Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- check out the Who's Who section in the back. ^_^
Author's Notes:
Syvia- See? Here you are, back already.
Adojan- *snidely* So sad that your output has been slowed by the onset of Junior Year.
Syvia- *sweet smile* So sad that Kain's arrival is going to chafe your master's ass.
*both glare daggers at each other*
Syvia- *smiling normally at the readers* I got the editing done while listening to the FFX soundtrack CD. *two thumbs up for Squaresoft* It helped a lot.
Adojan- Oh really? *snatches the CD out of her computer and races away with it*
Syvia- *gasps and runs after him* Come back here with that you bat-winged bastard!
Chapter 9
The Blood of Ages
Nosgoth ~ 2012 A. C. ~ The Dying World
Adojan stood at a balcony that overlooked the Great Forge of Dark Eden. The fires burned. Centuries had passed since a sword had last been heated upon these flames, yet they burned.
Even though the Lord of Dark Eden was gone, the fires burned.
The blaze was fueled, even now, by the magic of two dozen Turelim vampires. Their only purpose in life- to keep the bellows moving at all times. There was the distinct possibility that they had not even been informed of Turel's capture, and knew nothing but that they must keep the fire burning.
The conflagration was fifty feet in diameter, fueled by the flesh of the vampire laborers, who peeled strip after strip of skin from their bodies and casted them into the hungry blaze.
As high as he was above the forge, Adojan found the super-heated air almost unbearably hot; hot enough to cause a vampire instantaneous combustion. That didn't stop him. The Hylden Commander shielded his eyes for a moment, then jumped out over the blaze, wings snapping out and locking in place, allowing him to spiral upwards on the hellish breeze.
The pungent smoke assaulted his nose and he grimaced, grinding his teeth as he floated upward. Adojan closed his eyes, tolerating the gritty, stifling warmth of the air about him, the feel of the fiery wind on his already repugnant wings a most delicate torture.
He sank teeth slowly into his lips, licked the blood quickly, using the poor distraction to keep his mind occupied. He bit into the inside of his mouth and found that despite his skin's swiftness to re-close, it gave more blood than gnawing on his lip. He reopened the cut many times, rolled the blood on his tongue for a moment before allowing it to run down his throat.
Even this was corrupted, Adojan noticed with a smirk. The cold, faintly metallic taste of the liquid was combined with the sickly sweet flavor of death. It rolled down his throat, the taste lulling his senses despite the loathsome added seasoning of his vampiric essence.
It drew him into a place out of time. He remembered power he used to wield, rejoining flesh and bone in a wash of power, warmth and well-being.
The sunlight brought him back. Diluted, weak, it barely touched his senses.
Had he been human, he wouldn't have felt it, but a part of him, however small it might have become, was a vampire. For a thousand years his very bones had trembled with the coming of the dawn, and even when the light was only a fringe of brightness on the edge of the clouds, he could feel it.
The sunlight flittered about on the edge of his awareness and Adojan opened his eyes. It took several heartbeats for him to catch a glimpse of the light, slitting determinedly through the thick smoke, turning it from black to a very dark, velvety grey. He floated higher and sensed the end of the confining stone walls around him. Cautiously Adojan flew forward and made his way out of the sooty cloud. Clearer air pulsed against his wings and he drew the wind into his nostrils.
The Hylden slowly got his bearings and looked upon the Ancients Haven. He caught a thermal and allowed it to carry him slowly upwards, as he took in the sight of the archaic structure.
Haven had been carved out of the mountain on which it sat. A towering monolith of carved stone, untouched by the wind and rain, despite the countless centuries it had existed, it stuck out in the mountain range, painfully different from the peaks clustered about it. But the stone carvings upon the walls were spells. Resistant to erosion, there was magic embedded in the very rock, and you knew Haven was there, you would never see it.
Adojan looked upon his home for the first time in eons, dazedly taking in the smooth column of stone, the countless balconies lining each level, and every graceful arch that separated the doors and windows. His gaze strayed longingly over the highest two levels, which were open to the air on every side, and the dome of Haven, which retained its white statue of an Ancient standing above the Pillars of Nosgoth, wielding the Soul Reaver.
