Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden, Zofia & Evike Audron, however, are my brain children. I'll introduce a few more in this chapter. Meet Lorant and Cili. ;-)

Authors notes: Okay people I'm going to tell you something that you guys probably already realized. When Soul Reaver 3 finally comes out, this will be made inaccurate. *grins at the people coughing 'no shit'* But I don't care about that. The fact that I've written about original characters automatically makes this inaccurate. When we get to SR3, if anyone wishes, I'll happily slap an AU (alternate universe) label on this fic. But until then *grins* we won't worry about it. ^_^

You all should know- this is where it gets tricky, for several reasons.

See- I'm going to be switching from the past; Zofia and the Ancients, to the time of the Sarafan; where Kain, Vorador & Raziel currently are. There will be information given in the 'past' chapters that will shed light on the 'future' ones.

While I know exactly what Zofie and her people are going to do, Raziel & the others, I'm not as certain about.

I'm a planner at heart *grins* and I've come down from the inspiration high I had during the first two chapters. I'm starting to plan these chapters out a little more- which means that production is going to slow down- but stick with me and you won't be sorry!

Okay, here's some of that Action I promised. It will come more often as I focus more on Raziel in later chapters. ^_^ More drama, (why yes, I am a drama queen *flutters eyelashes*) some humor, some suspense(?) and lots of interesting facts. *smiles* Read on, ladies and gents!

*Gives another group hug to her reviewers, old as well as new*

Chapter 3

The Wisdom Keeper

Nosgoth ~ 1649 B. C. ~ The Living World

She couldn't see. Her sight had been taken by an event she could not remember. All that she knew was that while, for her, this condition was the norm, it had not always been thus.

Her eyes were whole and round within their sockets, but the fall of light on the surrounding environment did not register with them. What she could see was not sight as she remembered it from childhood. She could remember having eyes that could distinguish color, form, contrast and detail.

She had all of those senses still, but the colors had been diluted into shadows. The forms, which were now shapeless masses of light and darkness, served as the only contrasts. Detail had been obliterated completely.

A small voice in her head reminded her that this deprivation was the price she paid for her talent.

What talent? she asked silently. Where am I? But there was no memory of how she had come to be here. There was only the darkness around her. It was shot with slivers of light and warmth, but still mind-crushingly dark. And it continued to close in on her.

They were herded roughly down the stairs; she and many others like her. Yet, for all the familiarity of these others, she could not place a name to any of them. She could sense their life-essences, but she was not familiar enough with that type of detection to guess what life-essence belonged to what person. Her companions were silent, canceling the possibility of identifying them by their voices.

As her reason threatened to flee, one thought stayed. In the absence of her sight, she needed to use her other senses. The thought was calming, pulling her back from edge of hysteria. She breathed deeply, forgot the lack of sight, and reached out with everything else.

The hooded cloak billowed out around her body, somehow clinging to her skin at the same time. It was heavy, dragging along the stairs, hampering movement. It numbed her sense of touch and denied the touch of air on her skin. The main purpose they served, she imagined, was to keep them from using their wings. Not that their wings would have done any good.

The soft noises that could be heard barely echoed. This meant that the ceiling, while high enough for them to stand straight, was not much higher. Had they been able to fly, the narrow confines of the staircase would have kept them from doing so.

She could hear brushing of cloth on stone, the shuffling of their feet down the stairs. Some of her company were breathing heavily, their fear intensifying their need for air. There were the soft grunts and groans of those that had sustained injuries... some were sobbing quietly. There were the sounds of their guides; soft, deep breaths, periodic malevolent chuckling, the sound of a massive hand slapping against stone, or against flesh, as they encouraged her companions to keep moving.

Under it all was the soft thrumming that was more within the domain of touch than of hearing. It trembled through the stone, against her feet, in perfect time with the beating of her heart. It grew continually stronger as she traveled down the stairs, and had she been able to, she would have run from the vibration as fast as her legs could carry her. She did not understand what it was, but if she continued down the stairs, she knew she would. That prospect was not a welcome one. She wondered if no one else could feel it.

