving over to sleep in, only to frown as his gaze settled on a crimson stain lining the middle. Blood — old, dried up blood that didn't in any way ease the sick sensation in his gut.

Someone had died here, he realized with a blow to his gut, painful enough that he nearly doubled over. Someone he felt haunt the halls, a looming presence that had him shivering again.

He was on his feet before he told himself to, though it wasn't the bed he was focused on. Instead, his attention was snagged by a row of over a dozen leather bound books lining the fireplace mantle, only just out of reach from being set alight.

Not a book, a journal, he realized with a sinking heart and a nauseous stomach, alarm bells ringing in his mind.

Even so, he persisted, if only to prove his suspicion wrong.

It soon became clear where exactly it was he had found himself in, as he flipped open to the front page of the one he'd grabbed, fingers shaking as they ran over the name written on the front, as if to prove it wasn't in his imagination.

Philip
1889-1894

He wasn't surprised that Philip omitted his family name — if he even had one, that was. Fulk knew that he'd done everything in his power to strip himself of his humanity, his identity before he grew fangs and an intolerance for light.

In fact, the lack of a last name provided proved to Fulk that this certainly belonged to him — that somehow, by some cruel means of fate, he'd wound up in the very place Lux spent three hundred years rotting away in.

His stomach jolted, a sudden refusal to look at the bed. At what he knew was Philip's blood, spilled after unthinkable things were done to his daughter.

He set the journal down, dizziness warping his mind. It could've been from the hunger, or the cold, yet it only spiked to this intensity at that moment.

Burning them was an option — erasing any evidence of what he'd done to Lux, erasing himself entirely. All that effort, all that hard work that pathetic excuse of a man had poured into these journals, set alight without a single person to remember what it was he'd done. No one would know of any achievement he'd claimed, no one would know what made him laugh and what hurt him.

No one would know he existed. He would fade into obscurity, into the realm of the forgotten, just as the morals he so detested had. At the end of the day, he would be no different. The thousands of years he held meant nothing.

Then he thought about Lux. Maybe there was something in those pages Fulk needed to know — something to protect her. Something she hadn't been told.

The urge came from nowhere, an anxiety he was sure held no merit. Yet while Philip was cruel, he was also powerful, and that was not meant to be taken lightly. His power came from somewhere, in a way that he may have written down. Power he could push forth to Lux.

She deserved something good, something useful after all this man did to her.

Another part of him simply wanted to know what he said about Lux, what she was like before Fulk had met her. If there had ever been a version of her that had known happiness, known peace.

If it was possible to bring such a part of her back.

A deep breath shook through him, the cold air puffing out from between his lips as he exhaled.

Then, he reached back up, hand scaling over one of the journals, before pulling it out and flipping through the pages.

9th June 1628

It is warm for the summer. Warmer than I care for it to be. Even at night, I find myself bathed in sweat, unable to keep blankets contained over my body. Euphraxia complains — and I grow tired of her. She's been of little use to me lately. Age may not be her affliction, but her personality sours my mood. I care little for her complaints, yet she insists on moaning them in my ear as if it will change something.

I have grown bored. Cecil suggested another member, and with the whispers I have heard regarding Titus and his desire to run, perhaps he is not wrong in his offer.

I will need to scout, perhaps have Odo or Norman aid me. They know these lands better than I. East Lothain has young women, though I fear repercussions if a higher born were to go missing. They already speak in low voices about us, whispers of what we do. We needn't an angry mob burning our home down.

1st July 1628

The magic school in the Highlands has closed for the summer.

A girl returns, smiling bright as she embraces her mother. I see it, Odo pointing her out to me. Golden hair. Youthful, but not too much so. Her grin did not fade once.

I could use someone who smiles. Someone who makes me feel bright, like I can come close to the sun. Euphraxia scowls too much for my liking, too much like the darkness I know better than myself.

It is just as well that Adelais could use a new woman friend. She grows weary of Mathilde, and she makes no effort to hide her disdain for Euphraxia. Words like boring old whore float around, ones easy enough for me to quell.

She is not wrong. Euphraxia is not entertaining anymore. Too old, now. Too gloomy. It is true that we vampires do not die, but we do not live, either. Whatever it is souls are made of, eternity slowly feeds on that substance until we are nothing but the blood we drink.

I think this girl would make due.

A few passages about the mundane happenings of life, of hunt and blood and a dying lust for the poor woman he called Euphraxia, before Fulk spotted a reference to Lux again.

8th July 1628

Odo and I have paid close mind to the golden haired girl over the past nights. She is not highborn, no but she has many local friends. Muggles, it seems, that do not know of the secret she holds.

Her family is an average size, with a father who works too much and a mother who cares too little. She is the eldest — and would not be easy to separate from the constant clinging of her siblings.