Even at this distance, he could see it clearly. Adojan looked down at his soot-covered skin. He brushed at it, uncovering ivory flesh that so resembled the statue. Suddenly he felt aware, once again, of his leathery wings as they beat at the air, supporting him; his changed state. He had no right to enter there... not now. He was no longer part of the Ancient race- but the complete opposite. He could make no claim to the comfort and safety Haven offered, even in its diminished state. Yet... was his former home any more than he now was? Was it not also a ruin? Adojan's eyes stung slightly and he looked upon the edifice with a critical eye. The structure had no inhabitants, no lights shone behind the panes of glass, no ebony-winged residents made their way through the air between balconies.
Haven was the only surviving relic of a faded civilization, a ruined shell of its former glory. It would remain in this place, empty, preserved by spells, until the end of Nosgoth. Adojan made up his mind and moved forward, flying for the aerie. He was still several yards away when the wind sprang up, pushing him away from the mountain retreat.
Adojan fought it, surprised at his native element's sudden rebellion. It buffeted him, a gale force storm of air that tossed him about, as if it wanted to keep him away from his goal. He continued his battle with the wind, fighting for every inch that still lay between him and the safety of Haven, each one coming only with monumental effort.
The Hylden commander grunted with the strain of keeping himself upright and flying in the correct direction, his eyes narrowed against the current. His muscles screamed with effort, pain flashing along his limbs, and for what? His progress was so minimal that he almost seemed to be hanging in midair. No space lost, but nor was any gained.
Adojan growled in frustration, opened his eyes a bit. Was this the Gods' will? Would They consider his intrusion on Haven a sin? Or was this the will of another? The one who would see his spirit broken to its purpose.
The question spurred him on, his wings pushing. Adojan screamed in fury, tapping unused reservoirs of strength in order to make his way towards Haven. He moved forward slowly, one hand span, another... another.
The winds grew, his loincloth and insignia scarves whipped painfully against his skin. Metal; thin, light and sharp tore a gash in his chest, and a longer one in his leg. His shoulder plate was followed in its descent by the other, as well as the leather ties that had held them on. He was almost there; almost in the outside hallway of the Lower Arena and out of the winds.
He panted, not for need of air, but from the pain and stress the wind put upon his wings. So close, he was, but his strength was failing. He could feel it drain out of his limbs. Adojan let out a howl, long and wordless, venting the anger of his thwarted will. One hand reached out, a talon almost touching one of the marble columns. He closed his eyes again, mind begging for a single touch, a moment of connection with his past.
The wind blew him to the side suddenly and back. Adojan scrambled through the air, attempting to right himself, his inner voice screaming in rage. Unexpectedly- it was answered, by a sound, a single, almost inaudible word-
Onward...
Adojan opened his eyes, managed to remain upright in the stormy winds. His eyes darted furtively, searching for the singer. The word rippled towards him from the walls of Haven, an echo from his memory, taking on the three part harmony he remembered from his youth.
Onward, onward-
His teeth shut, a growl trickling from between them with the effort it took to push forward. The echo continued-
marching soldier,
Another hand span. His mind cleared slowly as the echoing words gained in volume.
You grow brave as the winds grow colder,
He placed his hands slowly behind his back, wings fighting the wind, and summoned a spell to his palms. The song sounded almost scolding, admonishing him for not taking this action sooner.
The time has come for you to act bolder,
Adojan forced his remaining strength into the spell. His wings failed as he cast bolts of force into the air behind him, the strength of the spell's release pushing his body forward.
The Hylden Commander collapsed through the spells that shielded the Lower Arena hallway from the wind, and fell to his knees, then his stomach, on the stone floor, the sudden absence of resistance a shock on his bare skin. He noticed dazedly that the wind had taken, not only his armor, but the soot on his skin and every strip of cloth that had adorned his body. Adojan lay full-length on the floor, exhausted, waited for his strength to come trickling back. The echo fell into his mind like a blessing-
Onward, marching soldier...
When the world righted again, Vorador opened his eyes to darkness. He moved his hand from Kain's shoulder and looked about. He could see quite well in the dark, but there was no need. The white-haired vampire loosed a bit of magic which caught fire in the air and floated above them; a fuzzy greenish-white sphere. The ancient vampire didn't comment, only blinked a few times and peered at the revealed surroundings.
A staircase of black stone, warm and dry, wide enough for three people, and pitch black. Kain moved forward cautiously, putting his weight gingerly on each step, as if he expected the stones to be loose. Vorador moved beside him in the same conscientious manner, and spoke calmly, almost in a whisper, as if the corridor demanded silence.
"Where are we?" he asked.