The scent on the air was that of dust and magic. There were soft, musky scents around her; the fragrance of wings. But it was overpowered by the stink of sulfur, brimstone; poisonous blood and old death. There was magic in the air as well. Old, dark magic. She could taste it on the back of her tongue, coupled with the acid tang of fear. Her throat was try. She swallowed, licking her lips in an attempt to draw some moisture from somewhere... anywhere. Finally, she pressed her tongue to one needle-sharp canine, piercing it, wetting her mouth with her own blood.

She felt a cold, dark presence press in at her left side. It was a shadow against the greater darkness, had been drawn in by the smell.

"Your terror is very sweet, child," it growled. "I imagine your flesh will taste even sweeter." A taloned finger stroked her cheek. The dark presence laughed as she recoiled, stumbled into one of her comrades and lost her footing.

It reached out to catch her, perhaps pull her close to it, but was intercepted by a warmer, more familiar presence.

"Leave. Her. Alone."

She knew that voice... had known it since her earliest days. Yet she could not put a name to the person. The voice was protective in its quiet ferocity, roughened by anger and sorrow. A female's voice, belonging to one who was as close to her as a sister. A friend's voice.

The world shifted around her, bringing a dizzying sense of vertigo, and she realized what was happening. She was having a Vision. She was a Seer and this was a Vision. That fact surfaced in the deep lake that was her memory. It gave her something to latch on to, and another memory followed close behind. The moment she succeeded in identifying something around her, the Vision would shatter.

The Seer reluctantly surrendered herself to ignorance and stepped gratefully into the circle of her friend's arms.

She noticed then, that all movement behind them had stopped. She, the warm voice, and the dark presence, were the leaders of this frightened little band, and although they were all here of their own volition, a pause in movement was welcomed by all.

All, except their guides.

The Seer could hear soft gasps, angry and fearful cries behind them. They were caused, she supposed, by the other dark ones attempting to hurry them along.

The warm presence at her side was still speaking to her tormentor. "-no right to mistreat her. You have already won your victory over us," her friend said heatedly.

"Every injustice we cause you is a victory in its own right," the dark one replied. The larger form clutched the Seer's shoulder and shoved forward, sending her crashing down the last few dozen or more steps.

Each impact felt like a fist slamming into her body. Thought fled entirely, replaced by knowledge of the pain. The Seer realized, dimly, that she cried out with each blow. After an indefinite amount of time, it stopped.

She lay there at the bottom of the steps, silent for a moment, her head ringing in the sudden stillness. Then the thrumming of the stone came again, and this time it had a source.

She turned her un-seeing eyes up. There was a great Shadow before her, swallowing all the light around it. The vibration came from that, whatever it was. The Seer did not want to go in there. She tried to stand, to move away, and began crying silently as each bruise painfully reasserted its existence. There came the sound of cloven feet on stone and the warm presence knelt beside her, one arm looping around her shoulders and a hand clutching hers, helping her to stand.

"Courage, little sister," the voice murmured. The Seer bit back a sob and nodded once. The dark being laughed harshly, brushing past her, heading for the Shadow. Her comrade stepped back, drawing her away from the creature.

A sound resonated throughout the stairway, the Seer identified it as the creaking of a door- two doors. She shrank back against the one supporting her, managed to take comfort from the presence of the others as they descended the staircase, joining them at the bottom.

The creaking subsided and from the room beyond, something stirred, bringing the thrumming to a crescendo. Through every vein in her body she could feel her heart, beating in time with that vibration. A wave of fear rolled over the Seer, snatching her breath away for a moment before passing to those behind her. She fought down the panic fluttering in her heart, reminding herself that the emotion had originated outside of her own consciousness; that there was no reason to be so frightened. Then the source of the vibration stirred again, coming closer, and she wondered if she had been wrong.

Someone moved to the Seer's back, taking her hand from the presence at her side. Her breathing quickened in the instant before she realized this new person was another half-familiar companion. The hand was larger, masculine, and held hers in a firm, but gentle grasp. He drew her further back, into the group that was their comrades.

