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They are in a quarrel now, a novelty; the boy Orlok had known for so long had been too afraid of him to engage in more than arguing in the aid and defense of his wife or attempting to soothe tempers in avoidance of disputes.
He is not sure how to take this, on one hand, it is possibly a sign of Orlok’s growing weakness—or their growing strength. Their ability to leave him is widening, though they have not done so yet, though he has granted them the freedom for which they have haggled, her strengthening powers from Orlok’s teachings and texts, and his travels into Orlok’s lands and people.
This change has created a precarious situation, he must be more careful than he had been before—more giving. All the while Ellen is belligerent as always and now even her little husband begins to follow in her suit, raising up against him without her bidding it! It is an insult, it is a sign Orlok has not reaffirmed his rulership, his position as the head of their fortress, enough as of late!
Though, on the other hand, Thomas’ petulance is rather amusing, and it is not a view he manages to pull from their husband often, not as he pulls it from Ellen. Orlok finds a particular enjoyment in breaking down his fortifications, watching him slip into frustration and hearing some bite break into his words.
It is a challenge as making Ellen bend is a challenge. Her husband is shaped easily, but he is not so quick to strike out. His enchantress strikes out against him often, and she hates to be shaped.
Though in their worst disagreements they are not at all similar to the battles he has with Ellen; straightforward and vicious, a true battle of, not quite equals, but closer than most, a voracious spat of claws and teeth and magic.
Ellen is e’re the easier of the two to comprehend, as incomprehensible as she is. She is so much more like himself, taking her dues, her violence, their hearts in each other's hands, their claws embedded inside each other's flesh, teeth tearing at skin, bile and blood seeping out onto floors, and their disputes and rage with it as they settle into a quiet exhaustion.
(Afterwards their husband will peek his head out to check if they are yet finished, and then offer some of his own blood for their recovery, and hum and sew whatever needs to be sewn, be it ripped limbs or torn skin or both. They would revert naturally regardless, but it makes the process faster, and in their tired states it is more struggle to repair with their magic.)
(Though they could. Technically.)
Whatever motivated their wraths is laid down and forgotten within the night, until they were dug up and spurred to rise again at some later date.
Dueling is the proper manner of resolving grievances between those of high station. More so between two men, and it is women who patch their lovers' battle wounds, but Orlok has since accepted (and perhaps somewhat enjoyed) that he has taken up such strange boundless creatures, who are n’er as they should be.
This does not mean it is not a vexing thing when their behavior becomes burdensome to understand, as when they use softness as a weapon.
Though his wife might put on a poorly made mask of false sweetness in an attempt to get her way, or as a tactic to wear down his resilience, or encase biting insult, his husband covers his utmost wrath and displeasure behind a gritting smile, words sweetly deferent, overly so, sickeningly so, and tone strained.
Difficult to latch onto and rebuke, when there is no request or insult laden within. And…..unsettling. Disruptive. Disquieting. He almost prefers the boy dropping into a lightly sardonic demeanor with him, while it is overly familiar and friendly.
It appears he is bolder now in both contentment and discontentment.
Orlok has found that violence is not a useful tactic for handling disputes with Thomas, as it is with Ellen. It is not a duel he seeks, he refuses that easy release of his ire, no, he must continue to burn them both on it slowly. Ridiculous. Exasperating child.
Yes, he may find pleasure in the enactment of destructive force against himself, will even assist her in her own viciousness when they feel it necessary to make a stronger stance, or be wounding when he is called upon by their wife for her pleasure, but in moments of their quarreling where Orlok might attempt the clawing out of pain from him, expecting some fight to be returned, he simply lays flat, offering as little responsiveness as he can manage, smothering his moaning and his wincing.
Afterwards he is always colder, sharper, more sickeningly sweet than he was before.
And there is always some enjoyment, some satisfaction at Orlok’s rising frustration to be found in the boy's eyes. He would tear them out, if only he did not know that would lead to much more work in resolving matters with the two of them.
It is not a method he has attempted more than thrice.
Instead he has found he simply must rely on time’s movement. Always when they had quarreled before, Thomas’ upset had eventually eased. Soon he would return to his more natural softness, and his occasional nipping, and all would be as it should be.
It is not until Thomas has suddenly pulled back on his little tasks, in a new quiet tactic to display his anger, that Orlok realizes he has grown so dependent on them—and he is not pleased to be so taken off guard, and so manipulated.
Either the boy is growing even bolder, or he is more troubled by whatever it is that provoked this behavior than he had been by what perceived offenses had stirred his tempers before now. His usual tactics have gone on for longer than they had before.
His spouses are…affectionate together, often overly so, and it can be used as a dagger.
Thomas acknowledges their wife’s presence when they are all together with adoring words, and touches, this is not unusual, no the slight is him doing so while completely ignoring his lord. Not granting him even a glance of acknowledgment. Not even a stray greeting. Disrespectful. Unconscionable.
He ought to shake the guile out of him! And take delight in Thomas’ expression turning to fear, or his churning plastered smile breaking to reveal his true hidden anger.
But it is precarious now.
And that would probably lead to this mild tantrum going on for even longer.
Horrendously his jealousy (for Ellen, just Ellen, surely) is somehow spurred on by this. Though he knows what it is that Thomas is doing, so why should it be so effective? It is merely a petty childish act, worthy of only his spurn and disgust. So underhanded it serves only as a reminder of his comparative weakness. And yet. And yet.
