Boisterous laughter resounded from the walls of a massive antechamber, the echoes deadened by the insulation of the scarlet Clan banners that adorned its grey stone facades. Of the ten who had ascended from Quadros, eight remained, two having already entered into the company of the Clan Lord to face their Trials. Isca, bursting with pride at having made it this far, was loudly and playfully sparring with the others, their puerile bickering going some way to assuage their nervousness. Each had his own preconception of what the Trials would entail: most being of the opinion that they would be asked to prove their worth by tackling a Fledgling in single combat - but since their companions were not returning through the same door by which they had entered, there was no way to be certain.

Isca was desperately hoping that the next time the Fledge Master came out, he would be the one to enter – he was anxious not to be last. The wait was almost intolerable, and the snide comments aimed at him almost incessantly by Poul were not helping calm his nerves. Abruptly, the massive double doors creaked open, and every eye in the antechamber locked on the portal. Gurt's pockmarked face appeared, set in grim, unfriendly lines. He beckoned to Isca, and, with the gesture, the boy's mindset turned through one hundred and eighty degrees. He would have given anything for Gurt to have called on any other in the room. However, there was no refusing this summons, and so, with his friends clapping him on the back and wishing him luck, he swallowed hard and followed the Fledge Master into the chamber, his legs reminding him of the jelly his aunties used to make.

Having spent the majority of his childhood years in a rural village, and later a small town, Isca was quite unprepared for the sheer scale of the Hall in which he now stood with mouth agape. He guessed that the town hall in Quadros would probably have fit in here four times over, with room to spare. Long rows of columns supported a curved roof of smoked glass, which offered natural illumination without permitting ingress to the fatal rays of Nosgoth's dying sun.  Giant statues added to the titanic aspect of the room. At the far end, a wide dais sported a steadily burning pyre and a rather nondescript high-backed chair: Isca wondered vaguely why the Clan leader had not opted for a more opulent throne.

A moment later, all such thoughts were banished from the youth's head as Raziel entered through a door at the rear left of the dais. He paused briefly at the far end of the room, cleaning his claws with a dark, bloodstained rag that looked suspiciously like the tunic the previous candidate had been wearing. The vampire raised his eyes to see that the boy had noticed this fact and smiled nastily, baring fanged canines. Isca gulped and, the Fledge Master's insistence, wobbled forward to stop a good twenty feet distant from the Vampire Lord, his eyes on the ground.

Raziel nodded to Gurt in an implicit order to leave. Eventually, satisfied with his ablutions, he cast the rag aside and seated himself in his chair. He steepled his claws before him, eyeing the youth thoughtfully.

"You are Darrin's son, are you not?"

Isca nodded dumbly, his gaze locked on a crack in the floor before him. He seemed to have lost the power of speech.

Long seconds passed.

"I imagine you harbour some resentment towards the Sarafan after their actions towards your parents."

Isca this time managed a croaky, "Yes."

Silence.

"I have no need of little boys whose minds are clouded with thoughts of petty vengeance."

The sharpness in Raziel's tone caused Isca's head to shoot up, meeting the Clan leader's steady, derisive gaze.

"Neither do I have need of brainless oxen."

Isca paled – he had been hoping one of the Trials might be a test of strength - he was already able to wrestle most of his fellows to a standstill, even his elders.

"The attainment of a Vampiric constitution endows Fledglings with our strength - regardless of their previous condition." Raziel was not looking at him, his attention focussed somewhere far away beyond the ornate curlicues of the columns.

Isca determined not to lose hope. Strength was not his only asset.

"And as for combat skills – those too can be imparted during training."

Isca was growing more concerned by the second. What did he have apart from these things? And why then had he wasted the last seven years of his life building up his strength and learning to fight?

"Your fellow Initiates were labouring under false impressions," he stated dryly, flexing his claws. "These Trials have nothing to do with physical attributes." The Clan leader finally turned his head to fix Isca with the full force of his inhuman glare.

"Presence of mind, strength of purpose, devotion to a cause. These are things that are inherent in a son of man. They cannot be learned or developed."

Isca nodded slowly: he was beginning to understand.

"This Trial is a measure of your devotion, a test of your will."

The young man straightened, holding his chin up. "In that case, you will not find me wanting."

Raziel gave a half-smile, and his voice in response was almost a purr.

"Is that so?" His eyes narrowed, testing the boy's resolve.

"Then prove it, Initiate." He graced the youth with that cruel, inimitable smile.

"Bleed for me."

Isca blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Raziel scowled. "Did the Sarafan leave you deaf as well as orphaned? Or are you just too brainless to understand a simple command? I need men who can obey without question."

Despite the negative effect the scathing remarks were having on his emotional state, on some level Isca understood the reasons for the goading. Gritting his teeth, he withdrew his hunting knife from its sheath in his boot, sparing a moment to let his eyes wander over its cruel length before placing its icy edge against his wrist.

Raziel gripped the armrests of his chair and leaned forward, his clawed hands scraping splinters from the wood: the Initiate was actually going to do it. He had already been forced to dispatch the two previous candidates for their refusal to honour him thus, and the youth's struggle was poignant. It was evident that his expectations of the Trial had been vastly different, and the prospect of spilling his blood in some pointless act, here in the heart of the Vampire stronghold, was vying with his survival instinct. A heartbeat more and the knife bit into flesh, causing a pool of viscous liquid to form briefly before the excess began to overflow onto the ground.

Isca stared at the wound, mesmerised by the depth of colour and the sheer quantities that trickled relentlessly from his arm. A harsh voice shattered his daydream.

