Disclaimer: I obviously don't own blood...at least not officially; waves eagerly to Diva and Amshel 'Heyy guys!'
Amshel shudders: um...go away please
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2004. The city was quiet at this hour. The night breeze cooled his slim figure as he listened to the growing hum of the occasional car hundreds of feet below, his ears tracing the slow tread to its nameless niche. Haji opened his eyes slowly and reveled in the relative peace of the city, its many voices finally buried under sleep. It was dark; no one would see the timeless Chevalier resting on the rooftop of a skyscraper, stretching against an elaborately lacquered cello case.
Haji remembered the first sleep, when time tore the two of them apart for thirty years, though at the time he couldn't have guessed he would have to wait for that severely long. Those early years of the 1890s were his most revisited and agonizing. Saya wasn't quite dead set on quietly storming the world and exterminating all existing Chiropteran then. Their days had glossed over smoothly, surrounding his cello and accompanying the hyperactive woman around Joel's extended estate. Of course after the massacre on Joel's birthday, her face hardened. So much so that he often caught himself sullenly wishing she would revert to her childish ways again.
He supposed, it was his 'father' too, who was murdered, although there was a subtle difference between being born into their tight ring and being bought. With the Zoo destroyed, Saya and he were thrust from their isolated high life. Suddenly they were in the real world, homeless. And then for some reason, she began to grow weary, often falling over in the middle of the day. It had been amusing to catch her snoozing and poking her awake but as her lapses deepened and grew in frequency, both knew something was looming. After he had walked away from her hidden tomb, it hit him that he was completely free…the Zoo was razed, boundaries lifted, he could travel the world now, do all the things he had longed to do, start life anew!
Those thoughts had crept into his mind at one point but he would feel skittish without visiting the tomb regularly. Even then, he was probably instinctively bound to Saya. More so as the decades passed by, when the townspeople stared after him in the street, whispering in horror amongst themselves, which taught him to steer clear of other humans. He rubbed his pale face. It was still smooth and taut even now when he felt ancient. It was difficult being shunned at first, loneliness seizing him in waves as he waited for Saya hopelessly, the years achingly slow in passing. He seriously considered rejoining his family but the idea died away quickly as quickly as it came. Gypsies were impossible to track, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to desert Saya's for those who sold him as a child. No it was better to threw himself into his music, taking refuge in the wayward cottage of an old luthier, who lived on the far edge of town, and whose bowed figure was always absorbed in perfecting whatever stringed instrument found its way into his calloused hands.
Haji woke up to the pleasant smell of wood after collapsing nearby the old man's home in the forest, probably having staved off his despicable craving for blood for too long. Wordlessly, the luthier placed a tray near the bed and stood up to return to the adjacent wood shop, impatient to continue his newest project. Haji was invited to remain in the house when, looking up from playing, he saw the old man in the corner looking at him blandly. Haji apologized, sheepishly placed the cello back on the wall, explaining that his own was burned in an unfortunate house fire some years back. The man waved him away and told him that to keep practicing. It was settled: Hagi would help move the more bulky items of the house around and substituted for the man's arthritic joints in tuning random instruments in exchange for the living space in the attic.
Every night Haji would carry one of the cellos upstairs and weave his emotions into the somber music, losing himself as he carved loneliness in the cello's hollowed heart, its last notes melting from its deep throat and resounding into the night. The old man's company soothed him considerably for the couple years he stayed there. But his influence carried on much longer that he knew.
"She has to be beautiful then," Hel demanded.
Looking up skeptically from his sanding, Haji replied, "I just wanted to know how much it would cost"
The old man sat back in his chair, gazing at the ceiing. "I probably won't be able to finish it, especially when I don't know her size"
Haji answered smoothly, "I don't have the means. I was just inquiring."
The man laughed amicably, "Stop begging already. You'll have a cello but I'm not promising one of high quality."
Haji remained silent as he stared curiously at the strange man's back, slightly confused with what had just registered between them.
Half a year later, Pierre Hel finished his masterpiece. When he finally revealed it from its black lacquered case, Haji almost choked. It was a stunning red-brown color with a broad flamed maple back and elegant high ribs, four silver strings stretching down a black strip and over the sturdy bridge.
"It's a bit heavy. It's yours to carry after all, but nothing will get past this" Hel thumped proudly on the steel case.
"Thank you," Haji murmured, wildly suspicious of the man's generosity.
"Go on, lay your hands all over it!" he laughed and his white teeth flashed.
Pierre Hel died before the summer's end, completely at peace with his life's work. Around that time almost a hundred years later, Haji carried the same cello, the hand carved soul-piece snugly strapped to his back. He wasn't sure if the cottage still stood where it did, having locked it after burying Hel, who granted it over and died within the same breath. He had forgotten about the locked away house, frozen in time within the deep recesses of memory. Perhaps the instruments were still scattered in the workshop, their wooden patinas beautifully worn by age. Gazing at the dark blue sky, Haji wished that he had ensured that Hel's treasures were still intact. Now that the fighting was largely finished, Saya would probably like the visit to southern France when she woke up. Speaking of whom, he would had lay a fresh rose at her Okinawa tomb at dawn.
Twenty six more summers to go...he thought to himself, his consciousness trickling back to his master.
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Yea first chapter's a summary. I was wondering where the heck Haji got his jacked up cello case..Saya could probably fit in there!New character: Pierre Hel was a late 19th century-early 20th century cello maker/luthier in France.
Please comment and point out corny parts/typos/anything of the sort!