Perhaps you know me. Perhaps you have awakened in the middle of the night,
quivering with an unknown fear, as if the shadow of Death herself grasps your heart in her
icy fingers. Perhaps, as you cast your eyes nervously around the room, you see, from the
corner of your eye, a figure darting away. That is me.
Who am I? I am the one from whom nightmares come. You may not realize this
from looking at me, for, in appearance, I am the opposite of a dark dread. You would
look at me and think I would inspire wonderful dreams of meadows and flowers. But the
only flower you will find here is a single flawless rose stained with blood.
Who am I? I am the Dark Prince of the Arena. I am the one who wields the sword
in one hand and the cape in the other. I provide the wonderful contrast, my grace against
the stumbles and flails of the idiotic bull. Some say that I appear to fly when I fight in the
Arena, that my perfect movements are the height of human possibilities.
That is who I am. I am beauty. I am perfection. I am Vega.
I see that you recognize my name. Tell me, do you fear me? I am the Night
Hunter, El Sanguinario PrÃncipe, the Terror of Barcelona. But that is my private life.
Publicly, I am adored by thousands, possibly millions. Although I may dally with my
admirers, I feel nothing for any of them. They worship me, and that is as it should be.
You say you want to hear of my private life? Very well. I am not ashamed of any
of it.
When I was a mere child of three, I discovered the ultimate power. I was watching
one of the servant girls kill rats, and decided to join her. I took my father's stiletto dagger
and, in a flash quicker than lightning, drove it through the heart of one of the foul beasts.
Such a wonder that was! I remember everything about that moment, from the exact shade
of red the blood was that poured from the creature, down the stiletto, and down my arm,
to the rat's last, pathetic twitches of life, to the maid's expression of pure horror. Even
now, I revel in that moment.
I knew then and there that I was born to kill. That, I knew, was my mission in life,
to end others.
I devoted my life to training. I knew from the moment of my birth that I was
perfect, but I had to maintain that perfection. So I trained in the killing arts.
My parents did not know. To them, I was simply studying ninjitsu. But I had
deliberately sought out a professional assassin to be my sensai.
When I was nine years old, I made my first move. It was an experiment, of sorts. I
had to see if I could kill a human and not be suspect. It would not have mattered if I was
caught, as I have always been wealthy enough to buy my freedom. But no one ever did
suspect me in the untimely demise of my nursemaid. Another memory I shall cherish
forever. For you see, the plan was pure genius to my underdeveloped mind. I severed a
length of rope and strangled her with it. I shall never forget her look of horror as I choked
the life from her. Then, after she had departed this world, I tied the rope around her throat
and pulled; then laid the slack end in her limp hand. The official cause of death was
self-strangulation. I was free.
Five years later, on a hot summer night, my parents joined my list of victims. I do
not know if you are familiar with summertime in Barcelona, but it is almost unbearably
hot, as if Lucifer himself controls the weather. No, I am not El Diablo. He is a great fool.
When I die, I shall overthrow him and reign over all of Hell, but until that time, I must
endure the summers of Barcelona.
I had planned for years to make myself an orphan. The Lord and Lady of the house
were a hindrance to my great plans, so they had to die. Another find memory. I took the
guilded sword that had been passed down in my family for almost a thousand years from
its hallowed place over the mantle, and, without warning, drove it through my father's
heart.
He did not make a sound. I was expecting him to scream, or cry, but he simply fell
to his knees, the sword still embedded in his chest. He looked me straight in the eyes and
mouthed "Why?". I yanked the weapon from him and watched the crimson blood stain his
exquisite suit as he fell the rest of the way to the floor. As I stood over him, watching his
heaving form shudder as the rat had over eleven years ago, I said proudly "Because it is
what I was born for, Padre."
As I spoke those words, his quivering slowed to a slight tremor and his eyes rolled
back. Within a few seconds, he lay still.
That was my first true kill. The death of my nursemaid was merely an experiment.
This was for real.
Suddenly, en menos que se persigna un cura loco, I was struck hard across the
face. Damn! I had forgotten that my mother was in the next room. She stood there,
shaking with anger and fright, a familiar reaction to me now, but then, I admit, I was
terrified. Would this be the end of my glorious career as a killer? Would I be stopped by
my own flesh and blood?
