'Death is not everything, it is more cruel not to be able to die.'
-Nosferatu
Chapter 1: Cursed
What was my crime? What had I done that displeased him so? Surely it wasn't just these wings; they were, after all, just thin membrane spread tightly over bone. No there had to be something else. My master wouldn't send a faithful servant for over a millennia falling to his death…
Raziel sat in the darkest corner of his chamber, head resting on his knees and wings wrapped around him, like a little cocoon. Thick black drapes lay in tatters on the floor, dull grey light poured in illuminating the former Lieutenant's desecrated room. Once tidy and foreboding, the room now looked like a war zone. Broken pieces of furniture lay strewn over the floor, the black bed curtains hung in shreds, Raziel's clan shoulder drape lay in a crumpled heap on the floor and long deep gouges were in every wooden surface. A man stood in respectful silence at the doorway carrying a large pitcher filled to the brim with a red liquid and waited as Raziel's thoughts wore on.
…Its not as if I could control it, and he knows that! Its not like I could stop the process any more than he can stop the world from collapsing. But I've never seen the Lord look that furious and the gleeful face of Turel…if ONLY I had a sword, I'd have had his face wipe…
The old man in the doorway cleared his throat loudly. Raziel didn't raise his head from his knees or fold the wings back, instead he replied in a surprisingly clear voice.
'I knew you were there Willhiem. And since when do you hang in the doorway like a blocked draught?'
Willhiem stepped carefully over the remains of furniture and strode with purpose toward his broken Lord in the corner. He placed the pitcher on the only piece of furniture not broken and poured the liquid into a glass. When you work for vampires as long as Willhiem had, the sight of blood no longer turns the stomach.
'I thought I'd give you your space, Milord, after everything that has happened. And besides I believe you need a good pick-me-up, more then anyone in this castle.' Willhiem smiled under the greying beard, holding the glass out.
Raziel raised his head slowly and sat straight backed against the wall, wings relaxed around him and gave the man a grim smile.
'Ah, what would I do without you, Willhiem?' Raziel reached for the chipped glass.
Willhiem's smile grew wider.
'Crumble in 15 seconds, Milord.' He replied, standing with his hands behind his back.
Raziel swirled the liquid in the glass.
'Possibly.'
Willhiem was human, of course. It has been well said, by every slave that has ever lived in the castle, that all young boys and girls cried for families they'd never see. Willhiem had been in Raziel's service since a boy no older than 12, but had never cried, comforted the others and got on with any chore Raziel or his children asked of him, always with a cheerful whistle. It was this that earned Raziel's respect. Willhiem looked after the slaves and was Raziel's personal servant.
Raziel tipped the glass and emptied it in one gulp. The blood in the pitcher had a special anti-clotting potion added to it. It allowed them to keep the blood in big vats in a room downstairs, without it becoming ruined. The only drawback was it thinned out the blood. He handed the glass back to Willhiem.
'What have I done wrong Willhiem?' Raziel asked the ceiling.
Willhiem watched his master sadly.
'I cannot say, Milord, but the whole clan is just about ready to move out.' Willhiem replied, picking up the pitcher almost wishing he hadn't said it.
Raziel frowned at Willhiem and moved quicker then a snake. In the blink of an eye he was on his feet and seemed to fill the whole corner.
'Under whose order?' Raziel growled.
'Lady Amaris.' Willhiem shuddered
'Amaris.' Raziel shook his head.
'She said that you were in no fit state to give orders. I'm sure she meant…'
'Tell Amaris I wish to see her, Now.' Raziel snapped with his eyes shut.
'As you wish, Milord.' Bowing low, Willhiem left the room
Lady Amaris was going to be in trouble.