WMOM: Chapter 11 🦇 (+the Swallow's Rest group chat)

Whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath eternal life.

What Manner of Man is a queer gothic romance novel about a priest and a vampire, written in epistolary form, served a bite at a time. If you’re reading for the first time, I recommend you start from the beginning.

This week’s Edited & Improved chapter features an entirely new tantalizing and twisted discussion of blasphemous theology — about blood, sacrifices, and Father Arelian’s special type of nonsense.

This chapter is dedicated to my glorious and exalted patrons Angela H, CC, and chalicechipper! ✨

EDITOR’S NOTE: Once again we have hit a point where I feel obliged to mention that I have made a decision to not censor this text. Readers should be aware that the following entries contain sexually explicit events — read at your own discretion.

LETTER TO VERA ARDELIAN

Dated April 28, 1950.

Dearest Sister,

Doubtless you’ll think me mad, Vera, but I can no longer stay my hand. I think I’m on to something terribly exciting. There’s more to this business than first appeared. It’s something to do with this place, with Swallow’s Rest itself. I can’t explain it; only that I’m not sure I’m dealing with a case of simple possession but something stranger, more complex.

Which is not to say that there is no possession at play. I’ve avoided saying as much until now but it is my belief that Lord Vane himself is the victim of a demon. (Doubtless you remember my previous case, where I had to fight to have that man treated with medicine instead of religion, so you know I would not make such a claim baselessly.)

Furthermore I believe Lord Vane is not the first member of his family to be thus possessed, perhaps even by the very same evil. I found in a journal an account of similar circumstances encountered centuries ago by another of my vocation, who describes the taint as stemming from a series of passages underneath the manor. These passages, I believe, are pagan in origin, and significantly older than even the Roman presence here.

There is an ancient power here that pre-dates the Advent, one I do not understand but which seems to shape everything that happens on this island.

I feel as if there is no choice but for me to press on with my investigation. The only next step I can see is to explore these ruins beneath the manor.

Lord Vane grows less and less assured each time he mentions the ruins to me. He has begun to emphasize the likelihood of getting lost within them, and how unimpressive the reward navigating them would be. Old rocks and dust, he says. Doubtless this is the demon speaking through him — his reaction has only made me all-the-more certain that I shall find some invaluable clue if I venture into that place.

I have intensified my devotions. God is with me in my mission, I am sure of it. I wait only for an opportune moment. May Christ attend my preparations.

Yours in Christ,
Fr Victor Ardelian

JOURNAL ENTRY

Dated April 30, 1950.

I have chosen today to make the attempt, as Lord Vane informed me he needed to go to the village on some business, and that he expected to be gone all evening.

It is unusual — for, although Lord Vane is often away from the manor, he rarely informs of his intentions beforehand. I hope that this visit isn’t a consequence of Danny coming to my rescue last week. I hate to think that there might be any lingering animosity between the two of them because of me.

JOURNAL ENTRY

Undated; probably evening of April 30 or morning of May 1, 1950.

Am I never to know peace? Just when I thought the infernal dreams were at an end, I have suffered another — and under such humiliating circumstances.

This dream differed markedly from any I have had previously, both in character and substance. Above all, it felt terribly real. Even now, as I recall the events in singular detail, I struggle to persuade myself that it was all a product of my imagination. Were it not for the fact that it is utterly impossible —

Lord Vane assures me that it was only the oppressive, airless atmosphere of the tunnels — that many men have been overcome by it. Perhaps he even believes what he says, but I cannot trust him. The demon within him knows the truth, even if the man does not. What I experienced bore no relation to natural, commonplace sleep, nor was it like any earthly dream. Of one thing I am certain: that it was the demon who put that evil vision into my mind. Down in that dark underworld, it was he who had dominion, he who drew me into that exquisite nightmare, and what he did to me there —

I must recount every detail, purge myself of it, lest it destroy me.

What makes the sting all the worse is that I cannot tell how far I made it towards my goal. I had no difficulty finding my way at the outset. Often enough, passing through the main hall, Lord Vane has directed my attention to the winding staircase at the foot of which lies the entrance to the underground passages.

