Scattered bit of light peered through the black earth. The imprisoned vampire startled, suddenly snatched out of his forced slumber. His eyes darted back and forth furiously in their sockets as his sight became accustomed to the new bits of brightness. His ears—so ineffectual after being unused for so long—picked up a series of strange sounds. Emiel Regis (yes, that was his name, oh, he'd nearly forgotten the sound of his own name) shuffled stiff limbs in an attempt to move his body. It was useless; hundreds of pounds of earth still weighted down on his prostate form.
Emiel forced himself to stillness, concentrating instead on the noise coming from above. Yes, now that he was listening more closely, he could hear someone digging with a shovel. Emiel tried to scream, but only swallowed a mouthful of dirt for his trouble.
Soon, more light was trickling through. Fresh air tickled Emiel's nostrils, bringing a slew of scents from the outside world. His mouth watered as if he'd stumbled upon a bucketful of freshly drawn blood. How long had it been since he had fed? Somehow, these last few minutes had been harder to endure than the long decades spent regenerating from his wounds.
Finally, a large shovelful of earth was removed from above his head, and silver moonlight poured through.
With a hiss, Emiel squeezed his poor sensitive eyes shut, his body trembling from both relief and distress. He tried to form words to address his savior, but only whimpers filtered through chapped lips.
"Don't be afraid," a deep voice came from the surface. "I am here to save you."
Emiel cracked one eye open. An elderly, but kind-looking face was looking down at him. His sickly, ashen complexion betrayed the fact that he was a rather ancient member of Emiel's people. The man was holding out a hand through the opening he had dug out.
The young vampire summoned all of his strength to reach out to his savior. Emiel could not help but sob as their fingers intertwined together.
It was the first time in over fifty years that Emiel felt the warmth of another living being.
Emiel's savior—whose name remained a mystery through their association—made his position very clear early on in their relationship.
"What purpose does it serve," the man had told his younger companion, "to indulge into something that strips us of our higher faculties and makes us as base and vile as beasts? No, I would rather live as a person and not as an animal."
In other words, the Humanist completely refrained from drinking blood.
The concept was not so foreign to Emiel. Only the weak-willed and the depraved consumed blood on a regular basis (a shameful Emiel had belonged in this very category, not so long ago). In fact, more than half of their species did not care to drink from a sentient being.
But the master differed from them in his reasons for doing so.
"Our people are trespassers," the elderly vampire had explained to Emiel. "We are guests of sort, of this world's denizens. We must never overstay our welcome."
"So you do not hurt humans because you want to stay in their good graces?" Emiel had then recalled his torment at the hands of the wrathful mob of peasants, and his stomach had lurched in remembered terror.
A sad smile had played on the master's lips. "Spoken like a true vampire. No, I treat mortals the way I wish them to treat me. As equals."
"But we are not equal," Emiel had inelegantly blubbered.
The Humanist's only response had been a chuckle. "Do you mean to imply that we are superior? Recently, I have begun to question that assumption. We are a long-lived people, yet many of us spend their eternity chasing vices that only offer the most instant of gratifications. We keep our noses out of the other races' affairs, sneering at their supposed inadequacies, yet choose to maintain our society in a state of stasis that destroys creativity and fosters indulgence. Indeed, how many times have you heard of a vampire physician revolutionising the medicinal arts with a new remedy? Or of a vampire minstrel composing ballads that touch the hearts of audiences both present and future? Or of a vampire builder pouring their deathless being into a marvel of architecture that will stand the test of the ages?"
The normally verbose Emiel had been too distraught by the implications of his master's words to think of a fitting response.
"You see?" the man had then concluded. "Yes, there's a certain fundamental difference between our two sets of species, one that makes our life experiences completely distinct from one another. But does that mean a single vampire's life is more valuable, more meaningful, than a human's, or an elf's, or a dwarf's? I most certainly doubt it…"
That was the gist of the Humanist's philosophy. The old vampire, as it quickly became apparent, was a traveling scholar of sort—knowledgeable in a variety of topics such as ethics, medicine, natural sciences and politics. Emiel, intrigued and humbled by the man's unconventional ideals, followed him across the entire continent in an effort to break off his destructive addiction to blood. Soon, he had reasons to suspect that his master happened to be one of the fabled Unseen Elders—in other words, one of the most ancient and powerful vampires currently walking this earth. The Humanist, although amused by his pupil's speculations, never confirmed nor dismissed Emiel's theory.
After more than a century of journeying together, Emiel's master took him aside to announce that they would now have to part ways.
"Ah, my friend," the Humanist had said with a chuckle at the sight of Emiel's expression, "there's no need to be so distressed. You are quite the resourceful young man. I am sure you will do fine on your own."
"I… well, if you believe it is for the best." Deep down, however, Emiel had been seized by a lingering fear. One that had shaped every decision made in his many years of living, from the monstrous binges of his youth to his more recent attempt at pacifism. "Won't you get lonely, master?"
The Humanist snorted out a laugh, seeing right through Emiel's half-hearted deflection. "You have an agreeable disposition, Emiel. I don't doubt for a second that you will find yourself more companions to brighten your existence."
"Will I?" Emiel responded a little too bitterly. "Most of the vampires we've met in our travels mocked us for our way of life. Fangless freaks, they called us. As for humans… well, mortality is a rather large stumbling block to building long-lasting relations with them, isn't it?"
"Only if you believe it so. You will grieve the deaths of your mortal friends, certainly, but once you've made peace with their passing, you will feel all the more enlightened for the moments you've shared with them. And so the anguish you've felt upon their loss will only diminish to an enduring, but faint ache. Trust me, Emiel. We are social animals. We cannot shun the company of others without harming the well-being of our psyche."
"If you feel that way, then why leave?" Then, why leave me…?
The master's already clouded eyes grew even mistier. "If I may put it bluntly, I am old and weary." The old vampire then patted the mountain of luggage he carried on his back, inside of which his most prized possessions could be found: a series of journals categorizing all of his findings and theories. "I must also find a way to make heads and tails out of these jumbled notes of mine. Perhaps amidst my ramblings there is something of worth I can share to the world." The Humanist's mouth struggled to form a tired smile. "But more than anything I wish to rest. I wish to sleep, as the humans do. I wish to find eternal silence."
A chill had crawled down Emiel's spine at the strangeness of this statement. "I see," he had said, voice strangling in his throat. "Farewell, then, master. I hope that we will meet again soon."
"Farewell, Emiel Regis," the Humanist had replied.
Emiel never saw his master again.