Title: Terms of Imprisonment
Author: obalesque
Summary: A lover is murdured in his home. The other begins a sacred ritual to honor. Alook at vampires in the world of Harry Potter.

Rating: pg-13

Feedback: Please.
Main characters: Aziza, Caleb

Mood: content

Music: 11th Hour - Lamb Of God

A/N: This was writen as a challenge from my sister. The title was derived from a skit from MAD TV. I've considered making it a full fledged novel, but as of yet it is not. The writing style is loosly based of of the Marque de Sade.
His blood did not run when he was slain, of that I am sure. He probably cried out in disbelief, his eternal, boyish smirk wiped from his alabaster face so cruelly, so disdained he must have felt, so jaded was he that he was blinded to his own mortality. As are we all.

I found him there in the room with the red satin curtains, though this does nothing to help in my description, does it, for all the rooms of Yardley-Parrington Manor, that stood hidden deep in the forests of the Cotswolds, bared the same intricately woven curtains upon the windows, each one dyed in the blood of my ancestors, or so I was told.

No, the room that held my beloved was the one on the second floor. The one with the polished elm double king bed, obsidian and marble floors, and twenty foot high ceilings. The one with the walk in fireplace adorned with cherubs and gargoyles made of the most precious of spanish silver. The one with the balcony that served as a conservatoire for the Lythraceae and nocturnal blossomed vines that wove throughout the lattice that served as the railing. That room.

I remember sitting with him at his knees there in that room by the fire place, or in the garden, as he read from the philosophies of the ancients. His favorites, Aristotle, Heraclitus, Marcus Aurilius, Socrates, Lucrecius, and my favorites, the young, modern, and brilliantly independent Voltaire, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch and the Marquis de Sade. Oh what joys I had introduced to him through these modern ideas of thinking and living. Libertine to the core was he, and he proved it every moment I resided at his side. He embraced the saturnalian lifestyles as easily as he had embraced me, like an incubus in the night. How simple it must have been for him to steal my soul.

But he embraces me no more. His ashes lay now in the urn I am holding to my body. I lament that my ebony cheeks do not hold tears as a torn lovers should, and my eyes are cold as I wander the halls of the dark manor. Outside, beyond the double story stained glass depiction of St. George and the Dragon, flashes of lightning dance across the skies in a twisted ballet of light and sound, yet the rain will not fall, it will not come. It is like I am. Angry. It's energy poised to lash out at any who dare to defy, but again, like me, there is none around to strike. It holds to the clouds like I hold to the urn. My beloved Lord Earl McDougall will have loved this weather.

Painted on a tapestry in the main hall was a mural of my ancestors. Each in arm with the taker and their embraced. It is here that I make way for, as he would soon join them. He would stand next to his maker, the Duchess Antonia de Justine of Lorente. I only hope that one day I shall have the honor and luck to hold my beloved masters arm.

The tapestry began in Egypt, and passed from taker to embraced nearly ten thousand years. Seventy three figures looked down upon me as I prepared to add the seventy fourth.

Twelve barrels of paint sit before me, the primaries, red, yellow, and blue. Wrath. Greed. Lust. The secondaries, orange, green, and purple. Gluttony. Envy. Pride. The seventh, brown. Sloth. The final five barrels, white, grey, black, the water, and the thinner are representing the virtues. Cardinal, theological, contrary, heavenly, and corporal.

I open each barrel and pour in equal parts the ashes of my lover, being sure to stir him in completely, for only then may I begin to paint his flawless face.

I knew the place would be empty as I watched the carriage pull several men away from the manor. I know not why, but my mind has somehow perceived that they were exterminators of some sort, though it is odd that exterminators would carry crucifixes.

I choose now to ignore that and turn my attention back to the manor that flickered in the illuminance of the lightning storm. I heard stories from the townsfolk at the pub that this place was a cornucopia of wealth waiting to be taken from it's owners, yet no rogue had bothered. The place was supposed to be haunted, but what god fearing man honestly believes such rubbish. Not that I'm truly god fearing. No, for if I were, I would not be planning to fleece the place.

The lightning worsens and I fear I may become it's next victim if I do not make haste. A second chance calls out to me and I would be damned not to take it, and take it I shall.