I half expected to find the door bolted against me, arresting my progress before I even began, but at the first touch of my hand the heavy oak door swung inward as if in invitation. There were further stairs beyond and I recall passing through a succession of dark hallways, all of which ended in yet more stairs, always descending.

These shadow-haunted corridors, lit flickering by rows of wall-mounted candelabras, gradually gave way to unlighted stone walls as I progressed. I perceived that I had entered what must once have been a system of natural caves deep underground but which had evidently been greatly expanded and reinforced over the centuries; faithfully maintained by generations of ancient hands.

I found myself pausing more and more often to examine my surroundings by such light as I’d had the foresight to bring with me. For such ancient workmanship, the construction and, in particular, the decoration of the passageways was remarkably elaborate — preserved, no doubt, by their sheer depth and inaccessibility. The walls to either side had been beautifully carved with sinuously curving lines. Some resembled twisting, leafy vines; others appeared more to evoke the willowy trunks and interwoven branches of young trees. They seem, to me, in some subtle, indefinable way, to flow directly from the structure of the Hall above.

The deeper I went, the more the suffocating, lightless gloom of those narrow corridors seemed to press in on every side, and there were times I felt dizzy and struggled for breath. Was this when I lost consciousness? I cannot be sure.

Altogether, this was not a comfortable journey to make unaccompanied. Time and again, in my nervousness, I considered turning back, but as I contemplated the carved walls all my fear gave way to burning curiosity. How old was this place? What purpose had it served? Some ancient burial chamber, perhaps, or temple devoted to the worship of dark and long-forgotten gods.

I felt sure as I went deeper that I was fast approaching the very heart of Whithern Hall, the epicentre around which everything around me had grown and accumulated through the long centuries. What was it about this place that made me feel I was on holy ground?

With this last thought still in my mind, I rounded a corner and all at once the narrow walls gave way. I found myself standing at the entrance of a high, vaulted chamber; almost a cathedral in size. I gasped at the sight of it.

The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with fantastic carvings: beautifully stylized representations of tall, arching trees whose branches curved high overhead. Above, the dome of the roof and walls, though clearly of natural formation, had been made into a marvelous facsimile of the night sky in which hung a firmament of stars. How long must such a place have lain in undiscovered darkness, for all this to have survived, the azure pigment all but untouched by the ruinous finger of time.

In the centre of the chamber there had been erected a maze-like arrangement of standing stones; enormous pillars of rock encircling a central altar. Never, to my knowledge, has any similar ancient monument been discovered underground, as this one, making it unique among ancient Celtic archaeological finds. Stone circles are generally understood to have been designed so as to align with certain astronomical events — but then, this chamber had been given a sky of its own. Perhaps to hold this one static on a certain date? This was surely one of the wonders of the ancient world, a find of staggering archaeological significance.

I can hardly guess how much of what preceded this — how much, if any, of what I have just described — was real, for it all happened seemingly without the transition of sleep. At this point, however, I began to experience those events which can have been nothing else but a dream.

I approached the stones, first, with fascination. The altar was a low, sinister shape at the very heart of it all. The whole of the chamber seemed to bend toward it, long shadows curving inward like claws.

My fascination is what doomed me. I could feel it, then — the dangerous allure of that dim, remote time before men knew the light of God. As I ran my hand over the tall, rough-hewn stone, my mind ran wild with thoughts I scarcely recognized as my own — barbaric, pagan things, like those depicted in the tapestry that adorns the wall of my room.

At this point the light had I had carried was suddenly extinguished and darkness washed in. I was left helpless, yet I felt no fear. Light-headed, I was filled with a giddy, near-euphoric feeling. Then, as my eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, I became aware that — from what source I could not tell — the entire chamber was subtly illuminated. The altar in the middle of the stone circle in particular seemed to be emitting light. It grew brighter with each passing moment until the whole of the cavern was lit by an eerie, unnatural glow. I looked up, and Lord Vane was there.

