Act XV. Hyperborea (Part 1)
one
"We must get that ring and kill all the vampires!"
As Inart returned alone to Camilla's new house, this old phrase echoed in his mind. Transylvania was experiencing its heaviest snowfall in decades, the snowflakes as large as goose feathers. Flying through the night sky, he felt like a fragile moth, flitting through the swirling dust, trudging towards a flickering fire, about to plunge into it. He felt neither cold nor heat. Those pains had long since vanished with his change of status and the bestowal of power, over a hundred years ago.
That's how it should be, he thought. Until he saw the magnificent silhouette of that stone structure in the heavy snow.
What did it resemble? A tomb, a church, an altar, a prison, but not a castle, not a dwelling. It was lit, candles were lit—lights vampires never needed. In fact, vampires didn't even need to live, nor die. That's how it should be, Inart thought. If so, why did it shine, why did it burn? Was it for the blood slaves who toiled and served, for their extravagant pleasures, or for that fragile, selfish, absurd love and its offspring?
Inard felt his mind was not quite clear. He landed on the warmest balcony. Snowflakes mingled in his long, brown hair, as if wearing an old man's hat.
The vampire stealthily peered through a narrow window, trying to find his "brother's" room first—his name was Yubi. Inart remembered the heavy yet light name his mother had given him. He should be four years old this year, but who knew if he wore that ring all the time, or if he had even grown into a four-year-old?
Unfortunately, he couldn't find Yubi, only some blood slaves bustling about in the corridor. Inart couldn't help but notice these poor souls with markings on their chests. He heard the blood slaves talking.
"What heavy snow!" a woman exclaimed. "We won't be able to go to the market for a month!"
“Why go to the market in winter?” another man yawned relaxedly. “We have enough to eat and use in the cellar. We can also go ice fishing on the lake for a change of pace.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about myself, but about my master getting bored,” the woman said. “If only we could call two more bards and painters to sing some songs and draw some picture books for him… You know, Yubin is memorizing more and more words. He’s so clever, much cleverer than most children.”
"No wonder you're worried! Don't be afraid, I've seen a lot, and I can sing, draw, and tell stories." The man laughed loudly, "I'll help you!"
“Then go and tell the master about this.” The woman smiled happily. “With such a long winter, you must tell a different joke every day so as not to disappoint the master.”
The two walked towards a room with a burning fireplace, their voices fading behind the door. Inart, hearing these joyful and relaxed words, recalled his past life, and a complex mix of emotions welled up within him, his convictions wavering for the umpteenth time. Perhaps being deceived was truly a kind of happiness, perhaps being controlled was a kind of fortune? If born a mortal, what better way out was there? He asked himself honestly, what did he deserve for being reduced to such a state—had he ever had the chance to experience such simple, indulgent happiness?
He hesitated outside the window for a long time, staring at his icy, sharp fingernails. It was as if, in a little while, they would be stained with warm blood; or adorned with a blood-red ring.
"My child," suddenly, a mother's voice rang out from the other side of the narrow window, "Come to me!"
The voice was all too familiar, both terrifying and comforting, having appeared countless times in Inart's dreams and nightmares, causing him to tremble and become paralyzed. As if a blanket of snow were covering him, he was tormented and anxious by this non-existent cold, and he hurriedly looked towards the source of the sound—
In the middle of that narrow stone window, a pair of curved red eyes gazed at him with a smile. The eyelashes on their eyelids were all white, as pure as death.
Inard suddenly recalled a fable: if a pony is tied to a stick with a thin rope from a young age, even if it grows up strong enough to break free, it will never have the courage to try again. He felt as if he were being pulled by a rope, tethered by a string, turning into a light, floating black mist, and being dragged into the corridor.
"From this day forward, I am your mother, your lover, and your master. You are one in a million lucky ones."
Do you remember this line?
Camilla first embraced Inard, then kissed him fondly and passionately. The sweet, blissful taste of blood lingered on her lips and tongue, a taste Inard hadn't tasted in a long time. He felt a tempting yet shameful allure, forced to resist—but his resistance was seen as a coy provocation, a noble and steadfast self-restraint, merely a fuse for his mother to unleash her love and dominance. Inard felt anger, yet it was futile. Like a ponies tethered to a rope, he was at his mother's mercy, trying to numb himself with faith and ideals, hoping to accept this as a different kind of torture and atonement.
