Disclaimer: I own nothing except practically all the characters . . . blah
blah . . . don't sue please! L J Smith is a genius.
Note: Well . . . I have a new story! Hurrah! (I am in process of updating others-please bear with me!) The first few chapters of this story will be like the prologue, because it won't get into the main plot until later . . . we haven't even met the second main character yet . . . please read and review . . . please!
She Walks In Beauty
One
Of the Night World you may have heard many tales varying from tragedies to romances and I do not doubt that most will have dwelt upon the soul mate principle, as does this one. But if you believe that, once you have found your soul mate you shall be eternally happy, you are mistaken. I am not eternally happy and I am sure that I shall never again feel the sensation of happiness for I only feel sensations akin to despair and torment.
Were I mortal I would have the cold hand of death to look forward to. Either by the hand of another, sickness or the slow decay of time all mortals will eventually die. But I am not mortal. I have not been mortal for nigh on three hundred years.
I am what the ancients called vampyr, but in your tongue I would be referred to as a 'vampire', 'the Undead' or perhaps 'the Damned'.
I was made what I am at the age of nineteen-young in this day and age, but not so much in the eighteenth century. My family and I lived in an ever- growing town to the south of London. It was a prosperous town, with ever growing trade and business. My father was the town's wainwright, a modest but respectable trade in a town with a great need of carts and carriages. And I, of course, was brought up with the thoughts that I was to take his place when he died.
But no thoughts of death had ever seriously crossed my mind until the winter of 1714. It had been a good, warm summer and this only increased the harshness of the winter months. My father, my sister and I battled through the months of darkness and cold, but my dear mother, who was already weak in the heart, did not make January.
We mourned her throughout the following year, but if my father and sister thought any more of her after then, they did not show it. I myself was distraught. I was numbed by the pain of her absence. I took solace in drink and in the arms of harlots and I often would wake up in the morning only to find myself lying in an alley by one of the many local taverns. I had loved my mother beyond my living breath. She had nursed me through sicknesses all my childhood and I know that if she had not been there for me I would not be telling you this now. My tale would have ended when I was a child.
I did not want to live. And because of this lust for death, I did not refuse the vampire when she came to me. She sucked the life out of me and I am ashamed to say that I did not reject the blood with which she suckled me.
Two days later I woke up to find that I was lying in my own coffin. To this day I am grateful that I had not yet been buried, for I know that I had not the strength at the time to dig myself out of my own grave. I dared not return for my family for I did not know what I was and for weeks I wandered the lands, searching for answers. The insatiable hunger given to me was like a burning lust, a sickening need for human life. And for those first few decades of my life as a vampire I did take human life, for I did not know that I needed not to. But once I learnt the art of mind control, I could easily take what I needed from my victims and leave them alive and without any knowledge of what had befallen.
I travelled the cities of Europe, becoming one of the aristocracy and meeting others of my kind along with witches and shapeshifters. I was especially intrigued with the lamia, how they aged and could reproduce even though they were vampires. I never stayed long enough in one place to know any of them very well and I spent my first century as a vampire alone. But that was all to change in the year 1826.
I had been staying in Rome for some time and one blistering summer day had sighted a beautiful young vampire amongst the busy streets. She couldn't have been made at a much younger age I was when I was made-maybe sixteen or seventeen. I followed her for most of the afternoon, through the dark alleys of the city and even though I was sure that she knew of my presence, I did not approach her. Finally she stopped and turned towards me. She was beautiful. Her hair was as gold as the rays of sunlight, which beat against my back and her eyes were a dark green-large and full of wisdom. She did not seem to be a native of Rome, but I addressed her in the language anyway.
"Buongiorno Signora," I whispered, a sound that no mortal would have been able to hear.
"You need not address me in any other tongue than your own, sir, for I am a native of your own land," she replied, her voice deep and enthralling.
"From England?" My voice was louder this time as I approached her slowly.