Kain responded in the same way; quietly nonchalant. "Beneath the ruins of the Sarafan Stronghold."
Vorador smirked slightly. "The Ruins?"
Kain moved on, ignoring Vorador's comment. Vorador made a soft sound of annoyance. The pale vampire gave him little information about the future, other than the fact that they were in it. He hoped that this informant they were going to see, whomever he was, would be a little more forthcoming with his knowledge.
After descending in silence for a time, the two came to an area where the ceiling had collapsed. Without words, Kain moved to the pile of stone and began shifting it. Just as silently, Vorador assisted him. Pebbles clattered noisily down the stairs, and before long they had cleared enough space to crawl into the next section. Vorador went second, pulling himself over the stone as Kain renewed the light spell with a negligent wave of his hand.
The steps below were cracked, with shards broken away in some places, and the vampires' steps were even more careful than before. A set of double doors came into view as they neared the bottom. The Father of Vampires looked with interest upon doors that hung open slightly; the once well kept and polished wood that was now cracked along the grain, and the iron hinges that showed signs of age. Kain moved slowly, almost reverently forward, and pulled open the doors.
He moved a few steps into the room and stopped for seemingly no reason at all. Vorador followed, his eye ridges rising at the scene laid before them. Deep, oddly shaped alcoves lined the walls, bundles of a reddish-brown substance took up the space inside. Was it- whatever it was- that color naturally, or had it too been stained by the blood that lay splattered across the floor stones?
It was all over, splashed over the pieces of stone and mortar that lay strewn across the floor. Vines lay half in and half out of the alcoves, blood had pooled long ago underneath them, and lay in odd arcs on the ground, thick and black in some places, dark red in others, smeared over the yellow stone. All of the blood had dried long ago; over the walls and the center fountain, and in some places, over the ceiling.
Vorador knelt and shifted the crumbled stones gently with his talons, looking closely at the fragments. He picked a larger one from the floor and studied it, recognizing that it, and the rest of the stones, were bits and pieces of carvings. The one in his hand was half a face; the tip of a nose, an blankly staring eye- the edge of a fanged mouth. The other bits of stone had cracked along curved horns, wing bones, limbs. The room resembled a jigsaw puzzle of broken statues.
Most of the stones lay with the smooth side up, as if the carvings had exploded outward from the wall. The fact was made more grim by color and condition of the stones. They were pale yellow on the carved surface, but the smooth underside was a dark, dull red, stained by old blood. Gobs of dried flesh and viscera clung to the stones, splattered all around the walls and floor, the trails of gore revealing that they too, were a result of some form of explosion. The only explanation Vorador could have offered was that some creature had used the spell Implode several times over upon whatever had existed here- but he did not believe that was the reason for this scene.
There was an enormous fountain in the center, painted, like the rest of the room, in blood and gore. In the basin of the structure, the blood was thicker, but long since dried, dribbling down the demonic fountainheads as if the creatures hadn't cleaned their faces after feeding.
Vorador moved close to one of the alcoves, trailed a talon cautiously down one of the vines that hung out of the wall. It felt brittle, dry. He pulled off the end and held it close, examining the strange sort of plant. Vorador sniffed it gingerly before crushing it in his hand and rubbing the dust between his fingers. He reached further into the alcove and grabbed a vine at the hole in the bottom of the wall. The tendrils were thicker there, more elastic, but by exerting his powerful muscles Vorador pulled the vine free.
There was a stronger smell to this part of the vine. Vorador closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the thing, and realized he'd been wrong. This was no plant. It smelled of muscle, tissue and old blood. These were tentacles, perhaps... but not vines. The ancient vampire opened his eyes to the cocoon within the alcove, reached up and gently pulled at the fibrous tentacles. Yellowed bone, stained with red, was revealed. He found an eye socket, cheekbones, a jaw- with pointed canines. Vampires.
Vorador's gaze fell upon the carving in the center of the back wall. The cleanest and most complete bit of the wall was a molding of a winged demon; one of the ancient enemy. He recognized the form from old books and tapestries he'd encountered in Haven, centuries ago. The proud, cold face of the carving was that of the Hylden, as was the body structure. Vorador's eyes narrowed at the wings. It had been a long time, but he was fairly certain that the Hylden of old had not possessed wings.
