Prague. 14th century.
He was a blank slate. A mere outline of man, and God had left the lines untraced, incomplete. Yes, his figure was complete and firm, his fists as true to the blade as any other warrior. He had done his cause full and true, but there was something lacking.
Conviction.
Passion.
For all his firm form, he was flexible. Malleable. Willing to bend to any idea that sounded right, that was deemed good for the Promethean cause. Still he only ever followed his sire, and Ecaterina, the leader of the Brujah Prometheans. There were no other Gods for him, not after the Embrace, and then no life but orders until Christof Romuald showed his face. Christof, who decided that it would be he who would pass judgment upon others rather than leaving it to those who might know better.
First, while he was still kine, he killed Azhra the Unliving. A strong leader of the Tzimisce, he slew her with his faith and his blade, unknowingly bringing down an enemy foothold and allowing the Prometheans another inch back into their own territory. Ecaterina found him acceptable, and embraced him into the Brujah clan that very night.
Christof came and slew Azhra and others, bringing with him his righteous light that was lit by a kine woman. Anezka, his mortal love, a nun who had been thrown into the devil's pit trying to seek a way to save her crusader from the damnation that had befallen him.
With the cause came others - Erik, the crazed Gangrel whom Christof saved from the clutches of the Tremere, and lost just as quickly.
Serena, the Cappadocian. Wilhem had known the Cappadocians well - their leader Garinol (Serena's own sire) and Ecaterina were steadfast allies. Yet they too were much like Christof's own personality - they saw too late the fault in others. Serena was no different, and still Wilhem despaired when her heart was given away to another.
And yet here they were, entwined in a close fitting coffin in the underground rooms of the Prague University, Ecaterina's dwelling, until the set of the sun. The Brujah and the Cappadocian, a pairing that could not be more odd. Though they found reason to remain close, they were still torn apart by the one thing that had brought them together.
"Serena?" She spoke not, but instead moved her head in an acquiescence of reply, burying her face in the hollow of his throat, hands resting on his chest. Wilhem stilled his tongue, resting his chin on the top of her head, knowing that sleep eluded them both for different reasons. Serena, for the loss of Christof and his death at Vysehrad. He, for the loss of her broken heart that he could never mend. Shifting in the coffin, his vulnerable, unarmored arms wound around her more tightly. Still the coldness of the grave never left either of them. Locked as they were together, in something that they could never attain, though they tried – oh, so did they try. They had seen beauty, and tried to attain it - but it seemed that, once more, God had seen fit to leave it incomplete.
Time passed.
Cold steel broke the silence of the night – still the battle waged on, night after night after bitter, unrelentless night. The Tzimisce fought for the right to rule, over both Kindred and kine in a tyrannical fashion that would surely bring about Gehenna and the final nights. The Prometheans fought until there was nothing left to save but shattered ruins, and then fled to the Isle of the Anglo-Saxons. Wilhem would follow, bringing with him Serena, who had little left to stay for as well; the Giovanni had turned against their creators and had begun to slaughter the Cappadocians. Their outlook was their downfall, and Wilhem sought to save the one that he found precious.
They had to flee to save their own lives – the Promethean cause seemed lost. Serena was nearly unwilling to leave – fear had broken her mind, and she had become obsessed with locating Chrisof's spirit in hopes of bringing it back to life with Cappadocian disciplines. Wilhem knew the cause was dead, and was willing to abandon it, yet Serena held on.
"There is nothing left here, for either of us! The bloodhunt on your kind will kill you if you do not leave with me now!" Serena refused to look at him, instead staring out a window of the second floor of the university. Outside, flames licked the walls – the final act of destroying any hold the Prometheans had had: burning their stronghold to the ground. She was so certain that she was close to Christof's spirit, and there would be no other time to resurrect him once they left. Once the fire consumed all.
"I know you wish me to restore him as much as I! Why do you not give me this chance?!"