"Fill this."

Isca glanced upwards just in time to catch the goblet that was hurled at him. Since his right hand was still engaged with the knife, he moved his left to catch it awkwardly, sending a spray of red liquid across the grey slate floor. Sheathing the knife, he transferred the goblet to his other hand and caught as much of the free-flowing liquid as he could. The sight of his own life-blood pouring into a drinking vessel would have made the whole thing seem a trifle unreal – were it not for the insistent ache in his left wrist.

The chore completed, he looked to the Vampire to await his next command. Raziel beckoned imperiously. With his legs feeling more and more like they had been reformed in rubber, Isca approached the dais. The Vampire Lord's glare left him with no confusion as to his next required action, and consequently, Isca knelt before him and offered up the chalice.

Raziel allowed the arm to remain outstretched before him, savouring the scent of fresh blood as much as the obvious difficulty the Initiate was having in keeping the goblet steady - his strength was waning. Relenting at last, Raziel took the vessel from him with surprising gentleness and drained it in a single quaff, shuddering momentarily as the rich liquid brought its usual thrill. He then regarded the boy, whose head was still bowed, his young frame shaking and pale from the loss of blood. He drummed his claws on the side of the goblet as he pondered his course of action. True, the Initiate had passed the test, showing his devotion by putting his own life at risk, but his own earlier comment had been true: minds driven by vengeance had a tendency to become unfocused and unbalanced. The boy could turn out to be a liability. Then again, he had already lost a couple of the Initiates to these Trials – one who was willing to pay the blood sacrifice should not be overlooked.

Raziel humphed decisively and held out his hand. The youth raised his head at the movement and stared a moment before interpreting the silent command. He placed his bleeding wrist in the vampire's claw and his eyes sought the ground again as excruciating pain stabbed through his arm. The temptation to wrench his limb free for the Clan leader's freezing grasp was almost insurmountable, but somehow, though a combination of lip-biting and fist-clenching, Isca endured it. Presently, the severity of the blood loss caused his body to tremble as though with a palsea, and he knelt with his forehead down on the cool stone of the dais step, wondering how it was possible to feel like his blood was on fire when there was so little left in his body. At length, he felt his arm released from its iron restraint, which unfortunately, had constituted his only means of support, and he consequently tumbled from the dais to lie sprawled on the floor of the hall, his face pale and waxy, his heartbeat slow and weak. He lay almost still, his body still wracked by fleeting, trembling spasms, and his breath coming in halting gasps as a looming shadow darkened his vision.

He managed to flick his gaze to one side to see luminous pools glowing like sunlight reflected from amber in the dark depths of the Clan leader's face.

"And so another light is extinguished," intoned Raziel, kneeling at the Isca's side, "And added to the legions of the dark." Extending a claw, he drew its edge across his own wrist, a thin, crimson line blooming reluctantly from the marble flesh.

Isca felt as though his insides were shrivelled, as though every drop of moisture had been burned from his being, and despite this, his senses remained tortuously clear. And so it was when the first splatter of cool, thick liquid hit his face, it was partly human thirst that drove him to drink. His first draught reminded him of the sensation of imbibing cold, honeyed cider on a summer afternoon: it quenched sweetly, cooling the fires in his veins. The second mouthful burned his tongue and left his throat raw, infusing his system with the desire for more; the third sent an intoxicating Thirst through every fibre of his being, and his own hands clamped tightly about his benefactor's arm, intent on drawing in as much of the precious fluid as possible before the Vampire Lord stemmed the flow.

Eventually, unable to drink any more, Isca broke contact and slumped back to the ground. As the light dimmed, he began to realise that there was no way the gratitude he felt could ever be expressed; no way that the power that surged through him could ever be named or quantified; no way that he could even consider anything other than devoting the rest of his existence to proving himself worthy of the honour that had been bestowed upon him. And Raziel knew it.

The Vampire Lord returned to the dais and seated himself in his chair once more, barking an order for Gurt to come and take the Initiate away, and to bring the next one in. As he watched the Fledgling Master heave the corpse over his shoulder, he noticed that the boy had died looking enlightened.

Now if only the rest were up to the challenge . . .

*

A soul cried out in despair as the abyss claimed its victim again, and again, and again.

Review Response:

Shadowrayne: YOU FIGURED IT OUT!!!!! *bounces around madly for a while she lobs an ICBCM (Inter-continental Belgian chocolate missile) in Shadowrayne's general direction* I'm so happy!

Btw, sorry I didn't get back to you the other night – it took longer than we thought to re-house the tarantulas - little devils!

Vladimir's Angel: Thank you. And thank you again. And yes, that is where the fetish comes from. Oh, and about your dissolving catsuit: you said you wanted a special one, so I made yours out of liquorice.

Raziel: *wistfully* Aww, I used to like liquorice. . .

Silmuen: Thanks very much – glad you like. Yup, boredom's a great catalyst ;) As for writers' blocks, yup, I have a whole tower made out of them. J. Anyway, never mind reviewing, update Firstborn! I demand it!

AmuseMe: Ta for the review – you may have gathered by now I have a passing interest in your fic too!

ArchEnemy/Ebony: Ooh! I instigated some Highland Flinging. *beams proudly* Oh no . . . for goodness' sake don't get me started on the cheese spread . . . you wouldn't like me when I'm on cheese spread . . . I nearly dumped my boyfriend 'cos he stole my cheese spread . . . Cheese spread is the wellspring of all life, without it we would surely die, or go insane, or . . . something.