"Indeed, sir," she replied, turning and walking gracefully away, "but I soon left."
"Why is that?" I asked, following her, enjoying the thrill of the chase.
She turned her head and smiled. "Britain in the second century was such a dreary place."
I was shocked. I had not yet met one so old as her. She had lived through nearly two entire millenniums and still seemed as young as if she had seen less than twenty years of life.
She turned towards me fully and laughed at my reaction. Oh how I would remember that laugh in all the years to come.
"You have been following me for some time, sir. May I inquire into your reasons?"
"You intrigue me," I replied, "more that any other of our kind that I have come across."
She laughed once more and clapped her pale hands together in delight. "I intrigue you?" she repeated, "tell me, sir, how many of 'our kind' have you come across in your life time?"
"A few," I replied truthfully.
"A few? But surely you have been alive for no more than two mortal life times?"
"I was nineteen when the change took place and that was one hundred and eleven years ago." My voice was steady as I remembered the dates exactly. It was not something one could easily forget.
"So young, yet so sad," she whispered, not meeting my eye. When she did, realization filled her gaze. "You lost someone in your mortal life . . . someone close to you . . ." It was not a question.
"My mother." I returned her gaze without wavering.
"Yes . . ." she whispered, barely audible even for my hearing, "I lost my mother too."
We simply stared at each other for sometime, as the evening drew in, engulfing us in twilight.
Finally she began to slowly approach me, an innocent smile across her face. She was so close that I could practically hear her heart beat. The deep, thumping rhythm resounded throughout my body, driving me wild with excitement. Tentatively she reached out and placed her hand upon my cheek. As soon as her skin touched mine disappointment flooded her expression. She drew back and turned from me.
"What is it?" I asked desperately, reaching out for her hand.
She turned back to me and smiled. But it was not a genuine smile. She was not happy. "Nothing," she replied, taking both my hands in hers.
I did not believe that this was true. Something had caused her sadness and regret-I could feel it emanating from her.
"Come Byron," she beckoned, leading me away.
I followed without question, not even inquiring over her knowledge of my name.
***
The house, which she owned, was in the poverty-stricken district of Trastevere where the Vatican was situated. Amid the grief of the poor, she led me through the streets until we reached a small square where, at the far end, stood a beautiful little church. People huddled in front of it as she and I approached.
"This is the Santa Maria-the oldest church in all of Rome. It was founded in 337 A.D, over a hundred years before the fall of the empire," she stated in awe. Then she turned to me and laughed, "I was here when it was built!"
I stared at her and then back at the church. But finally my eyes fell upon those who begged outside of the church. "Why do you live in such a place, when you obviously can afford to live in so much more luxury?"
She stared at me and shook her head. "Think, Byron. Were I to hunt among the rich and powerful, the missing would be noticed, wouldn't they?"
I stared at her. I hoped that her words did not mean what I thought they did. "The missing?"
Her eyes were confused as they gazed at me from under her golden brows. "Those who I kill in the hunt. There are no inquiries when the poor go missing, no one misses th-"
"You kill?" I whispered.
Confusion flooded her delicate face. "Of course . . . I am a hunter," she replied, seeing my expression, "don't you?"
"No," I stated firmly, not meeting her eye. Instead my eyes fell upon those huddled before the doors of the church. How many of those wretched people had lost a loved on to the huntress who prowled among them? And they would never have been able to do anything about it. They were totally ignorant to the evil that lurked about their homes.
"Byron," she whispered desperately, clutching at my arm, "please don't think ill of me-I couldn't bare it if you did."
To this I said nothing, but simply staring at the poor before me. Those wretched beings . . . I could barely stand looking at them, but my eyes would not draw from their haggard faces.
"I kill for it is in my nature," she continued pleadingly, "I was brought up in a Roman household, Byron. We had slaves and they died or were even killed by the order of my father. Human life was not respected as it is now . . . but I respect you for your respect their feeble lives."
