Archive of Our Own ^beta

Once in a city far, far away, lived a young child with gorgeous orange hair. She was named Ishmael.

She was from the 21st district, a city far from this one. She was quiet, withdrawn and hard to connect to. She preferred it this way, though. Finding it difficult to make friends and preferring her own company since she was young.

She had one friend though.

Don Quixote, her polar opposite. With blonde hair as bright and as vibrant as the sun, she was extroverted and proud, her voice loud enough to be heard from miles around, her laugh brought others together and her strength kept her loved ones safe from the ravenous monsters known as bloodfiends. Her companions feared them, looking to turn to a protector, but she was different. She dreamed of being a hero, one of the highest status. To be the one to protect others and keep them safe. This was her dream.

How such an opposite pair became friends, only they truly understood. But they were inseparable, joined at the hip and never alone.

Even in times of peril, they always had one another. Even when they’re forced to be far away.

“Doth thou really have to depart? Could I truly not join thee in thy conquest?” Her friend shook her head, taking the child’s hand into hers, a sorrowful expression on her face.

“You know I have to go, Don. I’ll come back, though. I promise.” She said, watching as tears welled up in her friends eyes.

She wiped her own tears, before taking one of her many, many pins from her jacket and ripping it off. She placed it in her hands, smiling. “Don, this is your favorite pin, wh–”

The blonde child smiled, tears building up once again. “Take it with thee, for good fortune. When the waters become a familiar sight and thou miss our time together, gaze upon it. For it is a reminder I shall await on the harbor to welcome thee home.” The two shared an embrace, holding tightly to one another. Knowing this would be the last hug they would feel as they were now.

And so, she left to the ocean, aboard that large ship known as The Pequod.  Leaving the young blonde alone in this great big district.

The time apart felt daunting for the sailor. Her homesickness never departed, only growing more and more within the passing days. The bonds she made with her crew didn’t replace her longing for her childhood friend, not by a long shot. If anything she missed that girl even more day by day. Sometimes she'd make a joke she knew the blonde would laugh about, her laugh so contagious even the most serious crewmember would begin to smile. Sometimes when the young boy by the name of Pip among the crew would be scared, she found herself repeating those same mantras the blonde would share to the local children, encouraging them to be their best.

Even when she began to develop feelings towards her crew member, a muscular woman with many scars and tattoos alike, she missed home. She missed her.

Yet, that small pin she kept on her uniform, the same one she gazed upon every night when the water was restless, a reminder of what’s waiting for her… it kept her sane. It made her feel better. It made her feel less alone on this voyage when so many new people want so much of her. But this pin, her reminder… It was comforting.

Of course, not every voyage is a safe one. 

Especially not this one.

Though, one simply does not expect to be drifting lost at sea after the sinking of their ship, watching their captain laugh in maniac delight as her colleagues fell into the graveyard of the ocean. Not every sailor expects to be hurt beyond belief, to be cold and warm all at once, to feel the air swiftly replaced with water from the tides attempting to take her as their next corpse.

Yet here she was, drifting upon a piece of wood she can only hope won’t give out from her weight, as the storm grows ravenous.

Her voice was hoarse, and it hurt to breathe. Yet she still forced herself to shout, “HELLO?! PLEASE, CAN ANYONE HEAR ME!?”

Of course, no one responded. Yet she persisted.

“PLEASE, SOMEONE, ANYONE, PLEASE!”

And yet, no one came.

She gazed at the rope on the coffin, gripping it as tightly as she could. For she feared letting it go would mean to fall to the sea. But she couldn’t. No matter how she couldn’t feel her legs from the cold, no matter how shaky she was, she couldn’t. 

She wanted to get home to her.

Yet, she felt powerless against the exhaustion that slowly claimed her. Forcing her to slowly close her eyes, laying on the lone plank of wood.

–

The sunset colored girl felt like her body was made of steel. She forced herself to pry her eyes open, greeted by a white tile ceiling. She heard a distant beeping, turning her head to the direction of the sound. It was a heart monitor.  She looked to her arm, seeing the little IV needle attached to it. But how did she get here? And where is…

That bastard.

She forced herself to sit up, clenching her stomach in agony. But she can’t rest. If she’s here, then that fucking bastard had to–

 She gripped her stomach, finding whatever machine was connecting to her arm. Every step was agony, pins and needles perturbed her feet at every step. Had she not had the machine, she would’ve collapsed once again and her injuries were severe. But she had to be here. If she was saved, that bastard is here too and she can’t be allowed to live. Not after what she did to the crew. Not after how she left the sunset haired girl to die at sea.

Only to be sent careening back as she crashed head first into someone, a hand shooting out to stop her from falling.

“You aren’t s’pposed to be up, lass.” The lady she bumped into noted with mild concern. “Let’s bring you back in, aye? Standin’ around ain’t good for you.”

She felt vitriol build in her throat. Who was this nurse? She wouldn’t stop her. It didn’t matter how sore and shaky she was, she'd find that bastard no matter what, even if it meant she needed to find her, rip out that fuckers life support and go down with her.

She forced her way through, ignoring her protests to stop and calling other medical staff to restrain her. But it’d be useless anyway. She’ll get her. No one will stand in her way, not even…

“Ishmael!?”

That familiar loud voice echoed in the halls. That same voice who will scream excitement when reminded of her favorite ice cream. That same girl who hated taking off her shoes, claiming they were special and to never be removed, to be with her during plight and delight. That same girl she thought about all this time.

She saw her run to her side, changing her direction to her room. She felt dizzy, she almost regretted standing as fast as she did. But she felt safe, miraculously.  She felt herself being laid back down, someone else’s finger running through her hair.

“Prithee, Ishmael, thou needth rest…”

She shook her head, leaning into her touch. The child missed this. She missed her.

“How did I…”

Her friend smiled, taking her other hand to intertwine their fingers. “Another vessel came upon thee at sea… Had they not stumbled across thee, thou would have surely succumbed to thy wounds.” Ishmael nodded, closing her eyes.

“No wonder I feel like shit.” She groaned as she heard her friend giggle, and suddenly the world felt a little lighter than it did when she first woke up. 

“The professionals hath proclaimed thou will be discharged in a weeks’ time. I shall be nursing thee to full recovery.” Ishmaell shot up, though was quickly gestured to lay back down when the pain shot through her body. She turned towards her friend, a look in her eyes that said ‘You can’t take care of me.’ Though, being friends since childhood, you sometimes know someone as well as you know yourself.