He was clad in all white, from the shining crown of his head to his pale pearl slipper. The black of his hair — varied, here and there, by just a touch of silver — gleamed nearly sapphire against his ivory collar. He looked scarcely human; this creature of light and shadow.

When he beckoned to me, I fell to my knees before him and kissed the hem of his white garment. In that moment, to me, he seemed like a vision of Christ. I knew deep in my heart that this was wrong, that the desire that drove me to do this was sinful, and yet in that I could find no defense against it. It was as if the wrongness were itself the spur that drove me on. He held his hand out to me and I kissed the ring there.

What I felt for him — was it love? There was something sweet and intoxicating, like wine. I wanted more of it, to drown myself in it, to plunge so deep that I might never be recalled to myself; to my duties. I’m not sure I have ever wanted anything with such ferocity before in my life.

He rested the hand on the top of my head and spoke some words I could not understand, neither English nor Latin nor any other language I recognized. Then he took me by the hand and raised me to my feet, leading me towards the unholy altar.

To my surprise, I found it no longer bare stone. Whether by unhallowed magic, or some unseen hand, it was now draped in a white altar cloth and laden with tall candles burning high and dripping wax. To one side was placed a golden chalice.

Some madness took hold and, next moment, I found myself laying back upon the altar, understanding without instruction what my role was to be. I wanted to feel everything, to be transported beyond myself by sensation. I felt — oh, it was what drives better men to the whip and the thorn.

Leaning over me, he bound my wrists to the altar above my head with a golden cord, leaving me defenseless before him. It would be pointless to pretend I was unaffected by this. Then, standing between my parted knees, his hands fell to my breast, undressing me reverently, treating me like a sacred thing. I offered myself to him, arching my back as he undid the front of my cassock and pulled the garment wide.

This done, he knelt and kissed the altar, as one does at the beginning of Mass. Rising, then, he began again to move his hands over my body in a deliberate, ritualistic way, as if consecrating each part of me; murmuring throughout in that language I did not recognize. Though it was only through the fabric of my clothing, his touch made my skin burn. This state of partial undress left me feeling far more indecent than any mere nudity.

He left no part of me uncharted; hands passing not only over the dip of my belly and curve of my ribs, but the soft flesh of my thighs and — yes, my stiffening member. To this last he seemed to pay especial attention, and I could feel a deep flush blossoming across my face.

I knew, even in so fallen a state, that I should not allow this to continue. The binds were strong, however, and all that I accomplished by my efforts was to writhe in a somewhat embarrassing manner before him, driving myself up against his hand in the process.

He rose up, and from one sleeve of his robe produced an ornate, gold-handled knife; the polished blade glinting with the flickering of the candles. So I truly was to be sacrificed, then. I wish I could say that, in that moment, I did not lust for that demon to take me in every way imaginable, including this.

He raised the knife, but instead of plunging it deep into my breast began to cut the buttons from my shirtfront one by one. Then he did the same to the fastenings of my trousers, and in this way he proceeded to strip me of all my remaining clothing.

There I lay, flushed and perilously exposed. He could see — everything; no fig leaf remained to disguise that traitorous part of me which lay achingly hard against my thigh. Why was I so thrilled by all this? By his malevolent gaze raking over me; the power he had over my body — my own helplessness before him? I do not believe that he had broken me so much as that he had stoked into flame that spark which had all along existed, dormant, within me. I should expect nothing less of so experienced a fiend.

He touched me again and my skin grew hot, though his hands were cool. When he lay a kiss on my cockhead I could not suppress a cry, the pleasure of even that small contact almost more than I could bear. I whined, automatically pulling against my binds — not wishing to escape, but to urge him on; pulling him downward.

Instead he crawled forward over me, the fabric of his robe making me shiver as it brushed against my feverish skin. When he knelt astride me, my member was left trapped against him and I thrust into the sensation like a wanton whore. Yes, I was utterly debased — I have no other language for myself.

Lord Vane raised the knife once more; this time intending it for himself. He pressed the point of it to his wrist, crimson blood welling up around it the blade, leaving a small wound. This, then, he pressed to my lips.