The friend who had argued with the dark presence stood in front of them all, acting as a buffer against whatever lay inside that room.

The Seer clutched at the hand in hers. She waited, not knowing what she was waiting for.

Suddenly her soul shrank within her body as an entity, darker by far than her tormentor, stirred within the room and approached the threshold. Feeling the fine tremor that ran through her comrade's hand, she knew she was not the only one. The vibration was so intense that she wondered if it were not now controlling the rate of her heartbeat. She could finally identify it. The creature, whatever it was, was possessed of a power so strong that it shook the very stones around it. The others felt it by now... they had to feel it by now.

The warm presence stood tall and defiant, but seemed pitifully small in the face of the other being. The dark one's gaze traveled over them, fanning the blaze of their fear and panic.

The Seer wanted to run, every impulse told her to do so, but the throbbing of the creature's power; setting the pace for her heart, kept her immobile and smothered her will. She thought she would go mad, and then the entity's attention focused on the presence directly before it.

"So here you stand at last, Keeper of Wisdom." The voice was a rumbling current of malevolent energy, matching its power exactly. The Seer shivered at the satisfied, possessive tone of the voice. "Now you are a force to be reckoned with in your own right," it said. "No longer simply the Reaver Guardian's daughter."

The Reaver Guardian's Daughter.

The Reaver Guardian's Daughter.

Those words rang within the Seer's mind. They were something factual and recognizable in the midst of an assault of unfamiliar sensations. Her un-seeing eyes turned to the small form standing before the dark entity. The Reaver Guardian's Daughter.

"Zofia-" the Seer whispered. And the vision shattered.

Comprehension returned slowly, beginning with simple thoughts.

I am... I exist.

While all other ideas were barred from her dazed mind, wiped away by the trauma of her vision, these simple affirmations remained.

I am... I exist.

These thoughts, the two absolute truths of all the universe, had been ingrained in her consciousness through a decade of intensive training after the time of her first vision.

I am.... I am.... I am.... Then another realization intruded. Cili. I am... Cili.

The young Ancient sat up in bed, un-seeing eyes wide. Her skin was cold, her soft nightdress drenched with sweat. She brought a shaking hand to her face, wiped back soaked strands of hair. Her wing feathers were mantled in response to the erratic beating of her heart. This Vision had been a bad one. She delayed for a few moments in calling it back, suspecting how emotionally violent the memory would be.

Cili breathed deeply, once, twice, and lay back. Closing her eyes, she reached for the recollection of her newest Vision.

Zofia opened her eyes to the darkness of her bedchamber. She pressed a palm to her cheek, recalling the touch of her mother's hand on her face. She sobbed once and turned to lay on her side, closing her eyes. A few tears squeezed through her tightly closed eyelids and collected on her lashes. Zofia closed her arms about her knees, curling into a little ball in the center of her bed. One shining wing stretched over her body, hiding it beneath a blanket of silky black feathers.

It was the day after the Passing Ceremony. But she was not weeping for her mother.

Zofia breathed slowly, denying herself the urge to scream. All her suspicions had been confirmed, and deep within her soul she raged at the truth for being so harsh. She breathed quickly, deeply, clenching her hands into fists. Her anger grew, fed by her sorrow and a soul-deep fury at the injustice done to her and her people.

The young Ancient fought for control over her emotions and won by shutting them off completely. Golden eyes opened slowly. Zofia folded back her wing with exceeding care, closing it almost one feather-width at a time. After that, she sat up and pushed gently off the bed, placing her cloven feet on the cold floor. Looking as if the action utilized no conscious thought, Zofia stood, paced to the end of her bed, and took up the robe that lay there.

She stared off into middle distance while pleating the back of the heavy cloth in her hands. Zofia pulled it over her head, flipping the thin strip at the back between her wings before pushing her hands through the wide sleeves. The pure white material covered the low-backed nightgown, completely hiding its thin, dark fabric. Zofia smoothed the garment, a habitual gesture, and wrapped the cloth belt twice around her waist, fastening the robe tightly.

