The soft morning light filtered through the dusty windows of the antique shop, casting long, dancing shadows across the forgotten relics. Freya moved through the aisles with a languid grace, rearranging a collection of antique porcelain dolls, her movements automatic, her mind still replaying the events of the previous night.
The unusual sweetness of Myra's blood, the unexpected arousal it had ignited, the girl's fierce determination and heartbreaking vulnerability – the encounter lingered in her thoughts like a haunting melody.
A faint, unfamiliar warmth stirred within her as she recalled Myra's desperate plea for her grandmother. A genuine hope had flickered within Freya that the ancient remedies within the book might indeed offer some solace. It was a strange sentiment, a deviation from her usual detached observation of human suffering. She must be able to help her, Freya found herself thinking, an unbidden wish echoing in the silence of the shop.
Suddenly, the shop door creaked open, the sound slicing through Freya's reverie. Her head snapped up, crimson eyes widening in surprise. Standing on the threshold, bathed in the morning sunlight, was Myra.
A wave of confusion washed over Freya. Myra had left only hours ago, clutching the book of ancient remedies. Surely she hadn't had time to decipher its contents and administer a cure already.
Why is she back so soon? Freya wondered, her mind racing. Had the book been useless? Had Myra encountered some trouble on her journey back to her village? Or had something else compelled her return?
A flicker of unease, mixed with a strange sense of anticipation, settled within the ancient vampire as she watched Myra step hesitantly into the shop, her expression unreadable in the soft morning light. The encounter the previous night had been unusual, but Myra's swift return held an air of unforeseen urgency.
Myra's footsteps were hurried as she entered the dim interior of the antique shop, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
"Freya," she said, her voice a mixture of frustration and exasperation, clutching the leather-bound book to her chest.
"I rushed all the way back to my village. I barely slept, eager to look through the book, to find something, anything that could help my grandmother.
But…" Her voice trailed off, her expression a mixture of dismay and a hint of foolishness.
She held out the book, opening it to a random page filled with elegant, unfamiliar script.
"It's all in Latin!" she exclaimed, her emerald eyes wide with exasperation.
"Every single word. I can barely decipher a few common phrases, certainly not enough to understand complex medicinal instructions. My grandmother… none of us can read this. It's as useless to us as a blank scroll!"
A rich, melodious laughter bubbled up from Freya, echoing through the silent shop. It was a genuine sound, tinged with amusement at the unexpected turn of events. She had, in her centuries, witnessed countless instances of human limitations and misunderstandings, and this was a particularly ironic one.
"Oh, little Myra," Freya said, shaking her head, her crimson eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Did you truly believe that the ancient secrets of healing would be readily accessible to just anyone who happened upon this tome? Latin was the language of scholars and healers for centuries. It was deliberately used to protect such knowledge, to keep it from falling into the wrong hands, or from being misinterpreted by the uninitiated."
She stepped closer, gently taking the book from Myra's outstretched hands and running a delicate finger over the aged pages. "My apologies," Freya continued, a hint of sincerity now tempering her amusement.
"In my haste to offer assistance, it seems I overlooked this rather significant obstacle. It has been so long since I last perused these texts, the language in which they were written had become… an ingrained assumption." A wry smile touched her lips. "It seems my centuries-old knowledge is not always directly translatable to your current predicament."
A flicker of renewed hope ignited in Myra's emerald eyes as she looked at Freya, the laughter dying down in the shop. "Then... then you can read it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of relief and a dawning realization washing over her. "You understand Latin?"
Freya's lips curved into a knowing smile, the amusement replaced by a hint of something more calculating.
"My dear Myra," she purred, her crimson gaze meeting the younger woman's intently. "I have walked this earth for centuries. Latin was a common tongue in my early years. I am fluent, as I am in many languages, both living and dead."
She held the ancient book gently in her hands, her fingers tracing the faded script on its cover. "You came to me seeking knowledge, and knowledge I can certainly provide. However," Freya paused, her gaze becoming more intense, "our previous exchange was… enlightening, shall we say. And your need is clearly great."
Leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, persuasive murmur, Freya said, "You offered me your blood once before, freely, willingly. It was… a surprisingly potent connection. If you were to offer it again, Myra, if you are willing to sustain me further, I would be more than happy to dedicate my time to translating this book for you. Word by painstaking word, if necessary. Think of it as… a continuation of our agreement. Knowledge for sustenance. A deeper understanding, perhaps, for a deeper offering." Her eyes held Myra's, a silent proposition hanging in the air, the terms of their unusual relationship becoming clearer with each carefully chosen word.