“I insisted on taking care of thee as opposed to recovery taking place here. I am in possession of enough funds to do so. Prithee, allow me to do this for thee… For I…”

‘I missed you’ laid at the tip of her tongue. Yet she forced it down, not another word spoken. But, somehow, it was enough for the sunset haired girl to understand. So she nodded her head, letting herself rest as fingers ran through her hair once more.

Against her wishes, the sunset haired girl was in the hospital for another week before being discharged.  Her friend was under strict instructions on how to nurse her back to health and contact information for emergencies.  She felt weak, like a helpless child needing her friend to care for her. She felt just as useless as she did floating on her beloved’s coffin at sea.

Though as much as she wanted to protest and complain, Don Quixote would distract her with her favorite things. In some ways, she resented her. She was able to be safe ashore while the sunset girl drifted at sea. Staying safe ashore while the girl was dancing on the tightrope of life and death. Yet she envied her at the same time, having been spared the horrors of that captain. Her safety brought her comfort, knowing she didn’t lose someone else important to her. But she never admitted it. She couldn’t understand what she went through on that boat, no one would ever get it without being there themselves. Rather she would grit her teeth and rest as she was told.

Even when Don Quixote clearly desired answers, she never asked them. In some ways, she could understand it was a sensitive topic. But other times, Ishmael could easily tell when a question was laying on the tip of her friend’s tongue and she forced herself to swallow it down in favor of a mundane conversation. She was easy to read and the sunset colored girl hated how useless she felt.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t handle being told she has to be treated as fragile as spun glass. She was more than that. She’s a survivor, a survivor of the most wicked mosnter on the planet.

To hell with this healing process. To hell with all of these doctors’ recommendations, the visits, the restrictions, to hell with it all. She’s gonna get that hag, healed or not. If she’s not healed, that bastard couldn’t be healed either; the perfect time to strike her down and rip her heart out of her chest.

She changed out of her clothes, careful to mind her bandages and stitches, putting on her boots and tying her hair in a ponytail. It’ll be a long way before she comes to the shores of U Corp on foot, but the reward is worth the trip.

She stomped through the house, gaining the attention of Don Quixote preparing lunch. “Ishmael, doth thou need anything from the market?” Ishmael shook her head, taking a moment to count her items. She heard footsteps approach her, meeting concerned eyes when she turned around. “Where are…”

“I’m leaving. Thanks for helping me, but I can’t stay here forever.”

Don’s shock couldn’t be hidden from her face, rushing in front of Ishmael to force her to stop. “Prithee, where are thy departing to? Thou must rest, for thou hath recovered not from the voyage…”

“I’m fine, Don. I don’t need any more rest.” But her friend wouldn’t budge, even forcing the child to sit down on the softest surface. But she’s better, she can get around without help, and that means she can hunt down that bastard that nearly killed her.

Though, the child expected her friend to be stubborn, but not to this degree.

Hands gripped her shoulders, not letting her move one inch. “Ishmael, enough! Prithee, there is nothing so drastic thou must push thyself to these limits!”

She pushed her friend’s hands away, anger obvious on her brow, “Yes there is! I can’t just sit on my ass forever, Don. I can get around just fine.” Yet her friend, as stubborn as she was, wouldn't budge.

“You can barely move! You’re still recovering, you just barely started walking on your own again. Whatever’s so important can wait a few more weeks until the doctors’ say you’re healed! 

“To hell with the doctor’s orders. I have to get that bastard, i need to fucking find that bastard, Don, just let me–”

“NO, No I won’t! What bastard are you talking about, you’ll get yourself killed trying to find whoever this is and–”

“I DONT CARE–”

“I CARE, Ishmael! How do you think I felt after a year of not hearing from you and I'm called out of work to learn you’re in the hospital after you nearly froze to death in the sea!? How do you expect me to react when you were in a coma for a week and the first thing you do is hunt down some idiot who you don’t need to go after–”

“YES I DO. I have to get them, you wouldn’t understand because you weren’t there when–

“THEN MAKE ME UNDERSTAND, what is there to understand about when you won’t fucking say anything–”

“QUEEQUEG’S FUCKING DEAD.”

Silence hung in the air, tension so suffocating you could cut it with a knife. The two breathed in heavily, as if they had been running for hours. Tears built themselves in Don’s eyes, from either frustration or sadness, Ishmael didn’t know. But she had questions, and Ishmael knew she wouldn’t give up until they were answered.

“That bastard left me to die. She left Queequeg, Starbuck, Pip, she led us all to our deaths. Now do you get why I have to go after her? Why am I more than willing to go like this? I can’t let them be in vain, I…”  Her vision blurred, shaking her head to pinch the bridge of her nose. Don was quiet for once.

Don shook her head, a quivering lip as she spoke. “Ishmael, please… I can’t let you do this. You know I can’t, I…”

“Well maybe you’re just as naive as I was, Don.”

Ishmael regretted those words just as fast as she spoke them. With tears in her eyes, the blonde stormed out, with a hushed tone of “Needing fresh air.” Leaving the orange haired girl alone once again.

She sighed, pinching her nose bridge. What was that? Since when did she get mad at being cared for? This was useless. How could she understand when she wouldn’t communicate? She sighed, staring towards the ceiling, the home feeling so empty now. She should apologize. It was the least she could do, especially after a fight like that.

Yet… her friend didn’t return. First 15 minutes passed, then half an hour and yet she remained alone in the house. Something felt wrong.

Maybe in the past, she’d wait and cower until her friend returned to her home. But she didn’t go through hell and back on a voyage just to get back home and be scared anymore. She pushed herself out that door, no matter how tired she was. No more being scared of the unknown anymore.

Despite how busy this part of the city was, it felt eerily quiet. No local children running around, no adults on their errands… silence. In some ways, the child hated it. No one would be here to help should Don be in danger, and she wasn’t at full strength. But she can’t sit down anymore, not w–

Footsteps collided against the pavement behind her, forcing her to turn around. Only to see a stumbling Don Quixote, stumbling with a limb in her left leg. Her usually composed clothes were tousled and dirty, covered in dirt, soot and blood. She gripped her arm in pain, blood staining her shoulder. Ishmael tried her best to rush to her side, forcing the blonde to lean on her.