At the arrival of this rare guest, all the blood slaves excitedly stirred. The marble bathroom was filled with fragrant spring water, and vases were adorned with greenhouse-grown flowers. Inart was stripped naked and led into the misty, damp air, where he sat on a cushioned rosewood chair. His mother gently held an ivory comb, carefully untangling his matted hair.
“I see gray hairs!” Camilla exclaimed in surprise from behind his head. “You’re not taking good care of yourself.”
Inart didn't want to reply, but he couldn't help speaking. "You have a full head of white hair, how can you speak to me like that?" he said dismissively. "I don't want to drink the blood of the innocent."
"There is no one in this world who is not innocent."
"No, they are all innocent. No one wanted to be a sinner; they were all forced into it."
"Sigh, you're so immature, I can't be bothered to argue with you." Camilla struggled to comb through the tangles in his hair, but many were knotted and impossible to untangle. She had no choice but to pick up the scissors. "You don't have many gray hairs, just a few. It seems you haven't been starving yourself every day like you said. Why are you arguing with me?"
Inart couldn't stand such words, as if his sordid and hypocritical secrets had been exposed, as if Camilla was forcing him to prove his innocence with death—if there was a most ruthless and hurtful demon in hell, then Camilla must be the heartless embodiment of that demon, he thought—"You don't understand me," Inart said only with restraint and numbness, "and I don't ask you to understand."
As soon as he finished speaking, he felt a chill run down his spine, as if Camilla's full head of white hair was proof of his fallacy. His mother, both old and young, with her long, disheveled, snow-white hair like a fur coat, walked around to him, revealing an unsettling smile. "Nonsense, I understand you best!" Inart thought, she was sure she was going to say that to refute him, to insult him.
“Okay, I don’t understand you,” Camilla chuckled. “As long as it makes you happy.”
Inart first felt a deep-seated anger. But he struggled to suppress it, letting that hardened feeling melt into a hollow, sorrowful void. It was as if only in this way could he prove he truly possessed lofty ideals and a passionate dedication. But then confusion struck him—Camilla must understand him, he thought. If that's the case, are all ideals so unattainable, so endless? Is his end point like that of his mother before him, where he will become a颓废无畏死人 (a decadent, fearless dead man)?
“I will always be here.” Camilla rose and draped a luxurious, soft robe over him. “If you ever come to your senses, you can always come back here.”
The empty feeling of being embraced and cared for was incredibly comforting, Inard thought. He couldn't help but escape into the arms of his mother and lover, almost wanting to abandon everything, even the guilt of abandoning it. But when he touched those cold lips, he remembered that this had happened countless times before: he would first fall into "absurd" ideals, then be shattered by his mother's gentle embrace, and after becoming accustomed to numbness, be awakened by pain to pursue those ideals again. It was like a cyclical curse: when people are comfortable, they seek pain; when they are in pain, they seek comfort again, constantly envying their former selves.
Just as he was engrossed in it and hesitant about it, a voice shattered all his illusions.
"Mommy!" a childish voice cried anxiously from the doorway, "...Mommy is mine!"
Through Camilla's cascading hair, Inart caught a glimpse of Yubi. The little vampire, like a short, sharp thorn, pierced his eyes, every detail of his face resembling his mother's defiant—Camilla's embrace instantly left him with that shout, giving way to the youngest child.
All the fascination and hesitation vanished instantly, as if struck by a thunderbolt.
“This is your brother, Inard. He is your family, just like you and me.”
Inart disagreed. He never considered Camilla to be the same kind of person as himself, much less did he agree that this child, born and raised as a vampire, was the same as him. If he had to elaborate, he could understand Ambikia better—they had both been lowly blood slaves—and it was precisely this understanding that made them all the more hateful. Camilla and Yubi, on the other hand, seemed more like unattainable, indescribable ghosts. Why did they look so alike? Was it blood relation or coincidence? If Yubi had never experienced the hardships of mortals, the suffering of blood slaves, yet he wore that ring on his finger, being half-coaxed, half-persuaded by his mother to act out loud, just like any other child. Those tears were clear and transparent, not the thick, sinful crimson of blood—he seemed more like a mortal than himself, which was absurd.