Hylden. He looked over the walls again, eyes narrowed. The entire chamber smelled of sacrifice, but to the Hylden? The broken carvings were mutilated high in the center, from the carving's torso up. The muscled legs were still whole, as were the gracefully curving wings. The Father of Vampires looked suspiciously at the carved wings and reached into the side of the carving, feeling for something he feared to find. He reached in, and as he'd suspected, there were deep alcoves beneath the wings. Vorador worked his talons back slowly, taking care with his progress even though the owner of this body hadn't felt pain in centuries. His talons came in contact with something soft, which gave way when he pulled, and followed his hand out of the alcove. The ancient vampire's face was grim as death as he looked upon it.
A black feather.
Vorador glanced at Kain, who yet stood near the entrance, statue-like, his gaze locked on the fountain in the center. Vorador tucked the silky plume back into the alcove and schooled his face into a mask of indifference before turning towards Kain.
He was struck once again by the horror and majesty of the room. Memories returned to him of the Blood Fountains of Nosgoth; fear of the strange voice that echoed through the chamber, and a greater hunger of the life-preserving substance that spouted endlessly from the open mouths mounted on each fountain. He had seen many throughout his journey, but this- the first time Kain had laid eyes upon the fountain, it had been dry, unable to provide nourishment. Looking at it once again, he wondered what gift it might have bestowed, had he been able to taste of the still-flowing blood.
"The informant is to be found here?" Vorador murmured, a mild thread of disbelief in his tone. Kain blinked and turned. He'd forgotten the other vampire was there.
"Once upon a time, this chamber was the greatest of the Blood Fountains of Nosgoth," Kain said, turning back to the fountain. He moved forward into its basin, his feet cracking the dried blood in the bottom. "In my youth, I traveled Nosgoth, coming across many such structures. Each spouted an endless supply of blood for any vampire with the means to approach. This one, however, was the source." Kain approached the center, resting a hand on the lowest of the stone demon skulls.
With a negligent twist of his hand, he ripped the fixture from its molding. He turned, discarding the skull, and glanced at Vorador as the green-skinned vampire joined him in the fountain. Removing the demon's head revealed a hole in the stone beneath. He widened the gap, tearing fragments from the sides of the opening. He broke into the structure as if it were tissue paper, revealing a prune-like, reddish-brown object within.
Kain remembered the Mass, and destroying it millennia ago, with the poison of his own blood. This thing, crafted by the same beings, at the instruction of the same mastermind, was similar, but infinitely more simple.
"This is called the Siphon," Kain said, moving aside to allow Vorador a better look. "The organ within the fountain is its heart," he looked around the room, "the tentacles are veins, drawing the life of the sacrifices to supply the fountain and any who drink of it with blood. Corresponding hearts were laid within the other fountains, receiving a portion of blood from the original." He refrained from informing Vorador that each of those hearts had withered after he drank from them, releasing black blood that poisoned any vampire who drank from it.
"And who were the poor wretches who fed it?" Vorador murmured, the disgust plain on his face.
Kain turned and met Vorador's gaze. "Now that you're here, we will both find out." Kain moved around the central block of stone and climbed easily out of the fountain.
They closed distance with the carving on the back wall and stopped. Kain's face betrayed no expression, but Vorador could almost taste his anticipation. The green-skinned vampire wondered again at Kain's reason for bringing him here. The white-haired one had said he wished to help, and he might have indeed... but he also wanted something for himself. Vorador hoped idly that he might find out what it was. Perhaps the knowledge would give him an upper hand.
"This, is the informant," Kain murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. Vorador scrutinized the carving. It was impressive, meticulously detailed. The ancient vampire reached out cautiously and a cloven hand over the stone throat. He closed his eyes, concentrating on senses more intuitive than sight. There was a flutter of energy beneath his palm, beneath the stone. It was a weak entity, but a live one. It also seemed to be spending that meager amount of energy on keeping itself unnoticed, which explained why he had missed sensing it when he first entered.
Vorador opened his eyes and looked upon the carving once again. Then the stone moved. The ancient vampire pulled away as the face took on a more normal set, the chin pointing forward instead of tilting up. The eyes opened as the sinewy wings folded down, focusing on him. A quick glance told him that Kain was standing quite still, watching without any signs of amazement. It was quite likely that he'd seen the show before.
Vorador gave his attention back to the carving and quelled his instinct to flinch as a voice spoke.
:An illusion, old one... and a poor one at that. We have not the strength of magic necessary to make stone move as fluid.:
"Then why do it?" he asked, curious, despite his need of other information.