“What happened? You made me worried…” She muttered, feeling the blonde let out a forced laugh as she guided them indoors once more.  The blonde has a piece of cloth wrapped arond her wound, though it was too soaked with blood.

She coughed, shaking her head. “A fair maiden had been robbed in the light of day… I hath attempted to stop the vile fiend but…” Ishmael nodded. It was such a Don Quixote thing to do, getting hurt for some random woman in the midst of their fight. She sighed, standing to fetch one of the many emergency kits Don prepared around them home. She gestured for her to remove her shirt, taking note of minor cuts and bruises.

Don sighed, eyes upon the sunset colored girl as she tended to her shoulder. She took a deep breath, shaking her head before uttering, “Ishmael, I needth apologize to thee for mine outburst… It is neigh important my feelings towards thy’s experience upon the waters. I–” A finger pressed themselves on her lips, Ishmael shaking her head.

“It’s okay. I… was never honest about it anyway. You can’t understand what I don’t tell you.” The blonde nodded, silence entering the room with small interrupts of Don bracing herself to have her wounds disinfected.

It wasn’t long for the blonde to be properly tended to, giving a small smile to her friend. It was one of Ishmael’s favorites, ones that she felt were special compared to her usual ones. The blonde gestured for Ishmael to stay put, going to a small wooden cabinet  to take out a small flier before bringing it to her.

“While I am not one to promote acts of vengeance… should thee wish to improve thy skill for thee’s goal, Section 3 of the Zwei Association is accepting newcomers in the upcoming months. Perhaps… it shall be a better change of pace rather than the sea,” she commented, handing the paper to the girl with a small. If anyone would know of this, of course it’d be her. Yet…

Ishmael tilted her head. “Aren’t you going to join it? You love fixers, you always wanted to be one when we were younger…” Yet she shook her head, eyes refusing to make eye contact.

“It would be… ill advised for me to do so. Mine own applications hath been denied in the past, but perhaps thou shall have a higher advantage than I. Tis not required of thee, should thou find neigh satisfaction in this. But… Tis might help thou in the future.” The sunset colored girl nodded, looking at the flier. She was too weak now to fight that bastard, whether she could admit it to herself or not. Maybe this would be good for her. Maybe she can repay Don by being stronger. Maybe she can keep her best friend safer than she could her beloved.

She kept the flier with her for the next few days, studying it like a page in a book. Applications would be accepted for the next few months, there was no guarantee she would even be accepted. But this feeling of helplessness was drowning her. She felt like she did on the ship, back when she’d clamp up and freeze. She had a chance to survive, to leave, to become stronger than she was. Who would she be to waste such an opportunity, one even her best friend says is befitting to her.

So, she prepared her application. With the help of her friend, of course.

Then… she waited.

–

In the time it would take to be given notice of being accepted, she continued her routine to a full recovery. She was slowly but surely getting back to how she felt before her trip, even being given permission to begin exercising in small doses to get into proper physique. Don Quixote offered to be there, to keep Ishmael from overworking herself. She appreciated the gesture, but she did find it odd that Don would sometimes… stare at her. It felt strange. But maybe she was just keeping a watchful eye on her.

She also noticed how… quiet, Don’s became. As if she were coming down with a fever, yet every temperature check came back with normal numbers. She claimed simply to be tired, but that couldn’t be true, could it? Yet there would be weeks where the blonde appeared to be fine and the next be in a delirious state, insisting she simply needed to rest.

She sighed, letting her friend know she’d take a quick moment to wash her face before training. She stumbled into the bathroom, turning on the sink to wash her face. She felt better, her training beginning to take effect on her physically and mentally. She felt stronger, felt more useful, f–

What is that?

She squinted at the mirror, noticing… a small patch of white on her neck. It was hidden by her hair, which she had been growing out the past few months, something you wouldn’t see unless she put her hair in a proper ponytail, not the half up, half down style she had grown accustomed to. She wet her finger in the sink, watching as she wiped it across the patch of white only to have no effect. She didn’t spill anything on herself, but what could it be? It’s not vitiligo, Ishmael doesn’t think, or a pimple. But what if it was…

Her eyes widened with terror. It couldn’t be Pallidification, could it? But why isn’t it bigger? It wasn’t like Stubb’s, whose Pallidification slowly took over his body until it was he and it were one and the same. But she hadn’t been on the sea in months, almost 3 months since then? But if it’s not taking over her body, it can’t be pallidifcation, that takes so little time and yet its been so long…

She sighed. If it’s not an issue, there's nothing to worry about. It’s probably just a scar.

She shook her head, coming outside to Don Quixote staring into space. She seemed to be salivating, though maybe she was hungry. Ishmael waved her hands in front of her, finally gaining the blonde’s attention.

“While you’re staring off to space, mind sparring me?” She asked, a smile growing on her face as the blonde eagerly nodded. Don rolled up her sleeves, popping her knuckles. Ishmael got in a fighting stance when the two heard a knock on the front door. Ishmael groaned, running over to get the door. Upon opening it, a man stood with the mail. Ishmael thanked him, before he handed her the mail and he was on his way.

She shifted through it, calling Don to fetch her monthly fixer issues before seeing mail with her name on it. Upon opening it, she read;

“Dear Ishmael,

Upon careful inspection of your application, we are happy to offer you a position in Section 3 of the Zwei Association. Please come in on XX,XX to begin training. Welcome to the team.”

Her mouth was agape. She got in?

Don quickly noticed Ishmael’s surprise, placing her head on her shoulder to look at the letter. Sounds of excitement erupted from the blonde as she quickly gave Ishmael a hug from behind. She patted her head, giggling as the blonde sang praises on how proud she was. It was nice, being celebrated. She let the blonde nuzzle her face into her neck, hearing something along the lines of prepping a special dinner for the occasion.

Instead of training, the two worked together on dinner for them. Ishmael’s favorite, hot dogs with grilled onions and relish with don’s favorite icecream flavor. Then the two relaxed together in their living room, Don providing enough entertainment by rambling about her fixer magazine. It felt so…domestic in a way Ishmael never noticed before. But she liked it. It felt warm and safe. It felt like home.

-

Despite Ishmael not having many expectations of being a part of the Zwei Association, she was very quickly blown away.

It was nothing like her previous office jobs, and much better than the nightmare that is whaling. The job provided just as many, if not more, benefits jobs in the city provided. But it had that safety of being on the ground, not isolated on a voyage with the same people for a year.