Odo tells me not to bother with her, that it is more trouble than it is worth, but my mind is set.

It is the mother I must target if I wish for the golden haired girl to join us. She is the weakest link, I can see it in her eye, the anxiety she carries with her, weighs her down.

She knows what is coming. There is no preventing it. Her daughter has a final year left at that wizarding school, a place that harbors those who defy and deny the god they bow to. I see how she wavers, fears what her daughter is, what she could become.

I know what I can do, I must simply find a way to see it through.

26th July, 1628

I spoke with her. Mary Erzsebet — wife to a Hungarian. Madoc, whom I had brought with for the confrontation, was enthused by this. He pretends he does not long for his homeland, but I can smell his lies like I smell the rot beneath each and every one of our skin.

Her daughter is called Lux. Light.

How ironic.

Lux will do just fine. Her mother begged at first, put up a fight when we cornered her in the night. She'd left their home to drag some water up from the well, and we were on every side of hers before she could scream for her husband.

The plan is easy. Mary Erzsebet's lips will let Lux's secret spill. Lux will never know who it was that turned her in for witchcraft, only that when she burns on that pyre, she will not be buried.

She will become one of us.

20th August, 1628

Two nights have gone by since our newest member joined the Coven, risen from the ashes into a new family. Lux is a jumpy thing, but I am overall satisfied with my choice.

She is too close to Titus. They smile at each other too often. While I doubt she's attracted to that wrinkled sac of bones, her comfort should not be found in another man.

I'll have to be rid of him soon. Adelais tells me he moves forward on his plan to run. He's loose lipped, it seems, foolish enough to believe that woman truly holds loyalty for him over me.

A fool, truly. I know my own creation.

I worry Lux is too flighty. Too skeptical. It will take time for her to get used to life here. I must bide my time, show her kindness to earn her trust. Otherwise opposition will follow. I have little patience for that, for the complaints of a spoiled child who has yet to understand the gift I've given her.

30th October, 1628

Lux is coming to terms with her life. I, however, am not.

She bothers me. She cried like a child when her reflection would not show in the mirror. I was forced to comfort her, wipe away her tears and assure her life as a vampire was not all that bad.

It has been months, and I already find my patience thinning.

Odo says she will come around. If not, I'll find a way to dispose of her. I doubt any objections will occur. It isn't as though she's of much use outside of her body — not strong enough to help with chores or hunting animals, not clever enough for luring humans in for feasting.

1st December 1628

Titus is dead. A good riddance to him.

Torquatus buried him in a shallow grave outside our home, just below the willow tree. Not for pleasantries or sentiments. I could care less regarding how that man's eternal resting place appears. No, I need it for something else. Something greater.

I added something to his grave, slid it into the traitor's pockets before anyone could notice. A secret meant for me to keep. For me to hide.

A master of death, I am not quite yet, even if I have bested it. I have yet to come above it. But I will not risk a third of it stolen, a third of the way to greatness.

No one would disrupt an unmarked grave. As long as I live, it'll be my secret alone, until I am prepared to take hold of it again. It is no use to me if it is stolen, and with Titus dead, I must expect others may follow in his plot to flee.

Lux still cries, though it is in the comfort of her room. The one shared by the other girls. She's yet to move into mine. Adelais complains of how it keeps her up, but she is easy to quiet when I demand it.

15th February 1628

Lux shares my bed now.

Fulk slammed the book shut.

Hands shaking, he placed the journal back where it had been before, sandwiched in between two others on the wooden mantle. It was all he could find himself able to do before his gut lurched, and the acid that bubbled in his otherwise empty stomach poured out of him.

A pathetic display of humanity, yes, but one he had little will to fight against.

Once he'd finished dry heaving, he moved to wipe his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, Philip's words ringing in his mind, an unfamiliar voice in which he wondered how similar matched the man who haunted him.

Haunted Lux, of course, but Fulk was in no way absolved from Philip's presence. From knowing what he'd done, what Fulk had been powerless to stop. He may not have known who Lux was at the time, and yet, enough guilt pooled in him that he thought he might drown in it.

It was not the first time he'd let something horrible happen to someone he was meant to protect. But it was the most recent, the most fresh. A blow to every sense of what he stood for — protection and strength and a burning love for the few people he let slip through the cracks of his hardened exterior.

Lux was solitary in her identity as a person Fulk loved. More than himself, and though it was not a high bar, it was something. He'd forgotten what it felt like to care so deeply for a person, to be willing to burn the world down if they requested as much.

Sometimes, it scared him. Knowing the hold Lux held over him.

Then, he realized if he was scared, he hadn't a clue to the depths of how she must feel at every waking moment.

The acid returned, retching following as it burned its way out of his esophagus.