At this I turned to her. I think that that was the very moment that I fell in love with her. "I do not even know your name."
She smiled and led me slowly from the square. "It is Rufilla."
"Rufilla?" I repeated. It was such an unusual name.
"It was not so unusual at my birth," she replied, laughing at my reaction. "Any way, what about you, Byron. Is that not the name of the English poet, who causes so much controversy amongst the British?"
"Indeed it is. But Byron is my Christian name . . . unusual as it is . . ."
"I like it." She smiled as we walked along the narrow street.
I returned the smile, but then a thought occurred to me. "Did not Lord Byron die a few years ago?" I asked.
She was silent for a few moments, but then nodded. "Indeed he did. Pity . . . he was so young."
I sighed, but then began to quote a well-known verse.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes-"
"Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies," Rufilla whispered, finishing off the verse for me.
"You are well versed in poetry?" I asked, as she led me up a dozen stone steps.
She turned to me. "I try to be."
Finally I noticed that we had stopped. We stood before double doors of mahogany, which were the entrance to a small, but well-kept, townhouse. "Is this where you live?"
She lifted up the latch and opened one of the doors. "Most of the time. I tend to travel for some of the year."
The entrance led straight into a small parlour, which housed some of the finest furnishings I had ever lain eyes on. Objects from ancient Rome, Greece, Egypt . . . and other such ancient civilizations.
"This is . . . fascinating," I breathed, running my hand gently over an aging chaise longue of red velvet.
"Yes," she replied, flipping through some ancient volume of yellow pages and leather, "it is a hobby of mine to collect things as I travel."
"A hobby?" I repeated in disbelief, "you could fill an entire museum with such treasures . . ."
"Indeed," she replied, replacing the book upon the table from which she got it, "but enough of that now."
She sat down upon the chaise longue and indicated for me to do the same upon a leather armchair across the room. She smiled. "We have much to talk about."
***
Well that was the first chapter! PLEASE read and review to tell me what you think (any HELPFUL criticism is welcome). Will update soon . . . x x x x
Note: Well . . . I have a new story! Hurrah! (I am in process of updating others-please bear with me!) The first few chapters of this story will be like the prologue, because it won't get into the main plot until later . . . we haven't even met the second main character yet . . . please read and review . . . please!
She Walks In Beauty
One
Of the Night World you may have heard many tales varying from tragedies to romances and I do not doubt that most will have dwelt upon the soul mate principle, as does this one. But if you believe that, once you have found your soul mate you shall be eternally happy, you are mistaken. I am not eternally happy and I am sure that I shall never again feel the sensation of happiness for I only feel sensations akin to despair and torment.
Were I mortal I would have the cold hand of death to look forward to. Either by the hand of another, sickness or the slow decay of time all mortals will eventually die. But I am not mortal. I have not been mortal for nigh on three hundred years.
I am what the ancients called vampyr, but in your tongue I would be referred to as a 'vampire', 'the Undead' or perhaps 'the Damned'.
I was made what I am at the age of nineteen-young in this day and age, but not so much in the eighteenth century. My family and I lived in an ever- growing town to the south of London. It was a prosperous town, with ever growing trade and business. My father was the town's wainwright, a modest but respectable trade in a town with a great need of carts and carriages. And I, of course, was brought up with the thoughts that I was to take his place when he died.
But no thoughts of death had ever seriously crossed my mind until the winter of 1714. It had been a good, warm summer and this only increased the harshness of the winter months. My father, my sister and I battled through the months of darkness and cold, but my dear mother, who was already weak in the heart, did not make January.
We mourned her throughout the following year, but if my father and sister thought any more of her after then, they did not show it. I myself was distraught. I was numbed by the pain of her absence. I took solace in drink and in the arms of harlots and I often would wake up in the morning only to find myself lying in an alley by one of the many local taverns. I had loved my mother beyond my living breath. She had nursed me through sicknesses all my childhood and I know that if she had not been there for me I would not be telling you this now. My tale would have ended when I was a child.