Training was rigorous. There were the every day exercises, morning jobs, pull ups, sit ups and the like. But then you had the special training days, where if there were no clients to serve, they would be worked to the bone on various training regimes. There were multiple times where Ishmael walked home with her arms feeling like jelly; Don tended to make her a bath to soothe her muscles those days.

If it wasn’t the drills that tired her out, it was definitely the training videos they’d spend hours watching. Then being tested on what they did and didn’t retain and if it wasn’t close to perfection, they needed to rewatch the entire lecture.

But it was also… satisfying.

The jobs she was given were simple on paper but being on the field, protecting clients, being their shield, it made her happy. Her superiors even noticed, giving her more assignments and allowing her to promote faster than her comrades.

She felt like a human shield for the people, a protector.

…so this is how Queequeg felt back then, huh?

As much as she tried to avoid thinking of her, it was unavoidable, especially on quiet night patrols.

When the stars would hang in the sky, the wind in her growing sunset hair, she’d think of her. The nighttime talks they shared on the deck when they definitely should’ve been asleep and they’d pour their hearts out quiet enough only for the seagulls and each other to hear. Sweet nothings whispered in hush tones when they couldn’t sleep and their limbs tangled together in their bed until they became one and the same. Her touch always went towards her hair that Queequeg loved and Ishmael tracing each of her scars with only admiration an artist would have for their muse.

Sometimes she’d hear her cohorts joke about quitting the association to be fishermen in U corp selling fish from the harbor and her heart would ache at their former dreams.

Would Queequeg be proud of her, becoming part of this association? Would she feel betrayed?

She remembers a time where Queequeg remarked she seemed to miss home. She remembered admitting to not missing home, but rather someone who felt like home. She talked Queequeg's ear about her memories with Don, so much so that Queequeg made a few comments about her and that, when they get back to the mainland, she’d love to meet her. She remarked that if Don was as amazing as Ishmael described, the three of them could live on the shore together.

…She thinks about that fantasy a lot.

In a way, they were similar.

Both were always preachers of proper justice. That justice that comes from corrupt methods and harm of others isn’t justice or the right way, but ways that must be corrected and stopped at their core. Hell, Queequeg left The Middle once she saw past their corruption. She didn’t doubt that Don would’ve done something similar in her shoes.

They both make Ishmael smile and laugh harder than anyone else did, they knew exactly what to tell her when she was in her head for longer than necessary, and they knew how to bring people together for a cause. They both treated Ishmael as a person, when she was in one of her moods where she didn’t like to talk to anyone and they’d sit next to her in comfortable silence without her having to say a word.

She felt safe with Queequeg on nights where the waves would crash against the boat and she’d jolt up from sleep. She feels safe with Don when nightmares of that disgusting captain terrorized her, and promises to stay next to her until the sun rises no matter how tired she’d be.

Don makes her feel safe, she makes her home, she makes her feel…

…Loved.

Ishmael thinks that's the proper word for it.  She knew she felt something more for the harpooner, that much was clear. Whether she knew it or not, she had some sort of romantic crush on the harpooner, even if it's too late to understand her feelings now that she is gone. But feelings for Don Quixote…

She couldn’t. This is her best friend, her person. Why would she have feelings for her? Anyone would be lucky to have Don and she just so happens to be that person.

So what if she thinks of her all the time? Anyone would think of their friend, especially when it's been years since they first met. It’s normal to think about Don Quixote the way she does.

Nothing wrong with wanting to be around her all the time, they are roommates afterall. And when it's cold out and the house hasn’t warmed up, it’s normal to lean on each other and enjoy each other’s warmth.

Ishmael knows it’s just normal behavior of someone who cares for their best friend.

…Ishmael wasn’t sure Don’s behavior was normal, not recently anyway.

She was almost certain she caught some sort of flu. She was feverish all the time, not short bursts like before. Her typically short blonde hair was growing at quick speeds, longer than Ishmael’s even and there were too many instances of Ishmael pointing out Don’s biting her lip so hard she's bleeding.

But everytime she prepared to confront the blonde, she was summoned to another duty of the Zwei Association and Don would hurry her out the door to whatever was calling her name. Other times, Don would quickly change topics and Ishmael knew she’d never get an answer. But not this time, Ishmael was stronger now. The training she’d been put through at work made her more stubborn, almost enough to combat Don Quixote.

So one night, after a long day of training and Don Quixote distracted, She took action.

As always, Don was preparing dinner for the two of them, one of the many chores she picked up after Ishmael was accepted. Tonight was Paella, a specialty; one of the many dishes only Don could truly prepare how Ishmael liked it.

Ishmael took a deep breath, propping her arms on the table. “Don, you’d tell me if something happened to you, right?”

The blonde turned over her shoulder, a smile on her face. “To what hast cause thee to question such a notion, Ishmael?”

She shrugged her shoulders, tilting her head. “Just questioning it. You’ve been…different.” The blonde hummed, continuing to prepare dinner.  Ishmael could see her rub the back of her neck, one of her nervous ticks. Ishmael knew it.

“It’s just…” She began, standing from her seat and walking over to the blonde. “You’ve been dangerously hot lately, you keep staring off into space, and you only grow out your hair when you’re seriously sick. So…” She trailed off, though the blonde whipped her head around just as quickly as someone who’d been caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

The blonde simply stared at her, as if they were too astonished by the accusation.  But she smiled, letting out a chuckle and shaking her head. “Why, hast the meetings at the association confused thee on mine own mannerisms? Fret not, for I am in utmost condition! Come, examine my state thyself if you must!” She exclaimed, gesturing for Ishmael to feel her forehead. She did just that, placing the back of her hand on her head, but she felt…normal. Not scorching hot anymore like she had been in previous weeks. Ishmael sighed, nodding.

“Alright… I’m sorry for accusing you, I just–” A finger pressed itself to her lips, Don Quixote giggling at her.

“It is quite alright! Thou had been concerned with mine wellbeing. Forsooth, it is most appreciated.”

Ishmael smiled, the room feeling a little lighter. “Okay. But don’t worry me like that again.”

“Understood! Now then, ‘tis is time for supper, no?”

She nodded, beginning to find dishes to prepare the dinner table.

—

…Maybe it wasn’t sickness that was plaguing Don.

Training was rigorous in the Zwei association, drilling the mentality to be shields and protectors. But the last few meetings had been focused on the topic of Bloodfiends . Their forms, their methods and especially the signs one has been turned.  The morning announcements always reminded them to keep note of the signs.