The only thing to keep his mind, and this his stomach, at bay, he realized, was Philip's other writing. A man called Titus, a secret held in his grave. A secret meant to die with Philip.

Fulk had told himself that he'd been looking for power when faced with the journals. But now presented with exactly what it was he'd sought out for, he wasn't sure what to do about it, if anything Philip had touched could possibly be corrupted by him.

And yet, he found himself tempted, tugged by an invisible string towards the still standing willow tree outside, snow brushed over its wispy hanging branches.

What was there to lose, he figured. If anything, it could be a bargaining chip, an exchange made with Dumbledore for Lux's promised safety. For his allowed return.

He wouldn't use it for himself, whatever it was. After everything, he knew better than to test fate.

Slinking out into the dying winter storm with only his cloak for shield against the shrieking wind, he stalked through the ankle deep layer of snow and towards the willow tree. Behind him, Hollyvale Manor seemed to cry out to him at his absence, a black hole demanding more to be consumed, never satisfied, never tamed.

He would not be victim to the same haunted home Lux once was, he reminded himself. He had the freedom to leave through the doors at any time. There was no Coven to come crawling after him.

He had his wand with him, tucked into the pocket of his cloak, fingers twisting around the end as he struggled to keep his hands from numbing in the temperature.

For a moment, as he reached beneath the tree, he thought about going back. Retreating to the warmth. If only to prove Philip held no power over him, he turned his back towards the house.

A harsh gust of wind had the willow's branches rustling, as he pulled out his wand and aimed it at the ground. With a simple spell casted, he was able to locate where the body was placed.

As he went to his knees, guilt panged at him. Titus, like Lux, was a victim of Philip. Certainly he deserved peace in death.

Peace and death, Fulk mentally repeated to himself with an amused scoff. What an oxymoron.

The ground was practically frozen solid, resulting in more magic needing to be utilized before he could break through the dirt. He'd seen worse than a rotting corpse, and yet, his stomach was jumbled as he dug into the pit, deeper and deeper until his hands were stained with his own blood.

He could've used magic for the digging, he supposed. Yet it felt wrong. A disservice to the one person who'd ever helped Lux in that hellhole, if only for a few months.

It was an hour before he reached the body.

There was nothing but bones left. Not even clothes remained clung to the corpse.

It was proof that, even with eternal life, they all became rot in the end.

It wasn't long before Fulk spotted what he assumed it was Philip referred to in those pages — a rock, free of any dirt or blemishes despite the three hundred years spent buried beneath soil. It was clean cut with a dozen ends, and an odd hue Fulk couldn't quite pinpoint, almost translucent. It was located where he assumed a breast pocket would have been before Titus's clothes eroded, situated in between his ribs.

The moment his fingers slid around it, a rustling in the trees had him jerking around.

Holding the rock in his grasp, he turned around, eyes scanning the trees. The rock felt too light in his grip, like he was holding nothing but air, though he could barely focus.

"Brother."

Fulk jerked, the familiarity of the voice ringing in his ear having his heart plummet. A voice he'd gone one thousand years without hearing, yet never once forgot.

Ever so slowly, he looked upwards, to find the man hovering above him staring down with those blue hues, not at Fulk, but at his closed hand.

"Where did you get that?" Salazar breathed, his skin a ghostly pale, the moonlight seemingly absorbing into his essence. "What am I doing here? Why would you bring me to this place?"

Fulk simply stared.

"You should not meddle with such things. The consequences are not worth the rewards."

"It wasn't for me," he tried to defend, mouth gone dry. A hallucination, he figured it perhaps was, and yet, he entertained the conversation with his brother anyways. . "I've abandoned the ideals of power. It corrupts. It destroys."

He gave Salazar a pointed look as he spoke.

"It is not my power that killed me. Need I remind you? Or is that what you tell yourself, to make yourself feel less at fault."

Fulk gulped, a shiver rushing through him that had nothing to do with the bitter cold biting at his skin. It was a struggle to maintain a passivity as he told him, "I can assure you, I haven't forgotten. That would take a lot more than time."

"Time, and a new name," Salazar tutted, almost patronizing in nature, the kind that gave him plausible deniability if Fulk were to act out in regards to it, to push back. That sly smirk of his slid back onto his lips as he mused, "You've changed it. What, did Fulk Slytherin not have enough of a ring to it?"

"I prefer Ingelger. Our mother always liked me better, best I take her maiden name."

"It suits you. It suits a liar." Salazar stepped around him, and finally Fulk found enough strength to push himself onto his aching feet. "It suits a traitor."

He lifted his chin. "Have you come to haunt me, then? A ghost that rises when the sun sets?"

Salazar nudged towards the rock he'd forgotten he held, texture smooth in his coarse hands, edges harsh enough that at the wrong angle, it could slice through his skin. "That stone, they say, was crafted by Death herself."