"Come along, William," I say to my traveling companion. He's my only friend, you know. He is the only one who stayed by my side when I fell from the graces of the devout in English society. He is as tired as I am, you can see it in his large brown eyes that were framed by short golden hair speckled with strands of grey. He was old, nearing his end, I am sure, and yet he stays at my side, never questioning my actions. He was always like that. In his eyes I could do no wrong. That is how a companion should be.

He follows me as I lead him to the manor. "First, old friend, I shall find us some food. Then we will nab some small trinkets that we may carry easily without hindering out flight. Hopefully we can find something of value. A necklace, perhaps? One that will catch a fetching price in the market."

He groaned at me. He was doing that more and more. He was tired and withering. It would not do for him to enter the house. In truth, he slowed me down in our travels. Had it been any other I would have abandoned him long ago, but as I said before, he is my only friend.

"I will take you to the stables, William. You will be safe there I think, that way you will not have to risk the house."

He gave no hint that he had heard me, but he was talking less and less these days. I do feel guilty leading poor William around like this, and though I do not want to be alone, it would be best to find him a home somewhere. Perhaps with an old widow, with children who could care for him. He liked children. And who wouldn't want a watch dog. He was very good at that. I will think more on that, but not now.

The stables are nearing. They are dark. There are no horses, but a few chickens are scattered about. William groans again as he slumps down on a pile of hay.

"You stay here, old boy, and I shall return forthright with food and our bounty," I say. He looks up at me for a moment before closing his eyes. I watch him drift off into a sleep then I smile as I leave my companion to his rest.

The path up to the manor is winding and broken. I am not surprised, what with no horses in the stable who would want to travers the broken trail down to an empty run down building.

From where I stand the manor looks threatening. However, this did not sway me, as I knew it was an effect of the storm. It also does not help that it is well past the witching hour.

I gather my composure and make my way around the manor, surveying for the best way in, and what luck! A side door is conveniently unlocked. This is going to be an easy job.

I slice my hand with the ornate ceremonial blade. The Dagger of Rancor, like the ancestral mural was passed from Taker to Embraced for the entire span of our existence. It is the avatar of the first son. Cain.

My blood is added to the paint. It has been done this way since Cain's Chosen, a blood rite to bind the embraced to the maker so that we never forget our predecessors.

I begin painting then, for three hundred years my lord trained me for this day. By my hand he would be added to the tapestry, an honor of the highest blessings, and that reason alone leaves no room for shoddy craftsmanship.

The first color added, white. I carefully lay out the most baser of the image, like I had done so many times before on practice pieces.

The tinted windows at my back do little to hinder the effects of the lighting storm and my thoughts wander to what Sappho, Virgil, Ovid, and Homer must have thought towards such a storm. Zeus must be angry. Why else would he be throwing such a fit? Was his wrath evident because of my beloved's murder? Of that, I fear I shall never receive an answer.

The room I find myself in is clearly the dining room, most likely a formal one at that. The massive table in the room could easily accommodate seventy patrons. The kitchen must be nearby.

Knowing the general layout of many of these over-extravagant trophy homes I move toward the side door to my right, stopping only to light a candle. Not surprisingly I find myself in a large hall leading to the kitchen.

I smile to myself as I open the pantry door and slip in. I am shocked at what I find. Nothing. There is no food on the shelves, no bread or marmalade. No dried dates or almonds. I step back out.

'What kind of manor keeps no dried foods on hand,' I ask myself as I place the candle on the table and begin checking all the cabinets.

No fresh fruit. No salted pork. No biscuits, muffins, fairy cakes or granary. I sighed as I looked over the last cabinet. Though there was no food two bottles sat on the third shelf. I pulled the corked treats out of the cabinet and took them over to the candle to identify them. A bottle of scrumpy and another of shandy.

"Well, at least I can get drunk later."

I place the bottles in a burlap satchel and seek out the stairs. Up to the second floor and into the master bedroom. I stood in awe at the sight I beheld.

The ceiling that rose high above the room held upon it's breast a perfect rendition of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam. In the center of the obsidian and marble floors stood a polished elm bed with black and red silk sheets and a intricately woven cashmere throw of St. Augustine.

Carved doors lead out to a balcony conservatoire with blooming Lythraceae calling me forth with their teasing, yet subtle scents.

But upon the mantle of a fireplace with silver gargoyles a small bejeweled chest greeted my eyes, and I was drawn to it like it were the goddess Aphrodite herself.

I lifter the chest from the mantle and stared lovingly upon it's surface before opening it and drawing out the first necklace my eyes beheld.

