The overriding thought within the mind that is not quite William--the mind that charges through bodies and rips skin like paper, cracks bones like peanut shells, rends organs like red dye-filled water balloons--is simple. The Beast may have a name in Shaitan, but it is still a Beast, no complex thinking weaving of thoughts and ideals and synapses but pure instinct, pure emotion. And the thought that races through that mind and overrides everything else is
ESCAPE.
And escape Shaitan does. It saves itself, saves William as it is intended to do, even as it probably secretly (or not so secretly) loathes the gentler giant. And as the giant form races out there is a lull in the pain of the flames, a lull that very nearly lets William reassert control and take back his unlife, march through with dignity.
But no, not yet. Shaitan the Beast is still in control and the Beast is not so ready to relinquish when a new threat drives forward at the end of the iron rod so dexterously and pinpoint accurately delivered by Vee. The sizzling of flesh begins and the still-new Tzimisce, who once wanted nothing more than to be left alone and live his life until he drowned in a bottomless pit of alcohol, howls and hisses and snarls at his master/mistress who hurts him so. Shadowy arms lash out and hold him there, and even the preternaturally-empowered arms of Flood (and perhaps Bertram) clasp around him, hold his head and his arms and finally he can't move as the brand burns in, marks him Sabbat for the rest of his existence.
And still he snarls and hisses and struggles, a giant dragged kicking and howling into the bonds of the True Sabbat.
And then it's done, and he has been released. Shaitan reluctantly withdraws, leaving William remaining as he slumps toward the ground, singed knuckles hitting the stone floor to stop his sudden descent and leaving him on his hands and knees. He stays there for a moment, shoulders twitching as the remainder of his Rotschreck boils away, taking his anger and physical pain away for the moment. He is one again; he is William.
And when he rises finally, stands to his feet, he is Sabbat.
His shoulders draw back, don't slump. He is mentally exhausted, but he has this final moment in which to show his dignity and his control. An enormous hand rises to his forehead, pulls his hair with its seared ends back over his scalp. He's not sure what the "right" thing to do is in this instant; how does one behave after that and after how he did? Who could know? So he lifts his head, steps to his Sire's right and turns to face the same direction as him. As much of a struggle as it is for him to maintain that semblance of dignity, he will do it or he will die trying.
Ioana steps forward and the robe comes off, and William stares...because frankly, how the hell do you not stare at that? It's something like a nightmare out of the mind of that guy one of his weird demented fans told him about, those octopus gods and things of madness who lived underwater and in the skies. The Things That Man Was Not Meant To Know. He remembers those words clearly, and he knows what it means. Man--mortality--was not meant to know a creature like Ioana and may someone have pity on them if they every do. But he only stares for a moment and then he remembers himself. Because really, after what he's been through--werewolves and fire and ripping through his naked not-parents--can anything really strike him as THAT much weirder.
Well, yes, it can. And it does. But he still doesn't stare. Shaitan did what Shaitan does best: survive. Now William does what William does best: he watches and he learns.
The words are a sermon. He recognizes sermons. But he knows sermons as spoken from charlatans and fakers who don't believe a word of what they say. The elder Tzimisce speaks with conviction, with faith. That's an entirely different thing and it promotes a different reaction in Vee's childe. It's not fervency, but it does impress. He watches, he listens, and he learns.
And then, finally, it's time for something altogether new. Vaulderie, which Vee has explained in theory, is now about to become practice. Flood tears open his wrist and contributes. And William--newly-Blooded William--brings fangs to his arm, shredding skin, and holds the dripping remnant over the cup.
ESCAPE.
And escape Shaitan does. It saves itself, saves William as it is intended to do, even as it probably secretly (or not so secretly) loathes the gentler giant. And as the giant form races out there is a lull in the pain of the flames, a lull that very nearly lets William reassert control and take back his unlife, march through with dignity.
But no, not yet. Shaitan the Beast is still in control and the Beast is not so ready to relinquish when a new threat drives forward at the end of the iron rod so dexterously and pinpoint accurately delivered by Vee. The sizzling of flesh begins and the still-new Tzimisce, who once wanted nothing more than to be left alone and live his life until he drowned in a bottomless pit of alcohol, howls and hisses and snarls at his master/mistress who hurts him so. Shadowy arms lash out and hold him there, and even the preternaturally-empowered arms of Flood (and perhaps Bertram) clasp around him, hold his head and his arms and finally he can't move as the brand burns in, marks him Sabbat for the rest of his existence.
And still he snarls and hisses and struggles, a giant dragged kicking and howling into the bonds of the True Sabbat.
And then it's done, and he has been released. Shaitan reluctantly withdraws, leaving William remaining as he slumps toward the ground, singed knuckles hitting the stone floor to stop his sudden descent and leaving him on his hands and knees. He stays there for a moment, shoulders twitching as the remainder of his Rotschreck boils away, taking his anger and physical pain away for the moment. He is one again; he is William.
And when he rises finally, stands to his feet, he is Sabbat.
His shoulders draw back, don't slump. He is mentally exhausted, but he has this final moment in which to show his dignity and his control. An enormous hand rises to his forehead, pulls his hair with its seared ends back over his scalp. He's not sure what the "right" thing to do is in this instant; how does one behave after that and after how he did? Who could know? So he lifts his head, steps to his Sire's right and turns to face the same direction as him. As much of a struggle as it is for him to maintain that semblance of dignity, he will do it or he will die trying.
Ioana steps forward and the robe comes off, and William stares...because frankly, how the hell do you not stare at that? It's something like a nightmare out of the mind of that guy one of his weird demented fans told him about, those octopus gods and things of madness who lived underwater and in the skies. The Things That Man Was Not Meant To Know. He remembers those words clearly, and he knows what it means. Man--mortality--was not meant to know a creature like Ioana and may someone have pity on them if they every do. But he only stares for a moment and then he remembers himself. Because really, after what he's been through--werewolves and fire and ripping through his naked not-parents--can anything really strike him as THAT much weirder.
Well, yes, it can. And it does. But he still doesn't stare. Shaitan did what Shaitan does best: survive. Now William does what William does best: he watches and he learns.
The words are a sermon. He recognizes sermons. But he knows sermons as spoken from charlatans and fakers who don't believe a word of what they say. The elder Tzimisce speaks with conviction, with faith. That's an entirely different thing and it promotes a different reaction in Vee's childe. It's not fervency, but it does impress. He watches, he listens, and he learns.
And then, finally, it's time for something altogether new. Vaulderie, which Vee has explained in theory, is now about to become practice. Flood tears open his wrist and contributes. And William--newly-Blooded William--brings fangs to his arm, shredding skin, and holds the dripping remnant over the cup.
"The anger of a good man is not a problem. Good men have too many rules."
"Good men don't need rules. And today's not the day to find out why I have so many."
"Good men don't need rules. And today's not the day to find out why I have so many."