Feverish temperature.

Breathlessness as if they were constantly hot.

Red eyes.

Sharpened canines.

Sudden parchedness.

A fascination with blood.

While the signs weren’t all needed, it was recommended to keep note of at least two of them in an individual. Should they be found, they must be killed immediately to prevent their bloodlust from taking hold. Spare no expense, lest you be turned into a creature yourself.

At first, Ishmael thought it was ludicrous to be so rigorous with these announcements. Everyone knows bloodfiends are rare and are quickly caught. But the more she attended them and the more she listened, she felt… less inclined to brush them off. Especially when she’d been thinking of her friend.

…She’d be thinking of her a lot lately, honestly.

Don never did say what had attacked her that day. Simply that she passed out helping a lady from being mugged in broad daylight. But the wound she had taken care of was on her shoulder, not her neck. But the signs lined up, didn’t they?

Her sudden fevers, having her feel burning hot when it was cold in their home.

Her constant heavy breathing, that she proclaimed were from her exercising yet none of her equipment would be out.

That tint of red her eyes would become in the daylight,  as if the sun showed her true colors.

The times she’d accidentally puncture her lip from the sharpness of her teeth.

The never ending thirst she gained.

But that last one… she never had a fascination with blood. But Ishmael was gone for hours at a time, Don would be at home much longer than her, but even then would it be enough to ask?

…Should she ask?

Don Quixote was always skilled at avoiding uncomfortable topics. It was a childhood joke that she could avoid a conversation like it was an art; as if she was trained in it. So maybe the better approach wouldn’t be to ask… but to find confirmation herself. But she had to be precise, calculative. So she found the perfect opportunity, one Don Quixote would never find a way to warm herself out of.

It was actually pretty easy.

First, she waited until after work; Don hated having to be told ‘we needed to talk’ and it would make her run. If it was after work, all of her favorite shops and businesses would be closed and there wouldn’t be anything to distract her.

Then, she got some of her favorite magazines. Apparently, the Zwei association had just as many fixer-fixated fans and some even agreed to lend Ishmael their limited magazine copies she knew the blonde wouldn’t have. In exchange, she would patrol their shifts. Even if it was more nights out, it’s worth it for the plan to properly work. And when the moment is right, when Don is too occupied to walk away, she’ll get her confirmation.

…then she’ll go from there. Wherever ‘there’ means.

So she returned to their apartment, magazines in hand to a… oddly quiet environment. No loud singing, no sounds of a sizzling pot, just…silence.

Don was never one to stay up too late, berating Ishmael when she would stay up. But to sleep so early when she’d greet the knight at the front door was unheard of. No note saying she’d been shopping either, even strangers. She went to the blonde's room, the bathroom, their guest room and she was nowhere to be seen. The house was empty and she hated it.

Then, she heard a faucet in the kitchen turn on. She was home.

Ishmael let out a sigh of relief, she was paranoid for nothing. Don Quixote simply went outside for an errand and returned. No big deal.

She turned the corner, ready to greet the blonde only to see her covered… in blood. Her face was turned away but Ishmael could see the red staining her white shirt and arms.  Her hands in the sink, presumably to wash off the blood of whatever she harmed.

“Don?”

The blonde jolted up, turning around to reveal her bloodstained mouth. She looked as if she were a deer in headlights, simply staring at Ishmael like she’d be caught. The two stared at one another, as if frozen in time.

Then, Don Quixote took off. So did Ishmael.

Don Quixote was always fast, but now impossibly so. Was speed a trait of a bloodfiend? Her training helped her but even she felt exhausted sprinting so fast. But she can see that they’re coming to a dead end, with nowhere for her to go.

Don ran into the alley, only to be stopped by a brick wall, turning around to see the knight effectively cornering her.

“Don, you’re…”

The blonde averted her gaze, refusing to look Ishmael in the eyes. She was shaking as Ishmael came closer, pressing herself into the wall as if she wanted to merge with it. Ishmael sighed, tilting her head.

“You’re a bloodfiend, aren’t you…”

Don clicked her tongue, lifting her head up to reveal the tears threatening to stream down her cheeks. “I am. So? Do you intend to strike me as you’ve been trained?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Don, I…”

Don Quixote giggled at her words, though it was clear that she was trying not to cry. “Don’t treat me as if I am naive. I am aware of your training. Come, I give you permission to slaughter me.”

The comment made the knight furrow her brow in bewilderment. Slaughter her? She couldn’t, this is her friend. Her roommate, her… 

She shook her head. “I’m not doing that, Don.”

The bloodfiend began laughing hysterically; under different circumstances, Ishmael would’ve been smiling too if she couldn’t hear how hurt she was. “Why not, knight? Is this not what you’ve been taught? Come, take my head as your trophy and show it to your comrades! I implore you to do so. Go on. For I shall even provide you with a blade.” 

With that, she reached inside her shirt, tossing a small object in Ishmael's hand. It was a hunting dagger. Ishmael caught it with ease, looking up to see Don raising her hands to her sides.  “Stake my heart, I will not attempt to fight you. I know when I have been beaten.”

She took a look at the dagger, noting the very apparent bloodstain that adorned it. She pressed her lips in a fine line, considering her options. Her training, her best friend, the knife…

Oh, who was she kidding? She knew her answer. Whether she could admit it or not, she knew what she’d do in this situation.

With that, she tossed the dagger behind her.

She could see Don’s confusion. But she smiled, shaking her head. “I’m not doing that.” Her confusion turned to anger,  sneering enough to show the canines that replaced her teeth.

“WHY NOT!? Don’t pity me, Ishmael. Are you stupid enough to have feelings for me?” With each word, Don stepped closer to Ishmael,  tears welling up in her eyes. “Do as you are trained and kill me! There is no use in this foolish game of sentimentality.”

But the knight shook her head. “I’m not killing my best friend, Don Quixote. Maybe it makes me a fool. But I’ll be a fool before I lose you.”

She could see Don’s grimace disappear from her face, the first tears falling down her cheeks. Her lip quivered as she fell to her knees, hiding her face behind her hands.

“Why… I am a monster. It is your duty, it…”

Ishmael bent down, moving a hair behind Don’s ear. Her tears fell in her hands, feeling the knight pull her into an embrace. “I’d rather have you than some stupid zwei position. Bloodfiend or not, you’re still Don Quixote to me.”