"Christof is dead, Serena! There is no life after the final death! Come with me, please!" One of his hands encircled her thin, emaciated wrist. Though Cappadocians were pale and corpse-like in complexion naturally, Serena had always had an air of her natural beauty. Even now that was being worn away, like water passing over marble. He pulled, attempting to lure her into his arms, but she resisted. She pulled away from him, gritting her teeth, and for a moment they were caught in a limbo, the only connection the one he was forcing on her. Wilhem sighed in exasperation, releasing her arm and stepping back. Always, he was stepping back, never taking ground on his own terms.
"Please, Serena, we must leave now! If we do not, the Tzimisce will be here in moments!" A silence fell, and then Serena's small but musical voice broke it.
"Christof wouldn't have run. He would've fought, or died trying." It wasn't meant to wound; it was a mere remark. A silent and passive judgment on both of them, on Ecaterina and the others who had run. Still, Wilhem was cut to the quick. All of it was a façade, but it was enough for him. At wit's end, he began to drag her towards the door, grabbing a thick, black cape to throw over her pale features. It was far too obvious what clan she came from, and once they knew that she had aided Christof, the slayer of Azhra the Unliving, her death would be sought for by more than just the Giovanni.
The reality of the events unfolding around her sank into her as the thick cloth settled on her shoulders. Her glittering green eyes met Wilhem's.
"Take me away from here," she whispered.
England. 16th century.
More time passed. Things changed – groups were being formed, to make the war more organized, or so it seemed to Wilhem. The alliances that Ecaterina had worked so hard to forge, along with others who had looked to rally their own causes, were falling apart in favor of new organizations.
The Camarilla, who forced all into their own corner, enforced a Masquerade that ordered all to remain out of the sight of kine. Rather than co-existing peacefully, they would rather themselves the stuff of nightmares and allow kine to shield them.
Their opposition: the Sabbat, taking the extreme side of wishing to rule over the kine and revel in their monstrosity.
"How…how could she choose such an atrocious group?" Serena stared at Wilhem from across the small apartment they shared in England. She was seated on a sparsely furnished bed, in a room so bare that to any passing through it would seem no one lived there. There was still little safety to be found in these times, especially with the new formations. If one did not heed by any of them, then one would be hounded by all.
"Ecaterina will not force herself into seclusion. She pushes for the dream of the Prometheans, and the city where we may all live in peace." Even to his own ears, the statement sounded foolish, but he would not disobey the ones who had led him this far. Words came to mind, from Ecaterina's own lips: perhaps it is you, Wilhem, who is the pupil, and Christof who is the teacher. How much he had learned, in that short of time.
"But it is madness! You see what they do! They don't want peace, they desire chaos!"
"Ecaterina would not enforce their rule, simply abide and then drive against them once the chance is found! Can you not see the wisdom in that? We will kill ourselves by trying to hide in that foolish Masquerade. We shall be driven insane by having to hide." Serena shook her head in disagreement, but fell silent. Of all the disagreements they'd had over the years, this had come to be the worst. Wilhem feared for her sanity and had deemed that she should not go out; otherwise the Giovanni might find her. He brought her blood, literature, scrolls, anything for her amusement, but what little love that might have once been between them was broken. He knew that she no longer saw him as a savior, but as a captor.
"Please, Serena…" She raised a hand for his silence, the pale fingers curled into something akin to a claw, and stood to collect her few meager belongings. Wrapping herself in a cloak, she walked to the door with purpose. Wilhem stood dumbfounded as he saw her about to leave him.
"I can no longer allow you, or her, to make the choices, Wilhem. Sometimes…sometimes one must think for themselves." Their eyes met for one long moment, and the thought flew through his head that he wished he had done something differently. But he did nothing.
Then the door was shut, and she was gone.
Wilhem still kept watch over her, but it wasn't more than a week later that he heard of an attack on a young woman. Both Kindred and kine heard of it, and the kine were whispering to each other that the demons were turning on each other, for when her body was laid out in the light of day, she turned to naught but dust.
Wilhem's heart turned to stone as he followed his sire and Ecaterina to the New World, in order to be the first to establish rule and influence.