You know, wars may seem repugnant to humans, but they are a great time for vampires. With men dying left and right, and all that blood being spilled, nobody is going to notice when some of it goes missing. In this, the year of their lord, 1708, Europe was at war again, fighting over which fat, old man got to sit on the Polish throne. It was so close to Wallachia, and I was so thirsty, I just had to pay them a visit.
Drinking my way across the country, I arrived in the town of Grodno, bracing itself for a new assault. The Russians had out-maneuvered the Swedes two years earlier, and the news was that the Swedes were coming back. All the better, as Russian blood has a certain sour tang that I find quite unpalatable. Traveling by night, the increase in activity around the town made meals all that much more available. A Swede here or there, a few Cossacks, and plenty of Poles on both sides of the war. I was careful to spread out these meals, and made sure to drink from places other than the neck. The goal was to remain hidden, avoiding the mistakes that had me run out of Krakow.
This last night had been largely uneventful. Streets empty save for a few large groups, no easy access meals. The black sky was turning grey, and slowly red. The sun was coming up, and with that, I must leave this mortal world for the day. Not out of pain, mind you, but because the days bored me. Forced to accept the mannerisms of a normal human, the species I left all those centuries ago, it held no real appeal to me. As I prepared to retreat to the woods, into a peasant's cabin that had a sizeable root cellar for me to sleep the light away, I heard the crunching of footsteps along the dirt road that led out of the town… a single pair of footsteps. A man, short beard, smooth skin. He was younger, full of strength, and that always promised great things when it came time to feed. The plan was simple enough, a tap on the forehead to convince him to come off the road and out of view of everyone else, a quick bite to the forearm to sever the major blood vessels, and throw the body into the woods for the wolves to finish when I am done. However, just as I was preparing to approach the young man, two men on horseback approached from the other direction.
"Chwala Polsce," one of the men on horseback said.
"Chwala August Mocny," the young man responded.
The second horseman quickly disembarked, pulled a dagger from his long overcoat, and plunged it into the young man's stomach. It would seem he chose the wrong king. It was a cruel, disgusting, cowardly trap, and I loved watching every minute of it. You'd think the sight of men reducing themselves to the level of monsters would surprise me, but after hundreds of years, I've seen every act imaginable, and I've seen them countless times. The men took off riding for the town, likely spies preparing for the upcoming battle. Looking back at the man, lying crumpled on the road, I saw very clear signs of movement. Live blood may nourish the same as dead blood, but it is always a treat to have the warmth, just like how men would prefer warm meals over cold ones.
Approaching the man, I used my foot to nudge him onto his back, getting a good look at the stab wound. It was one of the cruelest possible, a gash deep into the liver. There was no way to stop the bleeding, but the victims would remain in agony for several minutes, waiting for the blood loss to consume them. Finishing the young man off would be an act of charity if anything. As I leaned down to grab his arm, I caught a certain sweetness. It wasn't the environment, not flowers nor perfumes. I leaned in closer, smelling the blood that pooled around the man's wound. No, it couldn't be. He should easily be in his mid-20s, married with children, but my nose never lies and I am never incorrect. A virgin. Releasing his hand, I moved over and crouched near the man's face.
"Czy jesteś dziewicą," I asked, not receiving an answer. "Dziewica," I asked again, pointing at his face.
"Vos," he replied weakly, "Ich red nisht poylish."
A tongue I had not yet heavily encountered. It sounded like German, and many of the allies of Augustus were German, but it was certainly not German. The grammar was off, many of the words were different. Ah, it makes sense now, this was Yiddish. A man I fed from in Warsaw spoke this same strange tongue. German, blended with Slavic languages, and written in the holy script. Summoning the familiar, I attempted to ask the question again.
"Bistu a tselke," I had the familiar ask in my stead.
"Vos," the young man asked, obviously confused on why a dying man would be asked this question. He didn't cough, meaning that the dagger did not pierce his lungs. Good, it meant I could do this. Pressing down on the wound, obviously causing a great amount of pain for the wounded man, I had the familiar ask the question again.
"Yo," the young man yelled out, his arms and legs clenching with pain, "yo, ich bin a tselke!"
I don't know what made this man so special. The son of a farmer or a merchant, maybe a tax collector, he had no special skills. I have not seen him wield a blade, nor fire a pistol. Yet, for some strange reason, I feel like this was meant to be. I was fated to be at this point in time, see this act, meet this young man, and maybe even turn him. However, immortality must be accepted by both parties. He must freely accept my gift of immortality… and the curse of vampirism.
"You are going to die," I had the familiar tell him, "I can stop that. However, in order to do this, you must freely give up your humanity."