My master's face is complete. Flawlessly it looks down at me with adoration. I am pleased with my work, for nothing but the best would suffice.

I smile up at him, but my smile fades. I cock my head and sniff the air. There is something out of place. There is something. . . moving. I put down my brush and sniff the air again. I smell ale, cheap tobacco, and the scent of un-mistaken masculinity. It must be the killer.

Bile rose in my throat. First he slays my beloved, then he robs me of my inheritance, an act that is beyond acceptable. The man shall die.

I find myself smiling down at the necklace of onyx and the clearest diamonds as if made of zephyr, light from a candle dancing rainbows off it's surface and onto my face.

I felt at peace when I beheld the treasure, I was in awe, but my reverie faded when I felt soft hands ensnare my throat from behind, nails biting into my flesh sending shards of fear down my spine.

I was thrown to the ground, the beloved treasures slipping from my hands as if they were angels cast from heaven. Only difference being, unlike god, I desperately wanted those angels. I was enthralled, but, just as quickly as I watched them part from my sight into the darkness beneath the bed, an overwhelming sense of grief taking over my soul.

What was I to do without the necklace?

Little did that sufferance matter as I turned to my attacker, my eyes falling on the beauty of a Egyptian queen, a Cleopatra born again. She looked down on me with contempt, and I sadly can say I know why.

The woman leaned in bringing her face in close to mine. She looked deep into my eyes and sniffed once.

"You murdered my master," she sneered. I could sense her anger, but I could not perceive if she meant her words to be question or accusation

"What," I snapped, my eyes growing wide in fear. "I did no such thing, dear lady."

I entered the home to secure my own well being, not interrupt in the well being of another. She sniffed me again and I find myself wondering if that is a foreign thing, an odd, primitive habit developed by her peoples.

"You did not slay my master," she asked raising an eyebrow as if bemused by what I had said. She released me and I hurried to my feet.

"No, you have to believe me," I claim. She looks at me with ire, then slaps me across my face.

"Are you not a thief in my home," she pronounces strongly. "Did you not enter uninvited. Are those not precious things belonging to me, yet pilfered by your demoned hand."

She stood silent for a moment, looking over me in search of any sign that I was indeed the culprit. "All this, and yet you have the gall to tell me what to believe. How presumptuous of an utterly arrogant fool."

"I only meant that it is the truth," I stutter in nervousness.

"There is no truth or honor in thieves," she spat. She grabs my collar and drags me along after her as she leaves the room and heads towards the landing. The lightning outside had worsened, the storm is right upon us.

"Maybe not, but I am no killer," I struggle out through my contracted throat. "I steal to survive. That is all."

"You would prefer life as a thief rather than becoming a contributing member to society," she asks as she forces me down the stairs.

"I was a contributing member of society, but society has deemed me unworthy," I growl as she pulls me into a large hall. The walls are covered in a massive tapestry with over seventy figures arm in arm looking down on me.

"Oh, how so," she demands as she let's me go and turns to me. In the lightning I can see her eyes flicker green then black.

"What does my life's consequences have to do with here and now?"

Perhaps I should not have said that? Slowly an unnerving smile draws across her face.

"Consider it an opportune moment to bide yourself time. Now, once again, what evil thing has befallen you at societies behest that would force you into such a scandalous lifestyle?"

I wring my hands nervously. My past was not something I liked to talk about, but I felt oddly compelled to do just that now. I take a deep breath and decide to appease her curiosity, or is that her way of toying with me?

"I wasn't always such a scoundrel," I began, almost reminiscing at my past life's endeavors. "I was once a well respected playwright in Edinburgh. My play, 'The Perils of C'thulu and 'The Manifesto of the Living' was a hit that embodied the struggle between good and evil, life and death, and ultimately showed that god wins out at the end. Everyone knew the name C. W. Wolfe. I was celebrated and adored, a different man or woman on my arm each night, and a glass of the most expensive and sought after imported wine in my hand. Even the King invited me to his court to have evening tea with him."

I sighed as a twinge of nostalgia reared it's ugly face. "Oi, but what a fool was I. I make one mistake of attempting to fornicate with his daughter and my status is stripped from me like it were nothing but water through my hands. She looked at least eighteen, how was I to know she was only fifteen. My fame had consumed me. I had become a drunkard, ingesting whole bottles of wine in a sitting. In my drunken stupor I never entertained even once in all my time the idea of who was who in the royal family. Now that I see what she has become I cannot help but wonder what the hell I was thinking. She is absolutely hideous," I shudder.