:Because we retain our pride...: the voice murmured. :Even after losing so much.: The eyes dipped, then rose to look at Vorador's once again, seeming to study him. :So this is the vampire Vorador,: it murmured. The voice was a light, echoing sound that made the chamber shudder; an amalgam of voices speaking in less than perfect unison. The illusionary lips twitched up and the voice spoke again, with a touch of humor. :Did we not tell you, you would one day resemble us?:
Vorador felt his eyes widen. "Who are you?" He knew... it was so obvious, but he needed to hear it.
:We are the last of a lost race. The champions of Nosgoth. Enemies of the Hylden. We are the masters of a dead magic. Our ancestors created the Pillars. We are the Blood of Ages.: The voice took on a hint of irony, :Come, drink from us.:
Adojan woke to several unfamiliar sensations. There was a soft, filling warmth within him. The stone was hard, but not cold, despite his unclad state. His body was at ease, relaxed. The hatred and heartache he felt had somehow been lessened. More strange, however, was a feeling he couldn't even describe... the sense of being closed in, but not confined. He could leave any time he wished, but he was wanted here, welcomed. He couldn't quite describe the feeling in the back of his mind, but it made him feel, frighteningly, like a child again.
Adojan pushed himself to his hands and knees, then his feet, rising slowly. A quick examination of his body revealed that his wounds had closed. He looked around cautiously and reached out to the wall. The vampire hybrid ran gentle talons over the intricate, swirling carvings that ran along the stone from floor to ceiling. Adojan trailed his hand over them, moving towards an archway. He walked into the corridor between the first and second walls of the lower arena, painfully aware of his own footsteps as they echoed down the hall. Passing through another arch, he turned eager eyes upon the room within.
The audience chamber was round, as were the hallways and rooms above and far below it. Cushioned seats circled a dais at the low center and circled up to the level upon which Adojan stood. Gazing down at the seats, he could almost see the last meeting to have occurred there. A specter from times past, the Wisdom Keeper spoke intently to the audience of fledglings before her. He moved on swiftly as the vision faded, descending the staircase to the Common Arena. From that empty expanse he moved down another staircase and into the corridors.
Adojan wandered through hallways and into various rooms, examining the chests and closets, each with carefully closed doors; possessions folded neatly in their places. It was as if the owners were on a holiday from which they would return, instead of being centuries dead and buried.
He turned the halls, only half conscious of where he was going. His mind wandered a familiar path which his feet followed. Eventually Adojan came to an ornately carved wooden door, on the center of it, a gracefully lettered picture of the Pillar of Balance.
He raised a cloven hand to the doorknob and slowly opened the portal. Eyes blurring, he took in the sight of hand-carved chairs and tables which sat in exactly the same place as they had centuries ago.
The Hylden moved through the main chamber to one of the far doors. Opening it, he ignored the tender memories that sprang up at the sight of his old rooms and, as if it were something he had done every day of the last hundred years, pulled a pair of trousers from a clothing shelf. A sense of vulnerability closed on him unexpectedly and he pulled them on, and tied the dark, braded belt closed. He flipped open a small wooden box on the table and froze. His hand shook gently, talons closing over the single piece of jewelry that lay within. He drew it out and examined the amulet as if for the first time.
The amulet was gold. Only as wide as the widest part of one talon, the surface was covered, front and back, in runes. Adojan rubbed his thumb over the front and felt more than saw the raised Caduceus in the center. He eyed it almost distrustfully for a moment before looping the thin, gold chain over his head and allowing the medallion to settle on his chest.
He sighed a bit at the familiar weight and reentered the main room of the chambers. Luminous green eyes scanned the walls and stopped on a certain chair. Adojan moved towards it, unfolding his wings slightly, turned, and carefully lowered himself into it.
The golden wood was low-backed, as were most chairs in Haven, but this had been constructed so that it leaned back, and a long wooden plank stretched between the shoulder blades, topped with a headrest. It was much more comfortable than it looked, Adojan discovered, as he sank back into the chair's embrace.
The horns curling about his head creased the buckskin cushion, sinking deeply enough for his scalp to touch the pillow. His talons curled loosely about the edge of the arm rests, wings drooping as he moved his feet to a small wooden stool, placed there for that specific purpose. Adojan relaxed into the chair... his father's chair.
"I'm home," he whispered to the quiet room. No sound returned, but the sense of peace descended upon him, and he identified, finally, the sensation that had so disturbed him.