"Vega!!" she screamed. "What the hell did you do?!" Tears ran down her lovely
face; strange, I had never noticed how beautiful she was before that day. I drew the sword
up again and slashed her across the chest. She fell clumsily to the floor, her blood draining
into the thick carpeting. I leveled the blade to her throat.
"Fare thee well, Madre," I whispered. In the dim light of the sitting room, I must
have been quite a terrifying sight as I severed her head from her body. I had triumphed at
last.
I had heard from my mentor, a hardened killer if there ever was one, that many
first-time killers will feel remorse and overwhelming guilt. I waited for it, but it never
came. The only thing I felt was vindication. The first part of my destiny was fulfilled. The
blade in my hand shone in the firelight, beseeching me to taste the fruits of my labor, the
blood of the fallen.
As I ran my tounge over the sword, the warm blood coursing down my throat, I
became aware of a thin trickle on my face. Curse that bitch of a mother!! Her long nails
had caught on my cheek, causing my own blood to run down. My own blood! I was not
the victim, why should I bleed?
Desperately, I ran to the hallway mirror. No! Frantically, I wiped at the cut, willing
it to vanish, but it did not. Even after the blood ceased running, the hideous mark
remained. Madre, what the hell did you do? My beautiful, perfect face...is ruined!
I do not remember passing out. Nor do I remember being found by a serving
girl--the same one, I later learned, who so innocently introduced me to the art of death.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a small room.
Oh, on a side note, for I see your eyes wide with panic...The sword I use in the
Arena, the sword that so many young matadors treasure, that has ended the lives of
countless beasts...That is the same sword I used on that day.
But yet, you do not run. Fascinating. Would it interest you to know that it is the
same sword that hangs at my waist at this very moment? Ah, you are a brave one. Please,
have a drink. Oh, no. This is only red wine, merely a substitute for the sweetness of life's
blood. That is partaken of at the scene of demise.
You still wish to hear my story? Very well.
quivering with an unknown fear, as if the shadow of Death herself grasps your heart in her
icy fingers. Perhaps, as you cast your eyes nervously around the room, you see, from the
corner of your eye, a figure darting away. That is me.
Who am I? I am the one from whom nightmares come. You may not realize this
from looking at me, for, in appearance, I am the opposite of a dark dread. You would
look at me and think I would inspire wonderful dreams of meadows and flowers. But the
only flower you will find here is a single flawless rose stained with blood.
Who am I? I am the Dark Prince of the Arena. I am the one who wields the sword
in one hand and the cape in the other. I provide the wonderful contrast, my grace against
the stumbles and flails of the idiotic bull. Some say that I appear to fly when I fight in the
Arena, that my perfect movements are the height of human possibilities.
That is who I am. I am beauty. I am perfection. I am Vega.
I see that you recognize my name. Tell me, do you fear me? I am the Night
Hunter, El Sanguinario PrÃncipe, the Terror of Barcelona. But that is my private life.
Publicly, I am adored by thousands, possibly millions. Although I may dally with my
admirers, I feel nothing for any of them. They worship me, and that is as it should be.
You say you want to hear of my private life? Very well. I am not ashamed of any
of it.
When I was a mere child of three, I discovered the ultimate power. I was watching
one of the servant girls kill rats, and decided to join her. I took my father's stiletto dagger
and, in a flash quicker than lightning, drove it through the heart of one of the foul beasts.
Such a wonder that was! I remember everything about that moment, from the exact shade
of red the blood was that poured from the creature, down the stiletto, and down my arm,
to the rat's last, pathetic twitches of life, to the maid's expression of pure horror. Even
now, I revel in that moment.
I knew then and there that I was born to kill. That, I knew, was my mission in life,
to end others.
I devoted my life to training. I knew from the moment of my birth that I was
perfect, but I had to maintain that perfection. So I trained in the killing arts.
My parents did not know. To them, I was simply studying ninjitsu. But I had
deliberately sought out a professional assassin to be my sensai.
