A/N: This little one-shot came to me on the train this morning, so I apologise if it's a little random in places, but I thought I'd share it!
Darkness swirled about the place, a fog so black that it consumed even the bleakest of shadows that dwelled in the corners of the large room. The black clouds billowed, swirling with violent turbulence as if they were the great storms of the southern oceans; but they weren't. They were merely shadows themselves, raging against their own creation.
A hand twitched in the darkness, its slender digits protected by a silk glove as white as starlight. The index finger moved ever so slightly; to a normal man's eyes it would seem there was no movement at all, but to the eyes of other, darker, creatures is was easily discernible. The finger moved in little circles, gathering some unseen power to stir up the shadows of the room and paint its gloomy scene for all to bear witness. Yet there was no one to wonder at its macabre prettiness. No human eyes to see. No dogs, cats, or even a lowly rat's. Nothing gazed into the darkness, save for a pale set of red discs that glowed faintly, barely piercing the cold veil of darkness that swirled around their owner.
The creature sat and gazed into nothingness, unmoving and silent; not even a solitary breath disturbed the quietness of the dungeon cell. It was a strange quietness. Or was it quietness at all? Who could tell if it were quiet, for there was no other being to discern its existence. It was a quandary indeed.
Ultimately it mattered not to the creature. Whether it was quiet or loud, it made no difference; for it did not have the privilege of choosing whether or not the silence should be broken. It was trapped in eternal bondage. Starved, weak, and almost drained of all power. Cold shackles clung to its almost skeletal-like limbs, the weight of the iron bonds would barely allow the creature to move if it wished. But it never did.
Most days it would lie, quite literally, dead to its silent world and its absence of comings and goings. Those were things reserved for the world above; a place so alien to the creature that it was almost fearful of its existence. So accustomed was the creature to its solitude. So sad.
But it had awoken this day, using what little power it had to amuse itself in the darkness. Fingers arranged the shadows in a strange parody of the creature's past; tiny ethereal soldiers scaled the imagined walls of castles, and rows of cavalry charged into the cowering lines of their non-existent enemies. The creature would pluck at some of the shadows, moulding them into tiny spikes no larger than toothpicks; it would then place little men on the spikes and grin with pleasure at their imagined deaths.
Eventually, after some hours, the creature tired of these games; with a slight wave of its withered hand the shadowy figures collapsed back into oblivion. The creature was bored, it would not do; this is why it always slept. The boredom needed to be vanished. The boredom meant it was lonely; the creature didn't want to remember that.
So it indulged in the rare fantasy of imagining itself with company. Any would do, even the flea ridden rats would be welcome in its cell tonight. The creature would merrily chat with them until fatigue once again won its war, and it would be forced back into its deathly slumber. It wouldn't be much, but it would be a great improvement on its current situation; and guests would, or should, be expected today.
It was a special day, and special days were meant to be shared; not locked away and the key discarded. Forgotten days did not exist, and this was one day the creature couldn't forget, even if it was its deepest desire to do so; for it wasn't every day that your wretched existence reached the end of a fifth century.
Yes. Perhaps, for once, company would be wondrous.
The shackles creaked as the creature made a sudden movement; little puffs of dust billowed off the corroded iron bindings and mingled with the stagnant air. The creature called out, testing its dwindling powers to their breaking point. It called out to the rodents of the manor, an almost whining plea echoed like a death whisper through the very bones of the house. It was faint, too faint for human ears; but they heard it.
And slowly they came, only a handful at first, but eventually their numbers increased and the creature found itself within sea of teeming fur. They frolicked and tumbled over one another, seemingly aimless and without forethought. Their gentle squeaks reverberated through the dungeon cell as if they were the chanting crowd of a concert hall, so sensitive were the ears of the creature. But it endured the momentary discomfort, not wishing for a moment to be rid of its new companions, and was soon adjusted.
For the first time in over a decade the vampire knew something other than the silence of his cell.