It was a feeling of being protected that closed in on a person who knew there was no safety in the world. The sensation made him feel weak, helpless, yet he craved the sense of love and belonging that came with it. Adojan breathed out in a sob, and covering his eyes with one hand, the Hylden Commander wept.
As the voice began a retelling of its history, Vorador's mind wandered. He knew most of the story, and after learning the former identities attached to the skeletons residing within the walls, he had reasoned out the missing details. Thought to be dead for centuries- here they were; his friends, companions- the beings with whom he'd grown from a fledgling to an adult vampire, and they were dead in truth. Dead and entombed for millennia.
He worried the ring Kain had returned to him, rubbing it between his thumb and finger; the same ring that lay somewhere within his bedchamber, aged by centuries yet looking exactly the same as its younger form. He remembered every word of the note that had been attached to it the last time it had returned.
I know now why you gifted the ring to me and not Zofia, Vorador. Your fate lies along another path... I cannot summon you to share ours any more than she would have. I am sorry for that, but not very much.
Good luck, my friend,
Lorant
:He told me of that later on...: The carving's eyes were still fixed on both Kain and Vorador, and the amalgam of voices whispered on the air, a sound that both the vampires heard- yet here was another thread of words for him alone.
:What?: he responded, using the whisper.
:After Lorant tied your ring and his message to that bird, he told me why you had given him the ring, and why he sent it back to you.:
Vorador had schooled his face into a mask of nonchalance. The ancient vampire's mental voice wasn't so guarded against emotion. :Zofia?:
:Brother,: she greeted him softly.
:What happened here?: He faltered for a moment, his heart beating oddly in his chest at the sound. Despite the circumstances, his wild emotions, and the current state of their forms- it was his sister's voice, and Vorador almost shed tears of joy in hearing it again. :The bodies... your bodies, destroyed- but the voice of that creature-:
:'Ages'... or so I call them. We have been here for many, after all.:
Vorador blinked at that and attempted to think of another question he could ask. Zofia began again before he managed one.
:They placed us here... the demons- after they had derived sufficient amusement from our capture. We were placed within the wall; sealed there, our hearts pierced by the Siphon's veins.: Her voice was soft, meditative, and not quite sane.
:You accepted the deal,: Vorador realized, voice eerie in its calm. :The Unspoken offered to save the other Ancients if you gave yourself over and you accepted.:
:You hadn't realized that by now?: she sounded surprised.
:I thought that Cili had told the fledglings and they followed you to fight!: he cried, outraged. :When Lorant told me they would not allow you to go alone-: another revelation hit him and Vorador was hard put to keep from revealing his distress. :My Gods... they followed you. You surrendered to Hash'ak'gik and they followed you into his waiting claws.:
:Of course they followed. Do you think they would have fought and died- let their families die, rather than surviving in this way?:
His eyes darted to the bloodied alcoves and back. :You call this surviving?!: he screamed at the other voice.
:Oh, indeed,: the voice replied cheerfully. :My body lives within the wall, and the knowledge of the Ancients lives within my mind,: her voice dropped to a whisper, :but where does Zofia live? That is the true riddle, Vorador.:
The Father of Vampires closed his eyes, denying the spill of tears as the dread they accompanied washed over him. :If the body is yours- then who does the voice speaking from it belong to?:
:Our family,: Zofia murmured in a childish sing-song. :The Siphon destroyed the urns... and only one was left to catch all the blood that spilled out. They came in the door... I went out another... and we all lived forever after.: The voice grew quiet, and when Vorador thought she had ceased speaking, :I held the fledglings in a painless sleep for centuries; their minds detached from their bodies, while I stayed awake and endured the pain of the Siphon's touch. The veins advanced far enough into their bodies that- had I reattached their minds, they would have gone mad.:
She laughed into his stunned mind, laughed at joke that only she understood. Zofia was mad- yet Vorador could hear the truth of her words, and even the most insane of madmen could make sense at times. Still laughing, she continued. :I killed the Siphon,: Zofia whispered conspiratorially. :I destroyed it as the veins ripped my brethren apart from the insides out,: the chuckling faded, giving way to soft sobbing. :I could hear them screaming inside and outside. Their souls screamed their way out of this hell and into the next,: she wept. Vorador stood there, horrified for the first time in centuries- a marble statue for all the emotion he showed. Kain, if he noticed, said nothing.