"Death is a woman?"

"What else would she be? Who else have driven us to our graves but the fairer sex?"

Fulk released a scoff, buried beneath the shrieks of wind brushing against the willow tree, his only protection from the flurry of snow that seemed to ache for his blood, licking at his skin.

"You're cold," Salazar said plainly.

"I don't like the cold," Fulk admitted.

"I know. I remember." It was with a simplicity that he spoke, an almost obvious hint in his tone. Why wouldn't he remember? He didn't have an eternity to let slip the details of.

He tried not to let his shame show. Instead, he pressed forth in his interrogation, "The stone brought you here, then?"

The lack of response told Fulk he was right. "Who did that stone belong to? Where did you get it?"

"I found it," was the only information he'd offer up, stiffening his posture, holding his chin at the right angle to meet his brother's gaze. If Salazar would not speak, neither would he. A line in the sand he did not deserve to draw, a truce he had not earned the right to.

"One does not simply find the Death Stone."

"It has a name?"

"Who do you think named it?"

Fulk felt the breath he'd taken get snatched out of his lungs. "You said it was crafted by Death."

"I said that is the legend. How often is legend truth, brother? Surely you, of all people, know better than to put your faith in old wives tales."

"Why would you concoct this?" Fulk twisted the stone about in his hands, ignoring the pointed stare his twin gave him.

"Do you really need the answer to that?"

"For me," he concluded after a long pause.

There was nothing more Salazar that creating a fix to death out of love for his brother, for his other half. Selfishness only stretched so far, Fulk had realized. Lux's limit was her peers. Fulk's was Lux. And Salazar Slytherin's was his brother, a need to fix his ailments at any given opportunity, no matter the cost.

No matter the price he paid.

"I thought it would aid in your grief. I thought..." Salazar shook his head. "There is a wand, to go with it. And a cloak. All three make you invincible to death, the master of it."

"I have no desire to be a master of anything," Fulk said, though he did not release the grip he held on the stone. He may have been faced with a brand new form of magic, but he was well aware that this stone was the life force to his brother, making it possible to speak with him.

He wasn't ready to let go just yet.

"This is not the same Fulk I once knew," Salazar said, almost chastising.

"I've changed."

"Don't we all?"

He wasn't sure the answer to that. He wasn't sure if he had changed, if the man who had watched those he loved so dearly fall to their early graves was any different after the passing millennium. Not when it had been his fault then, something he refused to acknowledge outside of his own inner monologue.

If only so it didn't get back to Lux. If only so she didn't run.

She was perhaps all too correct to think him a monster. There had never been a day in his life in which he'd wanted her hurt, but that had never stopped harm from falling upon those he cared for.

It was a Midas touch, in a way. And perhaps he ought to stay away from Lux, ought to run further, find the vampires Dumbledore wanted and refuse to return.

The only thing that stopped him was his mistrust of that old man. He'd fought one war with him. He knew Dumbledore played dirty, and that Lux would inevitably fall victim.

"The Death Stone was meant for you, brother, if you want it," Salazar broke the silence, accompanied only by furious gusts of wind that screamed through the night air. "It is only right for your use, if you deign yourself brave enough to try."

To face the one person he knew he never could. Not Salazar — though it perhaps should have been. He'd dealt his brother the worst sin known to mankind, a knife in the back, petty revenge over what had been Salazar's attempt to help.

Attempt to save him.

Fulk shook his head. "You told me not to meddle with it just minutes ago. Why would I trust this change of heart?"

Salazar said nothing, giving away his answer.

He wanted Fulk to suffer, just as he had. Just as Fulk drove the knife into his brother's back, he wished to return the favor, mutual suffering, mutual ends.

He dangled before him something that, before Lux, would have him clawing to get another glimpse at, after a millennium apart. A memory so faded, he could hardly remember the sound of her voice, the shade of her hair, the hues of her eyes.

No use, it was no use. He was no fool. The Death Stone was an illusion, an idea of the person in front of him formed out of the most cruel of magic. It wasn't real.

He slipped the Death Stone out of his hands and into the pocket of his robe.

Salazar was gone within the blink of an eye, the snow where he had stood clear of any indication he had ever been there in the first place.

Once again, Fulk Ingelger was alone. As he was always meant to be.

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

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CHAPTER 41 SNIPPET:

"I'm going to get fired," Elias said, more to himself than to either of the conscious students. In fact, he didn't seem to have noticed their arrival. "No, I'm going to go to Azkaban. I'm going to go to Azkaban and have my soul sucked out and this kid is going to die under my watch and—"

Snape cleared his throat loudly, causing him to jolt, head whipping towards the pair.

"Your plan is...Snape?" Elias clarified, not sounding convinced.

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fulk with the resurrection stone! what could go wrong?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───