"Ah, but that was then, and this is now. I have been dismantled down to the lowly wretch you imprison before you. I am nothing, and though I am nothing, I am most of all no killer."

"'The Perils of C'thulu and the Manifesto of the Living'? You are C. W. Wolfe," she drawled, scrutiny laced in her thick words.

"I was once. Now I am only Caleb."

"I have read your play. Most interesting, for one of your ilk. It was a favorite of my masters. But now he is gone, and I know naught how to avenge him. He would have loved to meet you."

"Wait, do- do you believe I did not slay him?"

"Yes. I do," she said then sniffed my neck. "I cannot smell him upon your flesh."

"I- if it helps I did see three men leaving in a carriage here earlier, around midnight."

"Three you say?"

Could it be? Does the dead poet know of the one who slew my beloved?

"They were laughing cordially amongst themselves, as if they'd had a profitable night."

"They must have slain him," I sneered. "Where did they go, do you know?"

"Just to the town I think. It's not wise to travel at night."

"No, and I can assure you in their case it would mean death."

Caleb looked up at the tapestry with a shudder. All the figures therein were watching him. They were judging him for me.

"Who are they all," he asked more to himself I think. I turned and looked upon him with interest. They seem most intrigued by him.

"My ancestors," I state proudly.

"But they are all white and you are-"

"Black?" I interrupted. Ignorant little sod. "They are not my god given family. They are my blood brood."

"Blood brood. I do not understand." I grin.

"That matter's not. I must make haste after my master's killers. You, dear Caleb, are my guest."

"Huh?"

"Very intelligent answer from such a renowned dramatist," I bite out. He shirks away anxiously.

"Not so renowned anymore, milady. Only, I am a thief in your home. Why would you make me a guest?"

"My master would have wanted it that way. He was an adamant lover of the art's, and you are not the first artist we have entertained," I say as I walk away only to turn back to him at the door. "Besides, you wouldn't get far if you tried to run."

She left just as quickly as she appeared, almost as if she were never there, yet her scent lingered in the air like an unseen wraith waiting to strike. I chose immediately not to stay in the Tapestry room when all the figure therein seemed to smile softly at me. I could tell there was something unnatural about the painting.

I moved toward the nearest door to escape their watchful eyes only to turn and look back at the figures. Oh, how I wished I hadn't. Their now grinning heads that were once looking down at me were turned towards me, fangs gleaming in the candle light.

I cried as I burst through the door and ran to any place away from the nightmare painting. I was going to run from the manor but her words kept coming back to me: 'You wouldn't get far if you tried to run'. I realize that this was not a threat, it was a fact.

I went back down to the dinning room and pulled the bottle of shandy from my bag. Popping the cork I decided against a glass an began drowning myself in the drink.

"Master Wolfe." I turned to the door where a tall Indian man and woman entered from the hall.

"I am Mahutmed, the groundsman. This is my wife, Shivna, the maid and cook. Mistress Aziza has ordered us to prepare for you a meal of your choice."

"A meal of my choice, huh? Bet you can't serve me peacock and monkey brains with a side of passion fruit dipped in whipping cream and the most expensive wine the French have to offer," I smarted off. I was still shaken by what I had seen on the tapestry.

"As you desire," Mahutmed replied nonchalantly before bowing low and exiting the room with his wife.

"Huh?" I watched them leave and moved to follow but stopped when a light caught my eye from under a door. I opened it and entered into a smoking room. Boxes of cigars and bottled of foreign ales and lagers lined the walls, and a fire burned in the fireplace. I figured to take advantage of my hostesses hospitality while I could so I drew out a Cuban cigar and lit it before taking a seat on a large winged leather chair.

At my side, on a table, a book sat. 'The Monk', a truly libertine tale of temptation and religion gone wrong. I lifted the tome and began to scour the pages for my favorite parts while I enjoyed my cigar and shandy. This was how I used to enjoy life before it all crumbled down around me.

The lightning worsened but I kept on, forcing myself ahead through the trees into the town. I had picked up the trail of the carriage my young visitor mentioned and it led me to the Eighteen Cyprians tavern.

Men and women were laughing from within even at this ungodly hour, the sound of an Irish gig weaving to and fro throughout their voices left my ears burning.