:The veins inside me were weaker than the others... I had to be strong enough to finish the spell... and the Siphon let me live.: The snicker again. :The fledglings' minds were so close to my own just then that they fled into my body, and I fled out of it...: her voice turned innocent- awed, :I think it was then I went mad, brother... yes... I think it was that exact moment.
:They were so afraid... and in such pain...: the voice lost all emotion. :I don't feel pain anymore.:
Vorador's mind cringed in disgust, his face giving no indication of the inner turmoil he felt. :Why? Why did you surrender to this? You must have known it would be futile. You had to have known that your elders would die despite your actions.:
The voice took on a protesting, petulant tone. :I did my best. At least we still have a chance at living.:
:What chance?: he murmured incredulously.
Zofia giggled. :Look- it's the nobleman who usurped the rule of Nosgoth.: Vorador knew she spoke of Kain and he stilled. :The Necromancer's child who stole Godhead from the Gods and took it for himself.: The voice grew excited. :He found a raven's nest and looked inside- finding nothing but black feathers... and the wisest of the ravens... lying within the nest... her wings broken,: she murmured sadly. :He wished their aid, but the wisest said to him- 'the ravens are dead and gone, milord, and not in this time shall you find them,': Zofia sang.
:Why did the nobleman need the ravens?: Vorador asked, playing along.
:Ah,: she breathed, :the false God had forced corruption upon his kingdom. His children ate and ate and ate of the world until there was nothing left. The Necromancer was poisoned before giving birth to the God, and the God was poisoned before his birth. The world is dying, dying, dying like the ravens died, died, died and only the ravens can bring it back.:
:But if the ravens are dead- how can they help the God?:
:Shhhhh...: Zofia giggled again. In his mind's eye, Vorador could see her looking around, searching for any who might overhear her next words. :The wisest of the ravens bid him bring her brother wolf to see her, and she told them to go back and give the flock food and drink of the very Gods- and make them whole again.... And you would do it...: she murmured to herself, :you would see us given life again... if you could.:
:What kind of-:
She interrupted him, :But when they were whole and safe within the wolf's den, do you know what the false God did?: Zofia rushed on without waiting for an answer. :When the flock was sleeping, the false God took the wisest of the ravens in his hands and closed his hand upon her beak.: She was whispering now. :She could not breathe, and when she was dead, the false God caressed the saddened ravens and dried their tears. The wisest had been weak- expended her power in reviving them,: she tisked briefly, admonishingly, before continuing, :they knew, and it had been unlikely that she would survive the night. The wolf- watching from the shadows, never said a thing, and between them, the wolf and the false God devoured the ravens, one by one... the suspicious ones went first... and quickly... and their brethren followed them when they were no longer of any use...:
:No... that would never happen,: he growled silently. Vorador bristled in anger at her accusation, forgetting for the moment that he was speaking with an irrational mind.
:Wouldn't it?: she asked, skepticism clear in her tone. :My sanity is gone, Vorador, not my intelligence. We would have conflicts of interest, you and I- the you that you are, and the I that I was; should you succeed in freeing us.:
:I would not kill you for disagreeing with me!:
:You've done it before.: Those words, coldly spoken and completely true, stopped him. :Fledglings have revolted against you- believing themselves to be more worthy of ruling your race than you. When they were too powerful and too resolved in their views to be cowed, you killed them,: Zofia whispered harshly into his mind.
Vorador could not console himself with the idea that she was insane, that she did not know the words she spoke- not when they were truth that had caused him many nights of regret and wondering.
:Think long and hard on that, brother, and if you can say honestly that you will not take my life while I am weak- and nor will you allow Kain to do so-:
:I know you can see into my mind, sister, so answer yourself: he murmured tiredly. :Would I truly allow him to kill you?:
:You are similar to the false God in many ways, wolf,: she responded.
:But would I take his action?: he growled. There was silence for a while and Vorador could sense slight tendrils of power combing through his mind. He quelled the natural impulse to remove them and waited as Zofia analyzed his thoughts.
Her mental voice giggled once again. :The false God followed the wolf back to find the ravens... and under the wolf's watchful care, the wisest of the ravens returned to her full strength. The wolf and raven would quarrel long and loudly, but in the end there was peace between them... after all, the raven did not want to rule his den.:
The multiple voice paused, and as it regained the previous thread of conversation, Vorador realized it was speaking to himself as well as Kain.