Zofia crossed the chamber in three deliberate strides, stopping in front of the rounded balcony door. One sky-colored hand closed about the handle, the other reached out to touch one of the glass panels that formed the door. It was cool compared to her skin, comforting. Zofia flattened her palm on the glass, shut her eyes, and pressed her forehead against the door.

That moment of stillness brought back her briefly forgotten emotions. Zofia's jaw clenched and her muscles tensed. Opening her eyes, she took a step back and pulled open the door. Without hesitation she strode out onto the balcony and launched herself into the air.

"Explain something to me," Lorant said, dodging to the left.

"Yes?" Vorador prompted. The young vampire took a step forward and slashed at the Ancient's leg. Lorant caught Vorador's sword on his arm guard and flicked his own blade out, meeting air where the vampire's arm had been moments before.

"How is it that I am physically stronger than you are-" he threw Vorador's blade to the side and turned, slamming his wing into his bronze-skinned companion. "More agile-" he blocked a thrust with his sword and rolled backwards on his wings. Balancing on them, he kicked at Vorador's chest with his cloven feet. "And have more endurance-" The vampire grunted with the impact, but knocked the Ancient's feet away and pressed the tip of his blade against his friend's neck. "Yet in our sparring matches," Lorant said wryly, "you always win."

Vorador moved his blade and gave the young warrior a hand up. "Could it be, perhaps, that I am over a hundred years older than you, have more combat experience, taught you half of what you know about strategy, and have more knowledge of fighting styles?" he laughed.

Lorant considered that. "Yes, I think that could be it." They both chuckled and moved to face off once again. "So-"

Vorador made the first move, stepping forward with a quick downward cut. "Your habit of talking during battle is unlikely to be of help," the vampire smirked.

"I still have an advantage you do not," Lorant grinned. Their blades met for an instant before the Ancient jumped lightly into the air and backwinged, hovering over his friend.

Vorador laughed, turning as if he were going to accede the match. In one smooth, continuous movement he turned, dropped into a crouch and then launched himself out of it, the momentum of his leg muscles shooting him towards his companion. Vorador cut the sword out of Lorant's hand and they both fell to the floor of the arena.

"Some advantage," Vorador sighed. He got up, leaving the winged one on the white marble. "You have to pay more attention, Lorant. Were I an enemy- you would have been dead." He smirked. "Several times, in fact."

The Ancient sighed. He put one foot on the floor and rested his other leg on his bent knee. The suspended foot wiggled in the air. Vorador chuckled at his friend, sheathed his blade and began a stretching exercise.

"When did you get those claws, Vorador?"

The vampire glanced down at his long fingers and the black, talon-like nails that adorned them. "Somewhere around two hundred years." There was silence for a while, and then-

"Why do you evolve?" Lorant asked.

"Why?" he repeated, making sure he had heard Lorant correctly. The Ancient nodded. Vorador bristled slightly at his friend's sudden curiosity. Lorant was not asking to be snide, or judgmental, but there were others who's questions were not so innocent. Vorador sighed. "I was human once. My life-essence was transformed by Zofia's father and my body initiates change because it wishes to fit my form to my life-essence."

Lorant was sitting up, listening with interest. Vorador chuckled at the young one's wide-eyed expression.

The pale-haired Ancient had talent with blades, enthusiasm and energy in abundance, and a lighthearted personality that fooled many into thinking he had no intelligence. There was also an innocence in him that was at odds with the soul of a warrior- which no one could deny he possessed.

"Catch-" Vorador said suddenly. He snatched up his friend's sword and threw it in a smooth arch. There was no hesitation- Lorant simply plucked it out of the air. Vorador smiled to himself.... It was odd. He had lived in this place, as a vampire, for a very long time, yet some of the old instincts- the need to take care of those younger than himself, the need to pass on knowledge- remained from his life as a human.

"So someday you shall only have three fingers?" Lorant asked, climbing to his feet.

"It is possible," he said briskly, growing slightly uncomfortable with the conversation.

