Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Zofia & Evike Audron, however, are my brain children. The first of several you will see. ;-) *pulls out Zofia and hugs the (un)life out of her* I'm so proud of her!!!!!!!! :-D
Authors notes: I wanted to envision a happy ending for our characters. Granted- they have to fight to get to it... but don't we all? In this fic I'm going to address issues like these- Why must Janos Audron stay dead- for what purpose was his heart meant- and who exactly are the Hylden? But all in good time. ;-)
This fic jumps from time period to time period. Part of it takes off somewhat right after the end of Soul Reaver 2. The three main time periods are going to be 1.) about 1600 years before the fall of the pillars, 2.) 500 years before the fall of the pillars- where we left Raziel after SR2, and 3.) 2000 years after the fall of the pillars- the approximate time period that Raziel and Kain left at the end of SR1.
Note- I've divided time into two categories based on the pillars destruction.
B. C. - Before the Corruption
A. C. - After the Corruption
I've divided the state of the world into three categories, based on the state of its collapse.
The Living World - Nosgoth at the beginning of its existence.
The Sickened World - Nosgoth after the birth of Kain.
The Dying World- Nosgoth after the fall of Raziel.
Additional Notes: *wiggles in her chair* I have to start off with Vorador! Heh heh heh, I love Vorador. ^_^
Chapter 1
The Curse of The Hylden
Nosgoth ~ 1649 B. C. ~ The Living World
The flames were blue. Vorador wondered idly about that. Could it have been that fire was as dangerous to the Ancients as it was to his kind, or was there some ceremonial purpose in the color of the fire? He stood in the darkness of an oak tree, out of sight of the Ancients. He did not feel as if he should be there, but his master was in mourning, and Vorador wished to offer what condolences he could.
The young vampire narrowed his eyes at the scene. It was actually quite beautiful; the sapphire flames smoldering gently against the ruby sunset. The reversal of color was rather poetic. The deep blue of the fire reminded him of the sky above the land of his birth. Not that he could truly remember it.
He recalled memories of being human, and although he had not been a vampire long -a mere three hundred years- he already recognized the change in his senses. The new acuity with which he saw, heard, smelt, touched, and tasted was beyond human comprehension. Taste. The vampiric condition brought new meaning to the word, and yet Vorador only cared to taste one thing- blood.
Blood; the beginning and the end, life and death. Blood was the reason he now was what he was, and the reason he and his master were here tonight.
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In the time after the Great War between the Ancients and the Hylden, before recorded history, the victorious, raven-winged Ancients had found, to their horror, that they had been cursed. They could not explain it. One by one they would fall into a madness, driven by burning lungs and pounding hearts to find sustenance that they could not name; only sense, burning within the bodies of other creatures. They didn't understand what had happened; until two of the Ancients had fallen upon a deer in the woods, tearing the creature apart and drinking of the flowing red liquid that spouted from its broken body.
Blood. They were now creatures who drank blood. Creatures who's survival lay in taking the life-force of others. Ancients had once relied only on the life-force of the world to survive. The heat of the magma churning deep within the earth, the flow of rivers over stone, the force of the wind and the light of the sun. To require sustenance that damaged the giver, that was exhaustible, was abhorrent to them.
Their disgust for this new means of survival had been great, but fear of the madness had been greater still. The Ancients had adjusted, albeit reluctantly, to the curse of their bloodlust. They raised their children to drink only as much blood as was needed to stay alive, and not as many children were born to the next generation.
Then came the time of exploration, when humans moved from their ancestral homes, and came in contact with the Ancients.
Vorador could remember, vaguely, his tribe. They had been hunters and gatherers who followed the herds that made up their primary food source. Vorador had been separated from his fellows, tracking a buck with a wounded leg. The creature had paused to drink from a stream. The young hunter had stopped, his only movement made to pull back his arrow, when he caught sight of something in the woods.
Vorador froze, forgetting about the deer, forgetting about everything. The creature was tall, powerfully built with pale blue skin and wings like the nighttime sky. Faster than the hunter could see, it moved through the trees. The deer did not realize its danger until it was too late. The winged being viciously twisted the creature's head, his face frozen in an expression of divine anger. Vorador's bow and arrows dropped from limp hands as the angelic creature lowered two razor-like teeth into the corpse's neck and sucked at it greedily as a nursing babe.