She heard sniffles, feeling the blonde slowly wrap her arms around the knight, letting out a choked sob. She was shaking, Ishmael could practically feel the fiend pouring her heart out. But she didn’t say another word, simply letting the poor girl cry.

“I didn’t want this, I… I just…” She muttered, though she didn’t need to say another word. Ishmael uttered a quiet “I know.” It was all she could say as she let out her tears.

After an eternity, her tears seemed to have stopped, her grip on the knight weakened more and more. She let out a chuckle, shaking her head.

“How long did you know…”

The knight shrugged. “A while. I had a hunch. You never were good at hiding things from me.” The bloodfiend let out a dry laughter, shaking her head. She lifted her head up,  wiping her nose. Ishmael tilted her head, wiping any remaining tears from her eyes.

Don Quixote sighed. “...I would like to depart for our home.”

The knight nodded, helping her stand. She took the bloodfiends hand in hers and led her home.

—

In the following weeks, Don Quixote was much more comfortable letting her features be known to the knight. But it didn’t mean she fully accepted this new reality.

For one, Ishmael could tell when she wasn’t feeding. That much was obvious. She would grow more and more pale, her short blonde hair growing exponentially fast, to where it is a waste cutting and styling it.  Her fangs would grow once she became too hungry, so much so she scared some of the locals.

A lot of the locals, actually.

She was more quiet and subdued, no longer having her unique way of speech. She was less expressive, and sometimes angry at the most mundane of everyday things she’d never be angry about. Sometimes even snapping at Ishmael before profusely apologizing for her outbursts.

When she had asked, Don mentioned not wanting to feed on people. She felt it wasn’t right to do so, draining the blood of heretics no matter how vile.  She confessed she was able to go weeks at a time without feeding and only fed on criminals in the time Ishmael would be tending to her duties. But now she knows. Since their confrontation, she hasn’t been feeding at all.

This stubbornness has unfortunately reached Ishmael’s supervisors.

Morning meetings emphasized on these signs of someone being a bloodfiend.  She could hear the whispers of her cohorts talking about someone who fit the description but never describing it. Maybe Don isn’t the only bloodfiend in the district. Maybe Ishmael was thinking too hard and concerning herself with something that wasn’t important.

But she just couldn’t let it go.

There would be nights, especially this one, where she laid awake, staring at her ceiling thinking of her situation. She took an oath, the day she began training at the association. That in order to protect whatever client she was given, to do it with confidence. No feelings were allowed to get in the way of her duties, no matter what they may be. If the order was to strike her loved ones, she should do it without hesitation.

But this is Don Quixote.

Not just some random person Ishmael tolerated, or someone she was friendly with but knew nothing of. Her childhood friend, Don Quixote. The same Don Quixote who loved fixers and told Ishmael so much information, Ishmael knew more than the average person. The same Don Quixote who loved parties, who would make any excuse to bring the neighbors over to their home with drinks and food and would be the light of the night. The same Don Quixote who helped her recover after she returned from her voyage, without a hint of hesitation. The Don Quixote she had feelings for, who she’d follow into the sunset if it meant she could be around for eternity.

The same Don Quixote who was a bloodfiend.

Ishmael sighed, sitting up from her bed and looking out the window. She felt like shit. She, as quietly as possible, stood up and walked to the bathroom. It was late, and she didn't want to ruin her sleep schedule on her very rare days off by staying up over stupid hypotheticals.

She turned on the light, looking at herself in the mirror. This is ridiculous.  Tossing and turning over something that won’t come of anything and–

“...Fuck.”

The small mark of pallidification was bigger. Definitely bigger. The knight lifted her orange hair into a makeshift ponytail, turning to get a clear look at the mark. It was right  at the nape of her neck, though unnoticeable to the naked eye. It wasn’t big enough to draw attention to her, but anyone who’s been on the sea with that bastard of a captain knows what it looks like.

Why is it spreading now?

Are there conditions? Is that why it’s growing so slowly? Maybe it’s reversible, or maybe it’s not pallidication but some sort of fucked up bruise the doctors didn’t see when she recovered.

She turned on the faucet, grabbing the near bar of soap and wetting it before scrubbing it on her neck. She scrubbed as hard she could, but her reflection showed it in its place. Maybe she needs to sleep. That's it, she’s tired and hallucinating because she hasn't gone to bed yet, it’ll be gone tomorrow and she doesn’t have to think about it.

So she did just that, speed walking to her room, and throwing herself into her bed. It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. She won’t have this mark on her neck and she can focus her attention on making sure Don Quixote’s okay…

.

.

.

So that didn’t fucking work.

In the morning, it didn’t go away. In fact, it’s even bigger now, slowly taking over the nape of her neck. But she won’t let this distract her, as a matter of fact, she’ll ignore this damn pallidication until it’s a proper problem for her.

She walked into their living room, though was promptly taken aback at the sight of Don Quixote laying on the couch staring into space. She was wrapped in a blanket, as if she had just woken up. But she looked exhausted, eye bags under her eyes and her long blonde hair hanging down her face as if she didn’t have the strength to tie it up properly.

“Don?”

The fiend looked up, before slowly sitting up and waving to Ishmael. “Good morning. Did you sleep okay?” The knight nodded, with the fiend muttering ‘that’s good.’ Even when sitting up, Ishmael could tell she was light headed, swaying as if she would fall back down.

The knight kneeled down next to her, moving her hair out of face to properly look at her. Her eyes were red, both in the irises and the whites of her eyes as if she’d be crying. “What’s wrong?”

Don Quixote let out a deep breath, looking down at her. Ishmael could tell she was delirious,  and it almost seemed like she was salivating. “Hungry…”

 Ishmael nodded, pressing the back of her palm to her forehead. She was burning hot. 

“Don, why haven’t you been feeding? You’re gonna be bedridden at this rate.” But the fiend shook her head, and Ishmael could’ve swore she saw tears building up in her eyes. “Don’t want to hurt anyone…scared.”

The knight nodded. It’s only understandable she would be scared, even after she caught her red handed. But she couldn’t let her go hungry, not when she could see how in pain she was. Ishmael put her hair in her standard half-ponytail, tilting her head to reveal her neck. “Drink from me.”

Don Quixote's surprise was obvious. Ishmael could tell she was staring at her neck, but she shook her head. She wrapped her arms around herself, those tears finally falling down her cheeks.