"What are you talking about," the young man cried out, "tell me! Stop speaking in riddles! Please, I don't want to die!"
"A vampire, lad," I said to him, "one who roams the night, who feeds on blood, who retains their youth and vitality and lives forever."
"Well," the young man said to me, a slight smile forming on his face, "that doesn't seem so bad."
"And a monster," I quickly added, "One who is destined to be shunned by men for what he is, who must watch all he loves grow old and die."
That wiped the grin right of the boy's face. The conflict is suddenly made clear to everyone sooner or later. Humanity in itself is a fairly abstract concept. The average man does not think of what it means to be human, nor can they imagine what their existence will be like when they lose that word as a definition of themselves. A man is usually willing to take the offer until they learn of the change that will occur. Man is a social beast. They must have a community, friends, family, and love. These are as vital to mortal men as food, water, and warmth. The thought of giving all this up is enough to stop most in their tracks immediately. A man always seeks to live until he is in enough pain, and then he seeks only death, but what happens if death cannot come? It is only the truly desperate who are willing to throw it all away. Those who can withstand the pain when it comes to fulfilling their final goals in life. Those strong enough to bear the pain, or maybe just those weak enough to need to avoid the pain of failure. The strength of a monster is simply just a disguised weakness.
"What would you do? In my situation," the young man asked weakly, "would you do it?"
"What's your name boy," I asked.
"Meyer. Meyer Fivelowicz," he said back, his voice shaking.
"Meyer Fivelowicz," I said, ready to tell the answer I needed to tell him. He had too much doubt to be an effective vampire. He would never convert willingly, and in all likelihood would go mad in a matter of weeks. I don't need this, an out of control vampire running around, alerting more humans to our presence. But on a more personal level to the poor guy, it would be my good deed of the decade to spare him the torture. "Never in a thousand years would I do this. Do not become a monster… a monster like me."
"Thank you, my friend," he said with a weak smile, "it never would have worked out anyways. Blood isn't kosher, you know. May I ask you a question? Is there something after this? After this life?"
"How should I know," I said, sarcastically, "I've never been forced to experience an afterlife."
"You're a god-damned vampire, I would expect you know everything there is to know about death," he said with a chuckle. It seemed almost involuntary. He had begun to sweat profusely, and his skin was pale and cold, indicating that he had begun to go into shock from the blood loss. It wouldn't be long now. He weakly reached out and grabbed my hand, holding onto it with what little strength remained, a classic human characteristic. They want to remain strong in the end, almost meeting death with a sense of determination. This is why many men speak great last words, those who can look their executioners in the eye when their heads are placed on the block. However, there is the also the feeling of dread, not of dying, but of dying alone. They reach out for whatever company they can find to accompany them to the end. Looking from the hand, back up to the young man's face, I saw the joking smirk replaced with a pale visage with streaking tears.
"I'm scared," the young man said to me breathing rapidly, openly crying at this point, "I'm… I'm so scared.
I bent over him, looking him in the eyes. "Listen to me Meyer Fivelowicz," I said to him calmly, "there is something after this life. This is not the end. You will never be alone. Now, you have very little time left. If you have anything left to say, say it."
I listened to him utter a short prayer, evidently the last prayer they are supposed to say in their lifetime. His grip on my hand had ceased, and his breathing was shallow. The tears had ceased now, with the end so near.
"Chwala Polsce," he uttered so quietly that I could barely hear it, "Chwala…"
He never finished his last sentence. Frankly, I was surprised he managed to pull of some last words of some significance. I was almost sure he would be the kind who exited the world in tears, crying for their god, or more commonly, their mother. Dipping my thumb in the pool of blood that had stretched for a wide area around the young man's body, I wiped a streak across his forehead before closing his eyes that were fixed open in death. The crimson streak across the paleness of his skin resembled the banner of the Polish; symbolism that most certainly was not lost on me.
"Chwala Polsce," I uttered before slinging the body over my shoulder and walking back towards the woods. The twilight that had begun to arise at the start of this episode had shifted to a full dawn, the skies lit with yellows, oranges, and reds. I carried the body deep enough into the woods that nobody on the road would see us, and propped it up against a tree. I took the young man's face in my hands and moved his head around to get a better look at him. He really wouldn't have made a very good vampire. With that, I lunged at his neck, taking in all the blood that remained in his body, along with what had pooled on the road. Finishing the last drop, I welcomed young Meyer Fivelowicz's soul into my army of familiars. I promised him that he would never be alone, and I certainly kept my word. What? You thought this episode would change me? I would be so moved by a man's last moments that I would disavow what I am? You thought I would just bury this boy and all the succulent blood that rested in his veins? Come now. He's just a man, just a meal.