He must have made some sound, for the creature's head snapped up, feverishly bright golden eyes staring straight into his own. It dropped the deer, standing in one quick, impossibly fluid motion, holding Vorador's eyes the entire time. The young hunter stood frozen as the winged being paced regally towards him, a terrible pain in its eyes. It stopped in front of him, raised a hand to Vorador's neck. He gasped; a soft, terrified sound, breaking the spell. The winged creature stopped, tensing as if it were gathering its will. It closed its eyes, clenched the taloned hand that hovered near Vorador's face.
The pale lips opened slightly. Through his panic, the young hunter heard a single hissed command. "Run."
He didn't remember tearing through the forest, or the branches that whipped his face, leaving bloody gashes on his cheeks and forehead. He recalled the moment before death; the sound of enormous wings beating a path through the sky, the wind of their passing driving him to the ground hard enough to make him see stars. Then there was the sense of a body landing on ground beside him, a pair of vice-like hands dragging him from the ground as a weeping voice breathed, "Not fast enough." Then the pain.
It felt almost as if the creature were ripping out his throat. Vorador gasped as he felt the blood being leeched from his body. It was agony. The creature's body jerked violently, burying the fangs deeper into Vorador's neck. The hunter could feel his legs go numb, his organs begin to slow down.
He slumped in the creature's grasp, losing consciousness. He had no profound thoughts, no regrets, no fears as his mind succumbed to the welcoming darkness. The pain ebbed and Vorador's body slowly released its hold on his soul.
Clarity flooded Janos' mind as the blood rushed through his body. With clarity came the realization of what he was doing. The Ancient drew back from his victim in horror, searching the dimming eyes for a sign of life when he knew there could be none. The human was dead. The pulse that had driven the young man's blood into his eager mouth was gone completely.
Janos sank to his knees, laying the human on the ground. The Reaver Guardian covered his eyes with one pale hand, shaking with tears. The deer hadn't been enough. He had told the human to run, but the scent of blood, of life so close by, and slipping out of his grasp, had been too much for him. Janos had gone after the human with the need to kill, to feed, and no force on earth could have kept the Ancient from his goal.
The taste of his blood was bliss compared to the forest creatures, Janos realized. The thought brought on a wave of nausea almost as powerful as the pleasure had been. Janos breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, and looked again at the human. The bronze skin was slowly turning grey, eyes staring glassily up into the sky. He had destroyed an intelligent life to sustain his own.
Self-hatred ate at Janos' soul, sending more bitter tears to course down his cheeks. He wiped a tear from his face and noticed their color. Red. Even his tears mocked his weakness. He had been unable to keep the bloodlust at bay, and he had killed. Janos reached out to touch the human, brokenly murmuring an apology. He touched one cooling arm, and noticed the fine tremor running through his hands. No, only one hand was shaking. He drew back from the human and the sensation was gone. He replaced his hand, and felt something. Something was there.
The Ancient hurriedly placed both hands on the young man's shoulders and closed his eyes. A soul. A human soul, leaving its former home. Janos reached out with his life-force, touching the soul, compelling it to stay, to taste his power. Perhaps he could bring the human back, fix this terrible mistake. The human's soul stopped, curious, and Janos wrapped it in his power, drawing it gently back into the vacated body.
The soul absorbed part of Janos' power, strengthening itself in order to rejoin the body. It slipped into the young man, letting go of Janos.
The Ancient watched as the human body mended itself. The throat wound closed with miraculous speed, leaving no scar. Relief flooded Janos' heart and mind, but lasted only a few seconds. The human groaned, revealing teeth that were different than they had been. The canines were longer, sharper. Janos let out a shaking breath as he felt his life-force reaching out to the human, recognizing the young man as one of his own people. The human opened his eyes and turned to Janos, regarding him curiously. His pupils were slit like a cat's, completely surrounded by greenish-gold irises.
"What have I done?" Janos whispered.
