Alexander watched the red liquid bounce off the walls of the glass.
He was resting in his room once again. He did so often recently; he enjoyed the company of his bookcase, of his round table with a fine tea-set on it and of the sizzling house fire.
Its crackling filled the emptiness in his heart as he rocked in his chair, black shadows of flames flickering on the bare walls. Once, his most favorite paintings had hung here; portraits of him and his family.
"Well, there is no need for them now.", he thought bitterly, taking a sip of the liquid.
It was rich in taste, still maintaining an apple like tint to it, even after all these years. It reminded him of happier days, when he had run around with his brother in the vast gardens, surrounding the castle. They would often steal apples from the poor farmers, living under their father's protection, and their mother would always scold them, a glint of desperation in her eyes and tone.
Their father, a strict nobleman of flawless appearance, had only thought it proper to take what they wanted; they were soon to be the lords of these lands and all that was in them, belonged to them. The apple trees included.
Yet, he, Alexander, had always thought listening to his mother more appealing.
He shook his hand, taking in the sight of the small storm, going on in the wine glass.
His brother was creature of recklessness and un-forgiveness, and in his later years, he would often instill terror in both him and mother. No wonder that their life had not been much different after their father's demise. It was only a matter of time before a strife broke out between Alexander and his sibling and he stormed out of their possession, enraged, not even saying goodbye to old mother.
He sighed, rubbing his temples with a hand marred by small scars and wrinkles. Strange, how he still had the strength to feel sorrow after centuries. His fate had been his choice; if he only had known what would await him! At first, everything had been fine enough. He had found castle Brennenburg to his liking, as well as the people, who lived in fear of him. The screams and pleads did not mortify, but mesmerize him. For once his life, he was the winner; for once he was the fearful lord, the master of life and death, the master of his own existence, instead of his brother. Blood and sweat washed away the pain of his brother's betrayal. Of his own foolishness.
At the same time keeping Altstadt free of criminals.
That was how he explained it all to himself. The unnecessary bloodshed. He long ago gave up on trying to craft artificial vitae.
That was, until age thinned his features, and the desolateness of the corridors began bothering him. The whimpers and moans were no longer as enthralling, and he found himself longing for company. And soon it was gained; Agrippa and his apprentice, Weyer was his name, joined him.
He should had been aware that whatever gods existed in that barren world had long since cursed him. Agrippa proved to be a liar; Weyer ran. The man's head was probably rolling around in Brennenburg, but the bitterness and distrust he had caused remained.
And then Daniel, his sweet, dear Daniel, appeared at his doorstep, his clothes tattered and drenched, a suitcase hanging in a battered hand, loose hair sticking to his face. The baron had mistaken him for a travelling merchant, one seeking solace in his household. He welcomed him inside, a puzzled expression gracing his features. They dined together, talking upon distant countries and books; Alexander had nodded in approval, when he heard that the man too had a fondness for Goethe, one of the few poets he harbored respect for.
By now, Alexander would admit, that he had been deceived by Daniel's façade of cheer and thoughtlessness. He only remembered the truth when he opened a favorite book of his and it fell out. A letter, asking for answers, the fine handwriting hiding despair in its small imperfections and he could not have possibly refused when he heard, that Daniel had an orb. Time showed that another factor had affected his judgment; he had taken a sick pleasure in spoiling the boy, whispering secrets in the boy's ear that nobody even dared to think of, guiding his shaking hand in each ritual. He recalled Daniel's reddened eyes, his shivering, skinny body, barely covered by the loose nightgown as curled his fingers around the doorway, asking for permission to enter his room. He had allowed him, of course. Steering him like a marionette had been all to easy. The laudanum making his skin with small cracks pale and his hair lose its shine and deep color. Fragile. Shattered. And so-so beautiful, so-so his, those soft lips, cracked with dryness.
His body trembled with disgust.
The lord of Brennenberg, the living contradiction of everything he used to believe in. His mother's silent sobs echoed in his mind, the way she tried to quench them so he would not hear. But he always did. And wrapped his small hands around her hand the best he could, not knowing what else he could do as a kid. He did not understand, why it made her cry even more. She had loved him, because he was different from his father. She had made many mistakes in her life and marrying his father had been one of them. "You're the light in my life, dear." She used to say, her lips pressed against his hair in a motherly gesture. She would hug him and smile at him, through tears.
Thank god she was no longer present to see what he had become.