When I was nine years old, I made my first move. It was an experiment, of sorts. I
had to see if I could kill a human and not be suspect. It would not have mattered if I was
caught, as I have always been wealthy enough to buy my freedom. But no one ever did
suspect me in the untimely demise of my nursemaid. Another memory I shall cherish
forever. For you see, the plan was pure genius to my underdeveloped mind. I severed a
length of rope and strangled her with it. I shall never forget her look of horror as I choked
the life from her. Then, after she had departed this world, I tied the rope around her throat
and pulled; then laid the slack end in her limp hand. The official cause of death was
self-strangulation. I was free.
Five years later, on a hot summer night, my parents joined my list of victims. I do
not know if you are familiar with summertime in Barcelona, but it is almost unbearably
hot, as if Lucifer himself controls the weather. No, I am not El Diablo. He is a great fool.
When I die, I shall overthrow him and reign over all of Hell, but until that time, I must
endure the summers of Barcelona.
I had planned for years to make myself an orphan. The Lord and Lady of the house
were a hindrance to my great plans, so they had to die. Another find memory. I took the
guilded sword that had been passed down in my family for almost a thousand years from
its hallowed place over the mantle, and, without warning, drove it through my father's
heart.
He did not make a sound. I was expecting him to scream, or cry, but he simply fell
to his knees, the sword still embedded in his chest. He looked me straight in the eyes and
mouthed "Why?". I yanked the weapon from him and watched the crimson blood stain his
exquisite suit as he fell the rest of the way to the floor. As I stood over him, watching his
heaving form shudder as the rat had over eleven years ago, I said proudly "Because it is
what I was born for, Padre."
As I spoke those words, his quivering slowed to a slight tremor and his eyes rolled
back. Within a few seconds, he lay still.
That was my first true kill. The death of my nursemaid was merely an experiment.
This was for real.
Suddenly, en menos que se persigna un cura loco, I was struck hard across the
face. Damn! I had forgotten that my mother was in the next room. She stood there,
shaking with anger and fright, a familiar reaction to me now, but then, I admit, I was
terrified. Would this be the end of my glorious career as a killer? Would I be stopped by
my own flesh and blood?
"Vega!!" she screamed. "What the hell did you do?!" Tears ran down her lovely
face; strange, I had never noticed how beautiful she was before that day. I drew the sword
up again and slashed her across the chest. She fell clumsily to the floor, her blood draining
into the thick carpeting. I leveled the blade to her throat.
"Fare thee well, Madre," I whispered. In the dim light of the sitting room, I must
have been quite a terrifying sight as I severed her head from her body. I had triumphed at
last.
I had heard from my mentor, a hardened killer if there ever was one, that many
first-time killers will feel remorse and overwhelming guilt. I waited for it, but it never
came. The only thing I felt was vindication. The first part of my destiny was fulfilled. The
blade in my hand shone in the firelight, beseeching me to taste the fruits of my labor, the
blood of the fallen.
As I ran my tounge over the sword, the warm blood coursing down my throat, I
became aware of a thin trickle on my face. Curse that bitch of a mother!! Her long nails
had caught on my cheek, causing my own blood to run down. My own blood! I was not
the victim, why should I bleed?
Desperately, I ran to the hallway mirror. No! Frantically, I wiped at the cut, willing
it to vanish, but it did not. Even after the blood ceased running, the hideous mark
remained. Madre, what the hell did you do? My beautiful, perfect face...is ruined!
I do not remember passing out. Nor do I remember being found by a serving
girl--the same one, I later learned, who so innocently introduced me to the art of death.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a small room.
Oh, on a side note, for I see your eyes wide with panic...The sword I use in the
Arena, the sword that so many young matadors treasure, that has ended the lives of
countless beasts...That is the same sword I used on that day.
But yet, you do not run. Fascinating. Would it interest you to know that it is the
same sword that hangs at my waist at this very moment? Ah, you are a brave one. Please,
have a drink. Oh, no. This is only red wine, merely a substitute for the sweetness of life's
blood. That is partaken of at the scene of demise.
You still wish to hear my story? Very well.