“Can’t. I’ll hurt you. Don’t want that.”

Ishmael shook her head in turn, taking one of the blonde's hands off her body and into her own. She smiled, her free hand cupping her cheek. “I want you to feed from me. I trust you. So go ahead.” She sat next to her, inching Don Quixote to come closer to her neck.  

She could feel the hairs on her neck stand as she felt Don breathing on her neck, in contemplation she could assume. She felt lips on her neck, hearing a quiet, “Thank you.” before she felt a jolt of pain. Don gripped onto her knights as she drank, following Ishmael as she leaned against the sofa.

It wasn’t an unpleasant experience, Ishmael noticed. If anything, she was relaxed, lazily playing with the bloodfiend’s hair as she took the blood she needed. Though whenever she did, she could hear Don quixote let out a whimper. It was adorable, oddly enough.

She placed her hand on the bloodfiend’s neck, feeling her shudder. Cute. “Do you need more?” Don Quixote whimpered, nodding as best as she could. The knight smiled, petting her head.

“Go ahead, then. You’re doing good, you’re not hurting me.”

She felt her nodding, continuing to drain her blood. The knight would whisper words of encouragement, feeling the bloodfiend whimper and shudder in her arms. It was really cute, though Ishmael couldn’t tell if that's how she sees her or how it feels having your childhood best friend-turned-bloodfiend biting your neck. Sooner than expected, she felt those fangs leave her neck, providing kitten licks to whatever blood dripped out from the open wound. Ishmael was sure she was going to move when she felt her place a kiss on the wound. She felt herself go red, but couldn’t ask questions before the blonde rested her head on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Ishmael… thou’s kindness truly knows no limits…” She muttered, and before Ishmael had a chance to reply, she felt the blonde slowly drift to sleep.

…She felt motionless. Silence surrounded her, only broken by Don’s snoring. But Ishmael was wide awake, with only one thought racing through her mind and causing the remaining blood to rush to her cheeks.

Don Quixote kissed her neck.

Okay.

This is fine, she thought. No big deal, nothing to overthink, really. So her childhood best friend who she thinks about all the time when they’re separated kissed her neck after drinking her blood. Nothing to freak out about, she thought to herself. Of course, it’s just the blood loss making her overthink.

So what if she feels at peace having the blonde in her arms, listening to her sleep soundly after a long night? She just wants to keep her safe, that’s all it is.

So what if she wants to press just one kiss to her forehead, anyone would do that to their best friend. In fact, anyone would love to cuddle their best friend as they sleep and kiss their forehead and when they wake up, prepare a proper breakfast for them as they recover from…

.

.

.

…Oh.

Okay, then.

So maybe she was in love.

Maybe it’s not exactly platonic to imagine waking up every morning next to your best friend, imagining her rolling over her side and letting the sun kiss her face before you do. Maybe wanting to hold her hand when you go on your grocery runs and parade her around the neighborhood with pride as you kiss her without abandon was not just a thing that friends do.

Maybe that’s not platonic.

…maybe it’s romantic.

Fuck.

Is she really in love with Don Quixote? 

She looked down at the girl in question, fast asleep in her arms, the sunrise peeking in through the windows highlighting her face. She sighed, positioning the two into a more comfortable position. The blonde instinctively nuzzled herself into Ishmael’s chest, her heart melting at the sight.

She really did love her. But should she allow herself to?

She lost one person she loved, Queequeg, to that bastard of a captain. Their dreams abruptly ruined, never allowed to come to fruition. But having Don, like this… is she allowed to feel this sort of comfort again? She hasn’t been focused on that captain, avenging her crew. Only her work and her roommate. Would Queequeg resent her for moving on so quickly?

A part of Ishmael wanted to say yes. That Queequeg was watching over her, and that she was disappointed that Ishmael would falter. But a part of her wants to hope Queequeg doesn’t hate her, wherever she was, that is.

Would Queequeg be supportive of these feelings? Would she tell Ishmael to push them away until Ahab’s heart was out of her chest and in her hands? Or would she push the two closer, telling Ishmael to follow where her heart wanted to go?

She sighed, shaking her head. Maybe she can be selfish. For once, she can let herself have something that she wants. She looked  down at the blonde in her arms, brushing her hair behind her ear. Maybe…

She yawned, grabbing the blanket Don wrapped herself in earlier before laying it atop the two of them. Maybe, in this moment, she could pretend for just a moment this is something more.

She felt her eyes slowly close, pulling the blonde closer to her. Just for a little longer, she can pretend.

Before she knew it, she was fast asleep, arms wrapped around the bloodfiend she adored.

–

Ishmael was sure her pallidification was bigger now. She no longer needed a mirror to confirm it. In fact, all she really had to do was take a look at her shoulder now.

Why is it growing bigger, she doesn’t know, not in the slightest. But what she does know is it’s a serious problem. Her performance is slipping, she can feel it herself being sluggish as if she were on the job with a cold. Her supervisors definitely took note, especially with how much she’s gotten their praise. Yet they simply asked no questions, simply informing Ishmael she could take a sick leave if she found herself under the weather. No amount of warm steaming baths and massages fixed her stiffness, and it felt like it was slowly ruining her.

Though, part of that could be due to the amount of blood she’d been supplying Don since she gave her permission.

Even at the slightest sight of hunger, Ishmael would simply tie her hair in a way that would conceal her mark and offer her neck to the blonde and never take no for an answer. 

Even after the bloodfiend expressed that it was unnecessary, Ishmael would still offer unless Don simply didn’t want to feed on her. So much blood had been drained, Ishmael was worried it would show on her complexion, though it would hide the Pale that was growing towards her shoulders.

Then again, there was the stress of making sure none of the neighbors and associations learned a member of the Zwei Association was housing with a bloodfiend– and she has a crush on her at that.

Thankfully, Don Quixote’s method of draining lowlife criminals did keep eyes away from her for a bit and her attitude returned to the one everyone was both annoyed and fond of.

But even then, there would always be skeptics.

Ishmael wasn’t sure what was harder to hide, the pallidification, or her friends’ bloodsucking nature. It felt like a balancing act on a tightrope– one where she could fall at any moment. She was exhausted, but she knew she had to keep her safe. She cared too much to lose Don Quixote to anything out of her control. She’ll be damned if she’ll lose another loved one because of a superior’s orders, Pequod captain or Zwei director.