"And wings?" the Ancient asked, sheathing his blade. Another trait of Lorant's was the inability to drop a subject that interested him.

Vorador grinned. "That I kind of doubt."

"Why is that?"

"I feel more of a connection with wolves than I do birds." Vorador looked up, examining the domed ceiling of the arena.

This training area was the very top room of the Ancient's Haven. There were no staircases leading down to the lower floors. The only way to get up there was with wings... or a strong set of legs. As it was a training area for winged beings, it was open to the air and had a very high ceiling, which was supported by wide marble columns.

Vorador was not exactly fond of heights. An over zealous jump in his early days as a vampire had led to a very painful fall. He had broken an arm and both legs, and while they had healed completely in mere hours, he did not relish, as the Ancients did, standing at the precipice cliff, or any form of long drop.

When Lorant walked past him and stood at the edge of the arena's floor, Vorador had to stifle a request for the winged youth to move back.

"There is someone out there," Lorant murmured. Vorador followed the other's gaze and noticed a white-robed form gliding far in the distance. The figure was quite small, but its laborious wing beats were evident to his heightened sense of sight. Vorador picked out a wrathful scream, and was able to identify the voice that made it.

"Zofia."

Lorant turned to look at him, curious. "What is she doing?"

"Venting her sorrow -or anger- I imagine." They watched her silently for a time. Vorador narrowed his eyes, worried at the reckless dives and turns Zofia made. She would drop hundreds of feet, only to pull herself up again with powerful thrusts of her wings. Instead of using the airstreams to carry her, she seemed to be fighting them, trying to fly in the face of the turbulent winds.

Vorador was first to voice his worry. "Perhaps you should go out and-"

"Me? She's a much better flyer than I am- I- I would..."

Vorador rolled his eyes. Lorant, simply put, was afraid. Zofia was seldom angered by anything, but when she did lose her temper... it was better to leave her alone. Lorant was also nervous, being one of the younger children of his generation, to speak with Zofia about anything. She commanded a certain amount of respect from her peers by being the eldest, as well as her proficiency in magic.

"I shall wait here until she comes back in," the vampire said, absolving the young Ancient.

Lorant didn't hesitate to accept the way out that Vorador offered him. "And I shall spend a few hours in sleep." He turned to face his friend, briefly clasped a hand to Vorador's shoulder. The winged youth stepped back so that his feet were half off the edge of the arena. "Shall I give you a lift?" he asked politely, his grin mischievous. Lorant was well aware of Vorador's aversion to heights.

"Thank you, but no," the vamprie responded, smiling faintly.

"Suit yourself." The Ancient leaned backwards and fell over the edge. Vorador shuddered and cast a wary glance over the rim of the floor.

Lorant fell gracefully through the air, turning end-over-end. When his head was pointed at the ground, his wings snapped open, catching the air and pulling the young one into a slow glide.

"Show-off," Vorador muttered, half disgusted, half amused. The vampire stepped close to the edge and turned to one of the marble columns. He dropped slightly into a crouch and threw himself at the column. He hung on for an instant before pushing off of it and grabbing the lip of the decorative molding at the edge of the roof.

Vorador pulled himself easily onto the domed roof and stalked away from the edge. The young vampire settled himself against the marble stature adorning the center of the dome. It was, as one would expect, of an Ancient.

The winged being held a crooked blade, point up, over his head. At his feet lay a small model of the Pillars of Nosgoth. Vorador put his back against the round base of the statue and waited. Lifting his eyes, he watched Zofia flit about on the winds. Sometimes she glided, other times beat her wings lazily through the air. Vorador smiled as he saw her roll once, twice, many times in various directions. He had seen this display before. It was fairly often that he saw one of the Ancients flying off in the distance; just for the pure joy of doing it.

'When you fly that far above the ground, letting your wings carry you... it is almost as if you become one with the wind,' Zofia had told him once. He knew that sensation. It did not occur with the wind under his wings, but against his back as he ran through the forest, jumping and dodging the tree roots and bushes under his feet. He became one with the wind in the fluid motions of his legs and arms when he moved through the woods quicker than human eyes could follow. It was then that he almost felt the urge to use four limbs instead of two- then that the animals of the forest tried to run with him, and it was then that he imagined, were he to stay too long with the wolves, he may not want to come back.