I cannot understand what came over me, then, for I drank as greedily as if I were a man dying of thirst. If my hands had been free I would have clutched it closer, such was my desperation for it. I arched against him as I lapped at his wrist, chasing after satisfaction. When he drew back, I let out a sound of need that I could scarcely believe had issued from my own lips.

Lord Vane disrobed, then, removing his garment to reveal that he was bare underneath. In that moment, he was utterly unlike any other man I had ever seen. He looked otherworldly, beautiful beyond words.

He came toward me once more, climbing atop the altar. His masterful hands found my member and ministered to it with measured, perfect strokes, wringing from me sounds I never thought I could make. His legs were parted just so and he lowered himself slowly down over my body. Was he going to — ?

He brought his face within a breath of my throat and I believe I felt something sharp just begin to press against the tender skin there. By then I was too far gone to pay much attention, however. I trembled violently as he pressed me down onto the altar, entirely under his power. I would have done anything to have him, madness had taken me. I could remember neither God nor my duty; I was a creature of mere reaction and sensation. Oh, how I longed, then, for him to take all of me; to leave nothing behind. If he had killed me, it would only have been a fitting climax.

I had become like an animal, and, as an animal, all that was left for me was to die. I had forfeit that divine spark that man is heir to, and in exchange I had become capable of anything — everything. Where is there to go from there but death?

Then, all at once, he stopped.

As he reached for me, he drew back suddenly, as if burned. For a moment, his eyes seemed strangely luminous. Then a look of anguish passed across his face, and he turned from me.

I remember no more after that, save that he said, “I’m sorry.”

I woke in my accustomed bed, blessedly far aboveground, where the pure light of God’s dawn can reach me. Lord Vane says he found me passed out not far from the entrance to the underground passages. He had gone to search for me, finding me not in my room, as he wished to inform me that he’d encountered difficulty on the road and had been forced to return — some trivial matter to do with his horse. He was very considerate, for he had carried me bodily from the place. I even found, in his concern, that he had dressed me in some loose-fitting clothes from his own wardrobe.

How am I ever to face Lord Vane again while the very sight of him sends fire pouring through my veins at the memory of what passed between us in my dream? I want him fiercely. Oh Lord, help me to reject the byways of sin and pursue the paths of virtue. Keep my mouth free of perversity, keep corruption from my lips.

Several things, I believe, are necessary. I was a fool not to attempt any mortification of my flesh long before this. Tonight I will keep vigil until the small hours, and wake all-the-earlier next morning. Dreams cannot take root if I do not give them sufficient time. I shall begin to fast as well; I have indulged in too many pleasures since coming here. I have grown soft and indolent with them.

I must do everything within my power to cleanse this poison that infects my mind — I will free both myself and Lord Vane from this loathsome urge that possesses us. I must rise from this, for his sake. But, oh — how far I let myself fall.

Despite everything that has happened, beneath that impure lust there burns in me a bright, transcendent love for him as pure and sacred as that which I feel for Christ himself. There is a noble soul within Lord Vane; one as trapped in all this as I am. I must save him by any means, even if I destroy myself in the process.

✧ FAN POST OF THE WEEK ✧

Thanks to warthogreporter on Tumblr for this week’s post!

Lord Vane really needs to stop giving out his number.

I am flattered beyond words that real people have drawn fanart for my work — there are even some which I have not yet included in a newsletter! Lycanlovebites on Tumblr has has done me the honor of posting a number of cute / silly What Manner of Man drawings, including a couple that are spoilers. The following are from a post that also includes some spoiler-y stuff:

The choice of posts really demonstrates a profound understanding of Father Ardelian.

Click through here to see the full post, spoilers intact!

Reminder: each week, I’ll be taking a look at what’s been posted in the #WHAT MANNER OF MAN tag on Tumblr, and choosing one or two to feature (with permission) in the next e-mail.

WANT MORE?

Every week, on Patreon, I’m sharing a chapter from New & Improved What Manner of Man — the slightly shinier, more exciting version of the novel which has been edited and expanded for publication.

This week’s chapter is a twisted discussion about the theology of blood. 🩸