Chapter One

Part 1

- Broken Angel -

When you're happy, you enjoy the music.
But when you're sad, you understand the lyrics.

. . .

Janos clapped his book shut and dropped it onto the table, uninterested. Propping his elbows on the smooth, dark wooden surface, he buried his face into his hands, giving a long, exasperated sigh. He rubbed his temples, closing his tired eyes, and remained motionless.
Then he exhaled noisily and stood up, inadvertently knocking the book to the floor. A small pang of guilt briefly suppressed his rather foul mood. He picked the book up, lightly brushing invisible dirt from the cover.
He had probably read it a hundred times; the leather covered spine had grown thin and the binding threads were starting to break and dangle out from between the pages. He reprimanded himself for not treating it better. When his current restlessness abated, he would surely seek its comforting familiarity again.
But not yet.
Janos unfurled his wings, stretching them out to their fullest as he fought the stiffness brought by hours spent reading. Or more accurately, hours spent trying to read. His concentration was severely impaired -he had been fighting with doubt and frustration for months. As the weeks passed it had become more and more difficult to find peace. He hadn't slept for the better part of a fortnight and his blood thirst was also affected. He swayed between voracious hunger and sick revulsion, and the few sips he had managed to keep down had been followed by a spinning head and waves of nausea.
He returned the book to its rightful place on the shelf and walked out onto the balcony. The sun was bright at this hour, especially as its light was reflected back at him by the blue-green water below. It was early summer and the air was warm, but there were no humans, no activities in the canyons to observe and distract him.
He wondered how Vorador was doing, but decided against troubling his fledgling. A reconciliation was necessary first, and Janos didn't have the energy for it. In his current state of mind, he could not face the delicate diplomacy of apologizing, not without compromising his viewpoints on the schismatic subject of humans. And even if that proved not to be necessary, even if they managed to speak on good terms, Vorador would worry at how emaciated Janos looked. The ancient vampire doubted he would be able to refuse the comfort of the mansion. It was far too tempting to envision a short permanence among his own kind, and Vorador would surely offer it. He always did.
No. It was his duty to guard the Reaver, and guard it, he would, until the prophesied saviour came to claim it. Or until the end of time, whichever came first.
He sighed at the thought. He wished there was someone who could understand his plight -being torn between loyalty to his broken kin and his guardianship. Someone with whom he could talk to without them running away screaming, sheer terror in their eyes, body trembling with raw panic. But no one was there, for no one would approach a vampire -especially not one as unapproachable as himself. Not that he'd wanted it to be so, but still.
He recalled a time when vampires and humans lived together. A time when both his kin and theirs cared for Nosgoth. But then the Blood Curse had torn both races apart. And then the mass suicide. The humans themselves slaughtering each one of the survivors.
Now he was alone.
Melancholy creeped upon his mind, like a venomous black seed planted in the ground.
Then, his sensitive ears caught the sharp noise of a small twig breaking. He raised his golden gaze, which he had unconsciously fixed on the stone floor, and quirked an elegant eyebrow at what he saw.
Three figures were slowly approaching the lake and his retreat. Two of them were men, both as large as wardrobes, and were carrying a large object wrapped in a ruined white blanket, grunting obscenities under the weight. The last one was tall, silent, cloaked in a dark black mantle, and was simply following them on feather-light feet. The vampire watched curiously as the men placed the thing in a small niche in the mound that coasted the lake. The cavity was spacious enough to comfortably hold a party of three or four people, yer small enough not to be noticed by random travelers. Not that anyone would come this close to a vampire's lair.
Janos studied them as the men turned towards the cloaked figure. They seemed to exchange a few words -he caught 'madness', 'vampire' and 'foolish'-, then the third person sent them away with an irritated wave of their hand and a small leather pouch. Far away as he was, Janos could still hear gold coins tinkling.
A weapon, perhaps?, he wondered, golden eyes glazing over the concealed object. But no -its dimensions were far too peculiar. Too big to be a sword or spear -or anything akin to those-, it was also too small to be a catapult. Besides, the Sarafan wouldn't have sent only four men to hunt him down, not to mention that they did not even know where his refuge was.
His attention was again drawn to the cloaked figure, who was currently gazing in the woods, as if to assure themselves that the men were really gone and they weren't hiding behind the trees instead, observing. Then, after a minute or so, they brought white, graceful hands to their hood and pulled it down.
Janos' brows arched upwards in surprise as a cascade of dark curly locks fell down the human's back, brushing over the rough fabric of the mantle and reaching down her waist. Those thick strands were as black as his own broad wings, that special black which is indigo and blue and gold as it catches the light. They looked softer than the clouds above as they swang gently with the faint breeze. Then the human turned around and Janos found it hard to believe that she was a mere mortal.
She looked no older than twenty-five -maybe twenty-six years old. Her skin was white, but did not possess that unhealty paleness of sick humans: it was as white as the snow that covered the lake's frozen surface in winter. No, that was not exact. Like a statue. Yes, that was more like it. Her skin was white as the purest of marbles, carefully shaped and smoothed. Such pearly complexion was made all the more beautiful by the vivid, large eyes that could be admired above her small nose. Crowned by long, dark eyelashes, her eyes shone profound and green like emeralds in backlight in the trees' shadows. Perfect black brows, curved like a butterfly's wings, were quirked in an expression of studied blankness. Janos' gaze was then caught by the sight of her lips -full, perfectly shaped, and lilac in color. Her features were so smooth, so finely chiseled that for a moment the ancient vampire thought he was admiring an impossibly beautiful painting.
Then her lids fell, shielding her eyes from his gaze, and the illusion revealed itself for what it was: nothing more than an illusion. Her expression relaxed and he wondered if she had believed those men -if she even imagined that the monster so many legends talked about lived there.
No, he thought bitterly. For if she believed them, she would have never come here.
The woman was looking in the balcony's direction, but she did not see him. She could not see him. His dark wings and the Aerie's everlasting shadows concealing his form to those emerald eyes. And so she turned again, unaware of his presence, defenceless and vulnerable and dead had it been any other vampire. But Janos was Janos. He had never killed when he had had the chance to do otherwise. And even now, with thirst and ache and discomfort tugging at the back of his mind, knowing that the blood of a human would help him recover, he did not move from his spot. Besides, he was curious. He had always been and always would be. He had so many questions already, questions that were more than likely to be left unanswered. Who was she? Why was she there? What did the white blanket hide?
He watched, silent and unmoving, as she approached the hidden niche. He watched still as she concealed it with vines and branches and rocks. He watched as she stepped back, and looked at what she had done. He watched and felt a faint sense of loss as she put her hood back on.
She looked in his direction one last time, her visage shadowed by the hood. He wished he could look at her in the sunlight.
Leaving a stunned vampire behind, she turned again and walked away, calmly, unaware of the golden eyes that silently followed her every move. Her black mantle floating elegantly behind her.
Janos wished she had not left.

. . .

Authoress' note:
I do not own in any shape or form the characters featured in this story-this also applies to the story's image cover and to the quotes at the beginning of each chapter. I only own my OC and the story's plot.
English is not my first language, so, if you notice any mistakes, please report them in the reviews. This is my first story ever and any constructive criticism is highly appreciated. I will try to keep the characters as in-character (I don't even know if this is how it's written) as I can.
Comments please!
Have a good day/night and love Legacy of Kain!