Ellen enjoys the attention and is clearly amused by his frustration and Thomas’ passive anger, but she will not fully join in on her softer husband's side and initiate in this, as much as Orlok will not interfere in their own rarest arguments, and Thomas will avoid Ellen and Orlok’s more spontaneous aggressions.
He dotes upon her and he always has—but a few decades ago he had turned some of these attentions towards him, not the sweet words, that is not how they relate to him or he to them, but the actions, his courtesy, once directed only to Ellen, had spread out to both.
Thomas has taken up mending tears in their clothes, and putting away their coverings, and writing for them—now ‘typing’—he adores using that godforsaken ‘typewriter’ Ellen had gifted him when he passed seventy five years—records of their progress in magic.
Orlok has grown to anticipate these actions from him, has planned for their occurrences, and the sudden cease of them has him off balance. So cleverly implemented, this reliance and this removal.
He cannot recall where his book had been placed—Thomas had taken to putting those away for them as well, they stored the newer variety in a different area than the old, and the whelp still will not actually talk to him. Infuriating.
And his hat—still stained from their most recent hunt—he was usually much more careful with the blood spirting but on occasion some made it onto his attire—unseemly. Unbearable.
This cannot go on. He must resolve this without giving the impression Thomas has…won in some way. There must be a way around this to be found.
He finds Ellen lazing on a spare bed with her familiar. He notes that she has her book, and grits his teeth for a moment.
“Why is it that your husband has decided to be so troublesome?” She looks up and smiles, humor flitting into her gaze.
(He is not pleased to see it, even at his own expense. He is not.)
She shrugs, says, “go ask him.” As though even the very idea of that concession isn’t entirely revolting.
“You would not have me believe that you do not know.”
She grows more amused, “I would have you believe that I would not tell you, if I did know.”
He growls out in frustration. She rolls her eyes.
“He will appreciate you asking and tell you. He likes to talk through things. It is easier, you know.”
Easier than their scuffling? Doubtful.
At his expression, Ellen grows slightly sheepish, “well it is supposed to be. It’s less messy in the end, at the very least.” Then she goes back to her reading.
Talk. He should not have to talk to him to earn back proper deference. He should not let his husband and wife’s whims and ridiculous little delicacies dictate his actions at all.
A week later, when it still has not been cleared up and more calamities have occurred as a result, he reconsiders his position. Perhaps it is not a…concession. Indeed it is reconnaissance. A seeking of knowledge.
“You have been irksome,” Orlok says as he enters the room.
Thomas, whose back was turned when he entered, flinches at the sudden appearance, easily startled, even now, and then settles, quicker to do so every year that passes.
He turns around, says “Oh, have I? My sincerest apologies, your lordship,” an honorable title spit as a curse.
Orlok could, should, wring his neck.
Precarious. All is precarious.
Instead he grimaces, asks “why have you been so?” At last his smile drops as surprise replaces it.
Thomas settles back into a frown. He is quiet. Orlok begins to grow impatient. He holds back the urge to snap. Tactically.
Finally his husband sighs, says, “it was not my fault that they got away. You said it was my fault.” His voice is filled with hurt.
That is it? The cause of all this? He cannot even recall having said these words, though he does recall a recent meal managing to escape their clutches. Embarrassing when they are all practiced and proficient hunters.
He has a suspicion that if he reveals this absence of recollection this progress will be unmade.
And still he does not like the idea of taking back his words. Humiliating.
Thomas gaze hardens again, the released shell building back up. Perhaps because he has read all of this upon his face. This is the danger of being so often near to people other than himself; they know him much too well.
As he starts to turn away once more, Orlok manages to grit out, “it is possible, that the blame did not reside entirely upon you.”
Thomas faces his way once more, “it didn’t. We were all distracted,” then he frowns further, “you are always quick to put fault on me because you already think I am less capable than you and Ellen.”
Ah. So this is about more than one incident.
He is less capable, in several ways. More capable in some, in his handling of people, he has a commendable skill for manipulation, that he refuses to admit to so directly.
His accusation has merit. He had seen him as a mere superfluous addition in the beginning. He does not so much these many years later.
“It is true that you are not with the power of sorcery,” he says.
“That has nothing to do with them escaping,” Thomas bites out.
“I did not appreciate your absence. It is more aggravating than your presence,” he continues addressing the broader point.
Thomas tilts his head and squints his eyes, “huh?” Though it is more peeved than genuinely confused.
“You should not do so again. It has made things more difficult.”
His tension releases. He sighs. “I do not like to be upset,” Thomas' face scrunches up, “or blamed unfairly.”
“I will attempt to be fair in my observations,” he manages to say.
Thomas, for the first time in three weeks directs a real smile his way, small, slightly exasperated, not wide and gratingly saccharine.
Orlok has the sudden urge to squeeze him until his head pops off his neck, and yet he is not particularly angry. Instead he holds his face and indents his claws into his husband's skin.
He winces, does not attempt to hide it, and then loosens, closes his eyes. Orlok sinks his teeth sharply into his neck, over the bite mark that will never fully close.
They both open their eyes, when softer footsteps than theirs, bare feet on stone, signal the appearance of their wife. They look her way.
“At last,” she says, “that all took much too long.”
Then she pulls them both towards her by their arms, gestures her leading them out—probably to take in each other's flesh once more, long has it been now since they have done so as a group.
Yes, at last.