The night wore on. As it did every night, and here I walked. As I did every night; contemplating, thinking, wondering. Every night the same thing; the same sights, the same smells. The only thing that ever seemed to change were the locations. A cold breeze blew past me, but I barely felt a thing. Not the temperature, not the breeze, not even the slightest shiver. That was when I smelt it. The smell of salt, someone had just been crying. I felt a pang at my no longer bleeding heart. The smell of the tears seemed to bring the world to a stop. Slowly with an unearthly grace, I followed the smell. Only to see a lone man, no older then his mid twenties, crying, hunched over a freshly dug grave.
"What's the matter love?" my voice rang out, sounding younger then my great years. He man stood up, suddenly, as if ashamed of his own tears.
"It's my dear mum," he replied, almost hesitantly. His dark, golden locks giving him a sort of innocence about him. From his dirty hands, I could tell he was a peasant. "She's died recently. Now I fear I might be next."
I gave him only the slightest of comforting looks but that seemed enough to make him comfortable.
"Shoo," I cooed, in a soft voice. Handout cupping his cheek softly. "I can cure you." I looked at his face, telling no lie. "But it'll hurt."
"I can stand pain," he said proudly. Even as he stood, towering above me, he still looked so small.
"First, tell me your name?" I whispered.
"Zachorius," he replied.
"Then, lean into me Zachorius," I cooed. He obeyed, no questions asked, just blatant trust. Slowly I pulled him into a sort of hug, and slowly his arms wrapped around me. "This well hurt but you must not pull away." I felt my face change, becoming more fierce, then the angelically dark face I wore before. His blood seemed to call to me, and without a second thought I obeyed the call and bit into him. I felt him stiffen at the intrusion but he did not pull away. 'Good,' I mentally said to him, knowing he couldn't hear my thought. I knew just when to stop, as his blood was starting to slow. I carefully pulled away, giving a small kiss to the bite wound, to slow the bleeding before turning to my own wrist, full of cold blood, slightly heated by his own blood and carefully bit into it. The pain had barely registered to me as I lifted my bleeding wrist over his mouth.
"Now drink my son," I replied, like a mother speaking to a child. How that thought stung me but I pushed away that pain. A chapter that was closed in my life and did not need to be opened. A slight sucking at my wrist, snapped me back to reality. He obeyed every slight command, without question. I slowly pulled my wrist away and he collapsed into me. I carefully lifted his tall frame, he was now my son. Not the old witches in the ground. I would not let this child parish……….