It was another day she had off, one she was given by a superior on strict orders to rest to improve her sluggish output. It disheartened her to be away from her job, protecting clients, but it did her good to at least take a break from the constant balancing act.

It was her night to cook dinner, Don Quixote upstairs doing laundry. She didn’t decide on what she was cooking just yet but some curry never hurt anyone.

She took her long orange hair, wrapping it in a b–

“Ishmael, what is that on your neck?”

She immediately dropped the locks of hair in her hands, running her fingers through the strands as if to straighten out any sudden knots. “What’s what?”

Don Quixote stomped over to her, effectively trapping her between the sink and her body. “There’s something on the back of your neck. What is it?” Ishmael forced an awkward laughter, looking towards anywhere but the girl.

“I… My hair? That’s what’s on my neck Don, I don’t…”

“I do not believe you. Show me your neck if that is truly the case.”

Ishmael, as best as she could with her new found stiffness, tilted her head to the side, careful to let her hair fall where the palidication could be seen. She could see the concern and annoyance grow on her friends’ face. So this is how Don must’ve felt the day I caught her, the knight thought to herself.

“Ishmael! I’m serious. No more jokes, show me your neck!”

She sighed, gathering up her hair before turning around. She heard Don let out a gasp in horror as a forced smile crept on her face.

Well, it was a matter of time before she fell off that tightrope.

She felt hands lightly graze the Pallidification, making her shudder from the odd sensation. She turned over her shoulder to see Don Quixote in understandable silence. Hand over her mouth as if she couldn’t pick out the right words.

Finally, she heard the blonde mutter out a quiet “...What is…”

Ishmale took a deep breath, her head held up high. “It’s Pallidication,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s an effect from the Palid Whale. It can slow a person down and it can…well…” She took another breath, finally forcing herself to look Don Quixote in the eye. 

“It can immobilize them, before they transform into a mermaid.”

Don Quixote’s eyes filled with tears, the stories from Ishmael of her town at sea did enough to illustrate what she would become. She didn’t say anything, though it was obvious her heart was in her throat. Ishmael didn’t know what to say either. Don took a deep inhale, before muttering, “How long have…”

“...A while.”

Don Quixote had the look of defeat Ishmael remembers when they fought after she came home from the hospital. She hated that she put that look on her face. Some way to show your love, huh?

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why…”

“I didn’t want to worry you. You have enough to–” Ishmael felt hands grab her shirt's collar, Don’s face contorting in equal parts anger and fear. Ishmael’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. Her current position giving her an uncomfortable crick in her neck

“I DON’T CARE. Let me worry about you, let me care for you, dammit!” She screamed, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face.

“Let me care about you, let me worry about you! Let me be there for you, you god damn fucking fool, why do you think I do the things I do for you!?”

Ishmael tried prying the hands away from her shirt, but Don wouldn’t let her go. “Don, calm down, I–”

“NO, I can’t calm down, i can't lose you, not before I–”

“Don come on, calm down, you nee–”

“I CAN'T LOSE YOU AGAIN BEFORE I TELL YOU HOW I FEEL.”

What?

Don Quixote buried her face in Ishmaels chest, tears staining the fabric. Her sobs could be heard and her speech was incoherent that Ishmael wasn’t even sure where to begin. She gestured for Don to lift her head, tears spilling from her eyes and snot coming down from her nose.

“I can’t lose you again. I can’t lose you to what you saw at sea again. I thought you were gone once in that hospital bed for a week, I thought I'd lose you when you found out about what I became, before I could even tell you how I feel, I can’t lose you again, there has to be a way to reverse it right? Right? Please, you need to tell me…” She babbled, pressing her face into Ishmael’s chest, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Ishmael didn’t know where to begin, to address the comment of Don Quixote’s feelings or her pleading questions of the pallidication. All she could do was let the bloodfiend cry, rehearing what she’d tell her in her head.

Don Quixote lifted her head up again, “Please, we can stop it, right?”

But Ishmael shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Don Quixote tears built up again, removing her hands from Ishmaels waist to cup her face. “Let me turn you then! I need–” 

“Wait, turn me? Don w–”

“I haven’t told you I love you yet, Ishmael!”

Ishmael’s mouth was agape, Don Quixote breathing heavily as if she were running like she did that day she ran from their home.

“Please, I can’t lose you again. Please, there has to be, we haven’t done enough together yet, please…”

Ishmael never did learn all the traits of bloodfiends, only the signs of one and to slaughter them. But here her friend was, pouring her heart out like a waterfall and she didn’t know what to respond with.

On one hand, her feelings are returned. The longing was mutual; in any other situation she’d be overjoyed, even if it didn’t show on her face. But she’s been pallidied. She’s on a ticking time bomb, the rate it’s growing, it won’t be long before she’s too stiff to get out of bed.

But to be turned…

Ishmael knew her time was limited. Pallidication never takes long, how she’s managed to evade it was a mystery, even to her. At most, she suspected 3 weeks before she was immobilized. 3 weeks to spend with her childhood friend who returned her feelings, forcing her to watch her slowly decay until she was nothing.

…She already saw that happen to someone she cared about.

She wiped the tears from Don Quixote's eyes, watching the blonde look at her in confusion. She smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. The blonde’s cheeks reddened at the action.

“Before you turn me, can you let me be selfish for a second?” The question was odd, but the bloodfiend nodded.

And so, Ishmael leaned in pressing a kiss on her lips. She felt the blonde jump before she felt her kissing her back, Arms wrapped around her neck in an embrace as the two kissed one another, a million thoughts expressed by their lips alone.

Once they pulled away, Ishmael smiled.

“I want you to turn me, Don.”

Her friend… her love… her best friend nodded.

Don Quixote pressed her face into the crook of her neck…

And bit down.

…

And they lived happily ever after... well, supposedly, at the very least. After all, to the public eye, the Shining Star of Zwei West Section 3 had simply vanished without a trace. Right alongside her was a simple nobody with the name Don Quixote, who’s home was left deserted to collect dust for years to come. Leaving them to be another addition in the ever growing list that were the victims of the City. Perhaps they did find some semblance of peace? Or perhaps they met their demise to a Bloodfiend Hunter once their bloodlust took over their humanity.

A mirror can only hold so many different possibilities before it runs out of light. What happened to the Bloodfiend and her Knight? That's for you to decide.

All it takes is to pick up that faithful mirror shard...