I did not want to live. And because of this lust for death, I did not refuse the vampire when she came to me. She sucked the life out of me and I am ashamed to say that I did not reject the blood with which she suckled me.
Two days later I woke up to find that I was lying in my own coffin. To this day I am grateful that I had not yet been buried, for I know that I had not the strength at the time to dig myself out of my own grave. I dared not return for my family for I did not know what I was and for weeks I wandered the lands, searching for answers. The insatiable hunger given to me was like a burning lust, a sickening need for human life. And for those first few decades of my life as a vampire I did take human life, for I did not know that I needed not to. But once I learnt the art of mind control, I could easily take what I needed from my victims and leave them alive and without any knowledge of what had befallen.
I travelled the cities of Europe, becoming one of the aristocracy and meeting others of my kind along with witches and shapeshifters. I was especially intrigued with the lamia, how they aged and could reproduce even though they were vampires. I never stayed long enough in one place to know any of them very well and I spent my first century as a vampire alone. But that was all to change in the year 1826.
I had been staying in Rome for some time and one blistering summer day had sighted a beautiful young vampire amongst the busy streets. She couldn't have been made at a much younger age I was when I was made-maybe sixteen or seventeen. I followed her for most of the afternoon, through the dark alleys of the city and even though I was sure that she knew of my presence, I did not approach her. Finally she stopped and turned towards me. She was beautiful. Her hair was as gold as the rays of sunlight, which beat against my back and her eyes were a dark green-large and full of wisdom. She did not seem to be a native of Rome, but I addressed her in the language anyway.
"Buongiorno Signora," I whispered, a sound that no mortal would have been able to hear.
"You need not address me in any other tongue than your own, sir, for I am a native of your own land," she replied, her voice deep and enthralling.
"From England?" My voice was louder this time as I approached her slowly.
"Indeed, sir," she replied, turning and walking gracefully away, "but I soon left."
"Why is that?" I asked, following her, enjoying the thrill of the chase.
She turned her head and smiled. "Britain in the second century was such a dreary place."
I was shocked. I had not yet met one so old as her. She had lived through nearly two entire millenniums and still seemed as young as if she had seen less than twenty years of life.
She turned towards me fully and laughed at my reaction. Oh how I would remember that laugh in all the years to come.
"You have been following me for some time, sir. May I inquire into your reasons?"
"You intrigue me," I replied, "more that any other of our kind that I have come across."
She laughed once more and clapped her pale hands together in delight. "I intrigue you?" she repeated, "tell me, sir, how many of 'our kind' have you come across in your life time?"
"A few," I replied truthfully.
"A few? But surely you have been alive for no more than two mortal life times?"
"I was nineteen when the change took place and that was one hundred and eleven years ago." My voice was steady as I remembered the dates exactly. It was not something one could easily forget.
"So young, yet so sad," she whispered, not meeting my eye. When she did, realization filled her gaze. "You lost someone in your mortal life . . . someone close to you . . ." It was not a question.
"My mother." I returned her gaze without wavering.
"Yes . . ." she whispered, barely audible even for my hearing, "I lost my mother too."
We simply stared at each other for sometime, as the evening drew in, engulfing us in twilight.
Finally she began to slowly approach me, an innocent smile across her face. She was so close that I could practically hear her heart beat. The deep, thumping rhythm resounded throughout my body, driving me wild with excitement. Tentatively she reached out and placed her hand upon my cheek. As soon as her skin touched mine disappointment flooded her expression. She drew back and turned from me.
"What is it?" I asked desperately, reaching out for her hand.
She turned back to me and smiled. But it was not a genuine smile. She was not happy. "Nothing," she replied, taking both my hands in hers.
I did not believe that this was true. Something had caused her sadness and regret-I could feel it emanating from her.
"Come Byron," she beckoned, leading me away.