Inart's gaze finally settled coldly on the ruby ring.
"Don't be angry, don't be angry, my baby..." Camilla held Yubi in her arms and rocked him, doing everything she could to make him happy. "Mommy won't leave, Mommy is yours, Mommy will always be here."
"No, Mom is mine, I don't want him!" Yubi deliberately cried out, her voice trembling with sobs. "I hate him!"
This was the first time Inart had ever seen such pure hatred being unleashed so fiercely upon him. A four-year-old child was not yet old enough to conceal his emotions; his eyes were so intense they seemed to want to tear him apart and crush him to the ground. He didn't know how to judge this natural, childish outburst—whether it was a blessing or a sin, a mortal's passion or a god's indifference.
Camilla looked up, smiling awkwardly yet happily. It was as if this embarrassing situation was also a rare source of pride for her. "Don't mind what the child says. If you visit him often, he won't dislike you. Children are very innocent; they'll be kind to whoever is kind to them."
“I can’t come often, and I can’t be nice to him,” Inart said sincerely yet ruthlessly. “I don’t blame him for hating me.”
“Don’t say that. How can anyone be sure if we don’t try?” Camilla held the baby in one arm and insisted on grabbing his wrist with the other. “I hope that Yubi’s birth will help you and Ambikia understand some things. Maybe when he grows up, you will be able to understand each other and live in harmony.”
The two, whose identities were unclear—mother and child or lovers—stood hand in hand as they left the house. The snow had stopped, and the three vampires strolled to the back of the villa, gazing at the frozen lake. In the center of the ice sheet, two or three vampire slaves were sweeping snow with lanterns and chiseling at the holes they had previously fished, breaking up the newly formed ice. They treated this as a form of amusement, laughing and frolicking, not caring whether they caught any fish, nor about their hands, feet, and cheeks turning red from the cold.
Inart turned his head and saw that Yubi, in Camilla's arms, was also shivering from the cold, burying her face in her fur cloak and refusing to look at him. A strange thought came to his mind.
"Why didn't you take off his ring?" he asked. "If you took off his ring, he wouldn't feel cold."
Camilla seemed to tighten her grip on his wrist. "I want him to grow up quickly," the mother said. "I never ask him to take off his ring except when he's nursing."
"Will I not be cold if I take off the ring?" Yubi repeated thoughtfully in her arms.
“No, baby.” Camilla’s tone became stern. “I’ll allow you everything else, but not this.”
Inart said nothing. He simply vanished into a cloud of black mist in the firelight, reappearing on his mother's other side—this time, Camilla could no longer hold his hand so tightly. To Yubi's astonishment, he gently opened his mouth, his gleaming fangs approaching the child's tender skin.
"Want to come out of the forest with me?" he uttered sinful words like a devil tempting a lamb. "You can do anything once you take off the ring, just like my mother and I."
Before Camilla pulled him away, he clearly saw a ripple of curiosity and longing appear in Yubi's eyes—but quickly, those ripples turned into tears of fear that rolled down her cheeks. "Mommy..." was the only word the child could utter, sobbing as she spoke, "Mommy, I'm scared..."
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Inart said resolutely, his voice filled with hatred. “All these skills and sins should have been as easy for you as walking; there’s nothing to ask or learn. Blame your mother for imprisoning you…”
"Yubi, go to the other side of the lake and find Christina to play with."
Inart finally fell silent. He anticipated Camilla's anger—anger being a predictable, tangible emotion, a selfish thought possessed only by mortals. It was as if provoking Camilla would elevate him above the gods, making him nobler and more cunning. He watched helplessly as Yubi stumbled away from him. The child, bundled up in the snow, ran and looked back like a chubby little animal across the ice, welcomed by the blood slaves into an ivory tower far removed from the truth.
Camilla led him away from the lake and all the way to the edge of the forest.