I entered the tavern and the barkeep looked up from his duties.

"We don' serve your kind here, negro, but I be willin' to 'elp ye sell yourself."

"No, thank you, barkeep," I drawled in my elitist speech. I detest these squalor infested wastes of life and their uneducated way's, but at the moment, for the sake of revenge, I am willing to tolerate the filth. "I was sent by my master to serve the needs of his friends and those of no other's. So if you will pardon me I shall be on my way."

"Get on with it, wench," he spat and went about his business. I wove through the crowd of drunks and bar hags to the stairs where I climbed until I caught the familiar scent of my master. His slayer's were indeed here.

I find the room where the slayers are and enter quietly. They are all three asleep, proving that they will be an easy kill. I raise the Dagger of Rancor over the first slayer, and. . .

I was content in my reading when Mahutmed reappeared an hour later.

"Master Wolfe. Your meal awaits you."

I had forgotten about the servant and the dinner that was being prepared for me. I meant earlier to dissuade him of my previous order but failed to do so at the expense of my own curiosity. I didn't really believe that they would prepare my extravagant list but sure enough, laid out upon the table, every thing I had requested sat in waiting for me.

"Mahutmed, I was only jesting before. I did not really intend for you to do this."

"The feast does not meet your approval, Master?"

"Oh, no. It is an excellent placement, but it must cost so much to prepare."

"A mere sixpence compared to the wealth of Mistress Aziza."

"Truely?"

I returned to the manor with blood on my hands. I did not expect Caleb to still be awake however I was content to hear his voice as he spoke to Mahutmed.

"Such delicate tastes for a man of your status," I said as entered the dinning room from behind him.

He gulped nervously as he turned to greet me, his eyes going wide at the sight of blood on my hands. I washed them off in a wash basin on a table by the wall.

"Actually, It was a jest. I did not intend for your servants to actually prepare me such a spread. I would have been content with black pudding and grits."

"Indeed. However I would not have joined you over black pudding and grits," I smiled. I turned slowly and met his eyes, "I may join you?"

"Of course. This feast is at your table and of your means."

"Yes," I drawled almost threateningly. "They are."

I join him at the table and allowed Mahutmed to serve me.

"Y-you found the k-"

"Yes, I did. And they are quite departed. Even though what I did was just as evil as what they did."

"Well," he whispered. "Some evil in the world is necessary."

"And that, dearest Caleb, is why my master would have approved of you."

"Is that a good thing," he asks timidly.

"Mahutmed," I demand, choosing to ignore his question. "Bring forth my blessed wine. I wish to anoint my guest, for I too deem him as approved."

Mahutmed leaves us in silence then returns with an ornate bottle capped off by a silver scull. I pour a glass of the contents in a glass and hand the red liquid to him.

"You are worthy, dearest Caleb, of the blood of my ancestors. If you desire the stature you once beheld, drink of the blessed wine in your cup. Become the phoenix and rise from the ashes of your past life. Allow my blood to become yours, allow my blood to keen your senses, to open your eyes to the life of a Noble Lamian."

"Vampires," I whispered. The fanged people in the tapesty. The men with their crucifixes. The blood on her hands. It all made sense now. "You are a vampire."

"And I am offering you my gift, Caleb. To stand at my side as my embraced, the heir of ten millennia of Noble Lamians. Come now, Caleb. Do you not desire the life you once lived? Do you not desire the luxury I offer you? Do you not desire to live your life as a legend?"

"A legend." I was enthralled for the second time this night. "But what of the blood feasting?"

"Why do you think there are cows in my fields and chickens in my stable. When they are butchered and sold their blood is bottled for me. Other than the occasional slayer or murderer, I do not feed on innocent humans. I prefer the very promising banquet you accidentally prepared for your meal tonight."

"And what of God."

"We are a part of his plan. He created evil. He created pain. He created destruction. All to vex mankind. Without any of it, without us, mankind would never be able to differentiate the feeling of love, life, and happiness. They would never know joy. They would have nothing to look forward to, and as such, not have a reason to live."

"Without hate there cannot be love. Without evil there cannot be good. Without dark there cannot be light. Without death there cannot be life."

"And in your death you gain life."

"To be immortal."

"Even we can die, Caleb. There is no such thing as immortality on the corporal plane. Only life and death. But unlike most we have the option of living longer. It is your choice."

I watch her for a moment before bring the cup near my lips. "Then I choose life through death, Maker."