I followed without question, not even inquiring over her knowledge of my name.
***
The house, which she owned, was in the poverty-stricken district of Trastevere where the Vatican was situated. Amid the grief of the poor, she led me through the streets until we reached a small square where, at the far end, stood a beautiful little church. People huddled in front of it as she and I approached.
"This is the Santa Maria-the oldest church in all of Rome. It was founded in 337 A.D, over a hundred years before the fall of the empire," she stated in awe. Then she turned to me and laughed, "I was here when it was built!"
I stared at her and then back at the church. But finally my eyes fell upon those who begged outside of the church. "Why do you live in such a place, when you obviously can afford to live in so much more luxury?"
She stared at me and shook her head. "Think, Byron. Were I to hunt among the rich and powerful, the missing would be noticed, wouldn't they?"
I stared at her. I hoped that her words did not mean what I thought they did. "The missing?"
Her eyes were confused as they gazed at me from under her golden brows. "Those who I kill in the hunt. There are no inquiries when the poor go missing, no one misses th-"
"You kill?" I whispered.
Confusion flooded her delicate face. "Of course . . . I am a hunter," she replied, seeing my expression, "don't you?"
"No," I stated firmly, not meeting her eye. Instead my eyes fell upon those huddled before the doors of the church. How many of those wretched people had lost a loved on to the huntress who prowled among them? And they would never have been able to do anything about it. They were totally ignorant to the evil that lurked about their homes.
"Byron," she whispered desperately, clutching at my arm, "please don't think ill of me-I couldn't bare it if you did."
To this I said nothing, but simply staring at the poor before me. Those wretched beings . . . I could barely stand looking at them, but my eyes would not draw from their haggard faces.
"I kill for it is in my nature," she continued pleadingly, "I was brought up in a Roman household, Byron. We had slaves and they died or were even killed by the order of my father. Human life was not respected as it is now . . . but I respect you for your respect their feeble lives."
At this I turned to her. I think that that was the very moment that I fell in love with her. "I do not even know your name."
She smiled and led me slowly from the square. "It is Rufilla."
"Rufilla?" I repeated. It was such an unusual name.
"It was not so unusual at my birth," she replied, laughing at my reaction. "Any way, what about you, Byron. Is that not the name of the English poet, who causes so much controversy amongst the British?"
"Indeed it is. But Byron is my Christian name . . . unusual as it is . . ."
"I like it." She smiled as we walked along the narrow street.
I returned the smile, but then a thought occurred to me. "Did not Lord Byron die a few years ago?" I asked.
She was silent for a few moments, but then nodded. "Indeed he did. Pity . . . he was so young."
I sighed, but then began to quote a well-known verse.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes-"
"Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies," Rufilla whispered, finishing off the verse for me.
"You are well versed in poetry?" I asked, as she led me up a dozen stone steps.
She turned to me. "I try to be."
Finally I noticed that we had stopped. We stood before double doors of mahogany, which were the entrance to a small, but well-kept, townhouse. "Is this where you live?"
She lifted up the latch and opened one of the doors. "Most of the time. I tend to travel for some of the year."
The entrance led straight into a small parlour, which housed some of the finest furnishings I had ever lain eyes on. Objects from ancient Rome, Greece, Egypt . . . and other such ancient civilizations.
"This is . . . fascinating," I breathed, running my hand gently over an aging chaise longue of red velvet.
"Yes," she replied, flipping through some ancient volume of yellow pages and leather, "it is a hobby of mine to collect things as I travel."
"A hobby?" I repeated in disbelief, "you could fill an entire museum with such treasures . . ."
"Indeed," she replied, replacing the book upon the table from which she got it, "but enough of that now."
She sat down upon the chaise longue and indicated for me to do the same upon a leather armchair across the room. She smiled. "We have much to talk about."
***
Well that was the first chapter! PLEASE read and review to tell me what you think (any HELPFUL criticism is welcome). Will update soon . . . x x x x