Zofia landed softly on the dome, too preoccupied to notice him. She dropped gracefully onto the roof, wings drooping with exhaustion, face flushed, but pleased.

"Feeling better?" Vorador asked her. Her wings twitched; the only evidence of her surprise.

"Not really," she sighed. Zofia stood and crossed her arms, hugging herself. Vorador sat quietly, waiting for her to speak. At length, she did. "I am frightened," she admitted in a whisper. "Mother's soul came to me in a dream. I have come into my power at last."

Vorador's gaze snapped to the young Ancient. As the first child of her generation, Zofia had been born with the possibility of receiving a powerful, but unidentifiable magical ability. Vorador, like many others, had been curious as to what she could do, but the power had been latent, untouchable... until now.

"What is it?" he asked, eagerly.

Zofia's head bowed slightly. "Do you remember what mother studied?" she murmured.

"The properties of souls," Vorador replied. Did Zofia have some talent connecting with that?

"I remember what she taught us- all of the fledglings," and she began to recite. "What we call a soul has two parts. The knowledge and the life-essence. And a soul has one of three beginnings. Human, Ancient or Hylden.

"As the cycle of life continues, both parts of the soul increase. When the cycle ends, the life-essence is lost, but the knowledge remains, stored and protected, within the soul. When the cycle begins again, the knowledge is locked away, to keep from affecting the current cycle of life."

"I remember that as well," Vorador said, recalling old lessons with many small, black winged children.

"A soul that began as Human can be born into the body of an Ancient, or a Hylden, or even a human once again... and a soul that began as Hylden can be born as Human, or Hylden again, or... although it is unlikely, as an Ancient," her voice grew softer, "and the other way around as well." Zofia finally turned slightly to look at him. "She taught each of us these things.

"But there were many things she didn't teach us." Vorador tilted his head to the side, questioningly. For some reason, she felt the need to talk, and although it may take her some time to come to a point, he would allow her to. "The ways that the soul protects the mind, for example.

"If a soul comes into a great amount of power during a cycle, the mind may not be able to contain it all. In these cases, the soul it opens its path to the stored knowledge. That gives more room for the power to inhabit, but it also releases the memories of past lives. Mother knew of a cave that housed- some sort of magic-" she waved her hand about, trying to choose the correct words, "-pool of water, that could show one these memories."

"Zofia-"

She overrode him, eyes burning with the fire of knowledge. "Or- when the mind suffers a great amount of pain for a prolonged period of time, it replicates itself, sacrificing the copy to torture so the original can stay sane."

In spite of himself, Vorador was struck with curiosity at her words. "Has that ever happened?"

"Once," Zofia shuddered. "The Hylden caught one of our people at the beginning of the Great War. They tortured him for so long that his soul fled his body, passing into the spectral realm... leaving the twin of itself behind.

"The original came back as a wraith, destroyed the Hylden that held his twin captive, and they escaped. When the Ancients found them again, they were amazed, and horrified. The twin, completely mad, tried to kill himself, but he couldn't die. Or rather, he could die, but he couldn't stay dead. The Ancients worked to understand what had happened, and what could be done to fix him, and he went back to the fighting. He fought through the ranks of the Hylden like a scythe through grain.

"Imagine what the must have been like," Zofia murmured.

"What happened to him?"

"My mother discovered a way to re-connect the two souls. After they joined, the Ancient killed himself."

Vorador was horrified, not by the story, but- "How do you know this?"

Zofia chuckled softly, turning away from him. "I admit, I am not supposed to." She sighed. "Let me give you another history lesson. When the knowledge of the Ancients is in danger of being lost- if many die before they can pass what they know to their children- the knowledge is given to a child of the youngest generation... the one that the Gods feel has the greatest chance of survival.