:Hear now the method of our salvation.:
:Adojan,: the voice whispered ominously into his mind. The Hylden's eyes snapped open, suddenly awake. He lay rigidly in the chair, paralyzed by a muscle-clenching fear he hadn't felt in centuries. The Unspoken's voice washed over the Hylden Commander, leaving him weak and shaking, feeling like a child in a completely different manner than before.
:Do you defy me, Adojan?:
He licked his lips quickly, eyes darting from side to side, searching for the toxic shadow that so often accompanied the voice of the Dark Entity. It wasn't there, yet the Demon Lord most certainly was. The warmth of the comfort and protection spells he felt within Haven were underscored by the presence in Adojan's mind. Trying to buy time to think of his mistake, he spoke.
"Master," the word came out a hoarse whisper, "I have offered no challenge, I exist only to serve you-"
:Indeed,: the voice murmured in agreement. The malice thickened from water to blood and the voice continued. :Yet there you sit, disobeying my orders.:
Adojan surged out of the chair, barking his wings against the headrest and toppling the piece of furniture in his haste to escape it. "My lord, your Hylden have taken the vampire Turel into custody- surely he is chained to the Pillars at this very moment-"
The Unspoken's voice was lighter, but no less dangerous as it spoke again, amused by his panic.
:But you do not know this for certain. Your duty is to watch over Nosgoth, and yet you slept as Kain wandered the land unfettered and unthreatened. Even now he moves within the tomb of your former brethren.:
Adojan flinched at the rebuke in the Dark One's voice. "Master, I-"
:You will make your way to the tomb and intercept Kain, where you shall kill him.: Adojan was out of the room and halfway to the Common Arena before he realized something was amiss. The Hylden's pace slowed, then stopped.
"No," he whispered.
:Adojan-:
"You've wanted Kain dead for millennia, Master..." Adojan said, almost to himself, "and I refuse to believe you would allow him to remain alive any longer than absolutely necessary."
:I command you-:
"If you could have, you already would have done so," he interrupted angrily. "You would have seized my body and flown for the ruins of the Sarafan Keep before I was aware of the problem. You cannot control me here, can you, Master?" he asked mockingly, sure of the answer that the Unspoken would never admit. As the silence in the corridor stretched, Adojan's lips curled into a grim smile.
:Do you defy me?: Hash'ak'gik whispered. The question held more anger now, more danger, but Adojan's smile only grew.
"Happily," he answered.
:This insubordination will not be tolerated,: the Unspoken informed him, its growling made him feel as if his mind were vibrating in his skull.
Adojan turned and directed his steps back to his former chambers, the growl softened more and more as he traveled deeper into Haven.
"There is nothing to hurt me that you have not already done," he murmured bitterly, smile fading.
:Isn't there?: and the voice faded from Adojan's mind.
===========================================
*grins* Ominous ending, no?
A special thank you goes to: Ranmyaku and DHA for conversations and email messages which inadvertently reminded me that Zofia was supposed to be insane by now.
And to Crazydragon, because her nagging ( :-p ) helped me get this done quicker.
*blows kisses* Thank you, my buddies!
Footnote- (hee hee, I have a footnote) A Caduceus (ca-du'ce-us) is the God Mercury's staff, the winged staff with two serpents twined around it; a known symbol of the medical profession. (this definition is an edited version of the one I found in my Webster's Dictionary.
*sighs* Another disclaimer seems to be in order. I don't own Webster's or anything in there. I have to add though, that I feel sorry for poor Mr. Webster, who actually wrote the damn thing.
If you missed the bit of story that tells why this is relevant, I'll remind you. Adojan's amulet is a gold disk with a raised Caduceus on the front, and both sides covered in runes. That is all. ^_^
One last thing ladies & gents- I have a few words left that need to be read. They are these-
I know there's some dismay and maybe some disappointment that I'm only closing in on the halfway point of the story, but honestly- there is no way I could, in good conscience, wrap it up quickly. There's too much story still to be told & too many events that still need to happen for me to get to the ending.
I mean- even though each one is long, this is only the ninth chapter. Most lengthy, well-rounded fan fics have at least thirty! In my story you see an involved plot, many relevant characters, surprises, twists, and detailed scenes. You can't get that in a shorter story. Not from me, and probably not from many other people. This thing is novel length. I'm sorry to dump that revelation on people who expect an ending soon, but that's the simple truth and grousing isn't going to change it.
Lots of people have said they can't wait for the ending. ^_^ If you stick around long enough to read it- you won't be disappointed.