[IC, Dix/Requiem]

Dix looked at the envelope in his hand, black as coal, heavy and expensive. He didn’t need to see the device pressed into the ivory wax to know who it came from – the smell, her smell was there – subtle and floral, simple and elegant in a way most of the ladies he spent any time with just couldn’t match. With a nod of thanks he dismissed the smartly dressed courier – dimly he was aware of John taking things in his stride and taking him aside to get a drink, chat about nothing, to give him time to think.

Letters, he mused, it was all about letters. It was a letter that stabbed him with a knife of fire – like gout a cynical part of him said – “I have returned. Are you well?”. Odd that six words and a single letter should be able to do what time and oh so careful words had failed to do anything. That had hurt, if he was honest, but it wasn’t like he had cause – they’d each said it was just flesh, just feeling and nothing more.

The second letter was loss, energy just gone. Not even enough to be worth a goodnight or goodbye; as important as a chair, or a plant. No, not a plant; plants had prize of place. That greenhouse needed to be kept up and beautiful. Wouldn’t be right else. One letter of return, and one of more loss, and his world turned upside down.

He put the black envelope down and went to look out of the window, not seeing what was there, he thought to the madness of the last few nights. Visiting places he didn’t want to set foot, striking deals and teaching folks what should be common knowledge. Continuing the business of Marathon, and his own affairs, so that none would suspect anything was wrong. Reaching to remove his shades Dix frowned at the slight shake to his hand, that wouldn’t do, not showing any weakness in front of his boys, his pack. He was leader, alpha, the head dog; and whilst there was no weakness there’d not be any challenges. Weakness wasn’t allowed.

So many arrangements and agreements, how he hated politics and word games; he didn’t have the brains for it, nor the temper. Suddenly he went back to the courier “Thanks for bringing this” and passed some dollar bills over “Here, go and get a room, relax and have a good time – pop back tomorrow before you head back in case I’ve got anything for you. But good job mate, thanks”

Waiting till he was gone Dix nodded to John “I’m good fella, give me some privacy yeah?” He waited for the “guv” and for the sounds of movement to cease before reaching for the envelope again, hating himself for the slight shake in his hand as he did, plainly visible before the sharpened sight he enjoyed.

A flourish to produce a razor-sharp knife more suited to throwing than paperwork and the letter was open, the seal carefully intact. He discarded the black paper and raised up a heavy parchment, nostrils flaring as if to catch a final scent of something gone. Something clattered slightly as it rolled from the envelope, ignored for now as eyes slowly read the words, tried to understand their meaning. Read them again and a third time as a single blood-red tear rolled from one eye and filled the room with the sharp iron tang of vampiric vitae.

Looking down a simple ring of silver rolled from the envelope to the hard wood of a table, reaching to pick it up Dix was glad to note the momentary shake had gone. He thought to himself that it was some oddness but done with now for sure. Even in the dim light the sharp sight of his kind picked out words, bending closer the motto "You are the journey. I, the destination." is clear. He half smiles as it slips onto a finger.

“Live…yeah, I guess that I can do for you princess”, the words whispered echo through the still room as finally he pays attention to the small crate that came with the letter. Not bothering with tools Dix simply takes hold of first one then another nailed down plank and pulls them bodily from the others. Inside a large, elegant bottle seemingly full of wine. The scent of it confirms a first thought; far stronger and more potent than anything made of grape, and brings another small smile to the biker.

A glint of metal in the bottom catches his eye and brings a frown to replace the smile. Reaching down powerful fingers close on an almost delicate broach of silver wire in the shape of a Maltese cross in a filigree wreath. His promise to return.

“I was stupid to think this cheap thing was worth you I guess” voice quiet still, but sad now, turning to a hint of anger “but I thought the promise was worth something!” and the silver broach hits the wall with force, landing forgotten in the carpet as loss and rage battle within for release.

Calming himself down with some difficulty, pulling back the creature that demanded release, that needed blood, that seemed to command an orgy of sex and violence and speed and risk.

With a growl Dix went off to head to danger, to put his head into the lion’s mouth – silently vowing a week on the Spanish coast where the clubs went on till dawn, and all his urges could be met by the holidaymakers or locals – or whoever got in his way. The swagger slightly exaggerated, unconsciously seeking trouble – and a shiny silver ring forgotten on a finger.