"When an Ancient died, the soul of the one who passed on would come to this child, giving them all the wisdom they possessed in one neat parcel. They called this person a Wisdom Keeper."

There was only one reason he could think of for her to be giving him this information. "This Wisdom Keeper- it is you?" Vorador guessed worriedly. Zofia nodded. "Are you certain?"

Zofia laughed lightly, but her voice was strained. "You can sense truth, Vorador, you know I am speaking it." She read his silence and knew he was still unconvinced. "You wish proof?" she asked.

Vorador thought about it and remembered a long forgotten bit of information. "Yes," he said to her. "These Wisdom Keepers are supposed to have the ability to compel truth, correct?" She turned back to him, suddenly afraid. "Compel some truth from me," he said, grinning.

"I... no, Vorador," Zofia said. "I do not-"

"Zofia, I know there are questions you wish I would answer. Here is your chance."

"No," she said heatedly.

"Why? It may not work at all," he said comfortingly.

"But if it does, that will make all of this real," she cried.

"All of what?"

"'Our race is dying', mother told me. The souls of the adults are in despair. They will all follow her in less than four hundred years. That is why I have been chosen. The rate of death among Ancients continues to be greater than the rate of births.

"None of them wish to create more life because it means either taking life or creating more lives like yours, and our elders deny both of those choices. Cili will be the last of our generation... the very last. The Pillars..." Zofia stared at the ground, blinking rapidly, tears forming in her eyes. "The Guardians will die, and there will be none of our people to take their places."

"What does that mean?" Vorador murmured, confused.

"Vorador," she said softly, "do you ever feel lonely?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What?"

"Do you?" she whispered. The vampire sighed in annoyance. Zofia refused to keep to a single topic. "Do you, brother?" she asked timidly.

Damn. She had called him brother. Vorador shook his head ruefully. Zofia was the only one who had ever given him the title, and she used it -as most younger sisters used terms of endearment- as a weapon.

"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes I suppose I do."

"Do you ever wish to leave The Haven?"

He chuckled. "Well I will eventually. You know that."

"Yes, but do you ever dislike living here?"

"The Haven is a beautiful place... I never lack for anything."

That was his standard response. He had been asked that question several times in several centuries, and he always answered the same way. They were silent for a moment, and he chuckled harshly.

"There are times I have seen the Pillar Guardians studying me as if I were an interesting, and somewhat horrifying type of insect," he murmured. "I've brought shame to Janos more than once with my presence." He toyed with the hilt of his blade, baring his teeth in an almost feral smile. He spoke before thinking when Zofia asked him another question.

"Do you blame father for what you are?"

Vorador shook his head gently. He felt the need to speak, to explain his feelings. "No," he said. "He was hunting, and I happened to be prey. Janos was not the first hunter to pursue me, just the first to catch me.... It is funny... I remember being brought back from the dead, how Janos did it, I mean.... I think I could create another of my kind in the same way.

"I have even considered it," he breathed.

There was a startled gasp from off to his side. Vorador's head snapped up. What had he said? If any of the elder Ancients had heard- His eyes widened as he looked into Zofia's horrified gaze.

"It is true," she whispered, folding an arm over her stomach. "Oh, Gods, it is all true."

"Zofie- Zofie, I didn't mean that," Vorador said hastily. He rushed forward, grabbing her shoulders. If the elders ever leaned that he planned on creating others like him, they would- he had no idea what they would do. She only looked up at him, scared and pale, tears spilling from her eyes. "Zofie, you must promise me-"

"Gods damn you, Vorador, I would never do such a thing and you know it!" she shouted. "I do not care if you wish to make another of your own race!" She wrenched out of his grasp, backing angrily away from him.

"Do you not understand?" she cried, holding her hands up in a pleading gesture. "You told me to compel truth from you and I did it." Zofia glared at him, eyes shining. Finally the full implications of her action hit him.

She nodded once as he looked at her with comprehension. Her tone was softly ironic as she spoke again. "Gaze in wonder at the Wisdom Keeper of the Ancients."

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Reviews are requested, as always ;-)