The soul hesitated, feeling a warm presence nearby. The presence came closer, and wrapped around it comfortingly. The soul went compliantly back into its former shelter.
Vorador groaned and sat up. Without knowing how he was doing it, he reached out with his soul for the entity that had brought him back to the physical world. He found it and found acknowledgement of the action he had taken. He turned to the one who had killed and revived him.
"What have I done?" the creature breathed.
Vorador only looked at the winged being and with one word, branded Janos Audron as the creator of the first vampire.
"Master."
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Vorador shook himself out of his reverie as the flames burned down and finally faded. He watched the small group of Ancients disperse, walking a short distance away before launching themselves into the darkening sky.
The vampire strode forward, heading towards the two Ancients who had remained by the funeral pyre.
One was Janos Audron, his dark head bowed in sorrow for his dead wife. The other, smaller in frame, and a bit shorter, was the living image of the one who had passed on.
Zofia Audron was Janos and Evike's natural daughter. The Ancients, in centuries past, had been able to have children as humans did. Zofia was proof of this, and her birth had led the Ancients to a frightening idea, which turned into a horrifying theory.
It had not even been a year after Vorador was made that Evike had gotten pregnant. Zofia had been the first winged child born in over three hundred years. The Ancients looked at every possible reason why Janos and Evike had succeeded where others had failed, and found only one possibly veritable reason for the phenomenon. Janos had drunk the blood of a human. The Ancients discarded the idea, fearful that it may be true. As other desperate couples turned to drinking the blood of humans as a possible aid to conception, they found their hypothesis to be correct.
The Ancients were faced with two choices. They could give in to their enemies' curse, or watch their race die out completely. Evike had discovered a third option, and it seemed that many who felt the same way would be following her.
Zofia's wings shuddered continuously, betraying her emotions. Dark hair fell down the young Ancient's back, longer than her father's, blending with the shining ebony of her wings. As Vorador came closer, he could hear her weeping softly. She turned as he laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. Zofia's tears had marked trails of pale red on her cheeks. She looked up into Vorador's glowing eyes and lost the rest of her composure. Vorador opened his arms to the girl, cradled her gently against his chest as she cried. On some level, he could feel their pain.
Vorador and Janos were bound by shared power. They could sense each other, and were someone to kill Vorador, the act would weaken Janos's power. Thus, the Ancient was required to care for Vorador until the vampire was skilled enough to live on his own, whether Janos liked it or not. Janos had not been required to treat Vorador as his natural son for all those centuries, and yet the young vampire saw him as such.
Vorador and Zofia saw each other as brother and sister. They had grown up together, learned together, hunted together, since Zofia's earliest days. Although Vorador could remember human parents and siblings, these two beings were his true family.
So Vorador held Zofia tightly, understanding her pain, even though he did not share it. Evike had been kind to him, but Vorador was the symbol of her husband's weakness. A mistake. She had never been able to look at him without her eyes losing some of their glow.
May you find peace in the next realm, Evike. You never had any in this life. Vorador sent the thought out into the night and found himself hoping she had heard him. Zofia's cries were quieting. Janos had turned to them, placing a gentle hand on his daughter's head; stroking her hair softly. Vorador's heart ached for her. For both of them.
Blood had done this to the Ancients.
Evike's morals had been too strict, her revulsion of the curse too great for her to survive. Janos stayed alive out of necessity. He could not pass on until another Reaver Guardian came to receive his burden. Zofia stayed alive because the curse was lighter on her generation than the preceding one. Where Janos needed to consume the blood of two large animals a day, Zofia needed only one. Her will was also stronger than Evike's had been, and while Janos and Evike could remember times in the past when the Ancients had lived without blood, Zofia had never known another type of existence. Drinking blood was natural, and necessary, but few Ancients shared her feelings, and she knew that fact.
"Something must be done," she whispered. "Something must be done or we all will die." Vorador and Janos looked at each other over the girl's head, exchanging worried glances. Zofia's tone was sorrowful, but veined with a desperate determination. "We must survive," she said, taking in a shuddering breath. The Balance of Nosgoth depends upon it, she added silently.