“You don’t want him to grow up quickly. You want to deceive yourself, to keep him pure forever.” Inart finally revealed his true, monstrous nature. “He will be no different from us, from you, from everyone else in the world. Many people say children are innocent, but I don’t think so. I find that statement utterly despicable. Besides yours, how many people’s blood has he drunk? When he grows up, how will he view this absurd life? Humans are born with terrible natures, and it takes a lifetime of self-discipline to escape their animalistic instincts and take a step towards goodness and perfection. When he learns the secret of your birth that you kept from him, all your efforts will be in vain.”
He thought his words were powerful, cold, and sharp, capable of tearing through all pretense. "My poor child, you have suffered too much; you didn't have to be like this." Camilla, however, took his hand again, looking at him with an indescribable pity.
"You're jealous of Yubi, aren't you?"
This question pierced Inard's heart like a needle.
“When he was born, no one was harmed because of it; even if they were, he was unaware of it.” Inart clenched his fist. “But when I was born, everyone I knew left me because of it. The blood slaves were all coerced by your secret and sacrificed themselves for me. You forced me to know these things… This is my original sin, which can never be washed away.”
"The same thing happened when Ambikia was born."
"You're blaming me for not being like her? Do you think she's living a good and carefree life?"
“I don’t think so,” Camilla sighed. “You are all the luckiest children I personally chose. I granted your wishes and bestowed upon you power in the hope that you would find joy and happiness. But now it seems that, whether you take ambition or ideals as meaning, you have not found what you are truly seeking. Otherwise, there would be no Yubi.”
Inart closed his eyes in anguish, unwilling to hear these tragic prophecies. He vaguely sensed that he was walking on an endless road with no end in sight, no more noble than Ambichia or anyone else in the world. The meaning of ideals had become a shell, encasing him, becoming the signpost and beacon of his life. And he might never have the courage to remove this shell from himself.
“Please tell me,” Inart asked through gritted teeth, “Is he your own child?... Is he your flesh and blood, your own flesh and blood? Are you really capable of bearing children?”
Camilla wore a strange expression, as if she were offended, yet also praised. Inart couldn't discern the meaning behind her expression, nor could he glean any clue as to the answer.
"Why do you all care so much about this?" the mother asked. "I gave him life, I gave him love, I made him live towards death... Does it really matter whether he came from my womb?"
Inart was utterly disappointed by this cold and evasive answer. He felt like a defective product born flawed, like a seed that withered before it even sprouted—he finally realized that he would never understand Camilla's thoughts.
They remained silent in the woods, as if bidding a final farewell. How long passed, no one knows, until a blood slave came running in a panic.
"Master..." The blood slave's breath frosted in the night, "The ring... Yubi threw the ring into the lake!"
They returned to the small ice hole in the lake, the firelight unable to illuminate its bottomless, murky abyss. Camilla removed her robes in the snow and, under the watchful eyes of all the blood slaves, stepped into the icy lake, disappearing with a splash. Yubi knelt on the ice, wailing heart-wrenchingly. "Don't be afraid, your mother will be back soon," a blood slave comforted him, embracing him tightly. "The ring won't be lost."
“I can’t do anything…” Yubi cried out, “Why am I different from my mother!”
"It's because you're too young!" Blood Slave patted his shoulder. "When you grow up, you'll be able to learn all these skills!"
"When will I grow up?" Yubi asked boldly, pointing at Inart. "Was he like me when he was a child?"
Inart watched all this indifferently, refusing to answer even when Yubi looked timidly into his eyes. He only stared at the youthful face so strikingly similar to Camilla's, trying to find something new within it—hope, a future, a key like love to unlock confusion and bewilderment. He didn't realize that a bitter smile had crept onto his own face because of these melancholy thoughts, like a skeleton with one foot in the grave.
After a while, Camilla emerged from the ice cave, soaking wet. Her face had turned bluish-purple, and ice crystals clung to her hair, making her look like a frozen, drowned corpse. Yubi cried even louder, terrified by his mother's horrific appearance, until the ring was pushed back onto his finger.
“Inart, you should leave,” she said as soon as she reached the shore. “As long as I am here, you are never allowed to come back here.”
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