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, all his past lives, 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- Okay, I lied. Or, if you want to get technical, I didn't lie at the time I told the lie, but this chapter has made my words a lie, or rather-
Adojan- The point, Syvia?
Syvia- OtherBO2charactersmakeanappearanceinthischapter!
Adojan- Okay.
Syvia- There's also Janos abuse.
Janos- *pouts*
Adojan- Better you than me, sir.
Janos- *cynical laughter* I've read further. You get yours.
Adojan- *'pity me' look* I know.
Magnus *before the insanity*- ....Curly black hair?
Syvia- *shrugs* I guess I was thinking of a cross between my father & an old classmate of mine?
Magnus- O-kay.
Special Thanks: To my beta and the one who lets me jabber endlessly about anything, Ran. ^_^ *hugs* Love ya' lots, hon. :-D
And the other beta, Eso. *hugs* Thank you for battling the confusion of the early morning to give me input & staying up with me to blather about LoK theory. *lol*
Also to Ran & CD for bugging me about getting this done.
Much love & wishes for a lack of writers block to all of you. ;-p (Thanks to everyone else of the EB for just being around. ^_^)
General Apology- The lack of updating for... holy crap, four months.. *whistles* is due to a combination of circumstances. I won't bore you guys with the details. Suffice it to say that I'm finally getting back into the serious fic writing and I'm very happy about that fact.
To all those who've been waiting, I hope you found some other really good fics to read while you waited, or maybe you forgot about the fic entirely and the wait didn't drive you insane. If that's the case, here's hoping you find this new chapter eventually & you realize that yes, I am still updating the damn thing.
I too know what it's like to wait for an update. You guys who also write fics know that if you were to ask an author about what's a long time to wait for an update, and then ask a reader, the answers would be very different. Well this is long by even my standards, but I can finally say that I'm happy with the chapter. ^_^
So here it is.
Oh... one more thing.
Any person who mentions the fact that this took a long time to be posted, or that the fic is taking a long time to be written, will get a 'Master of the Obvious' award. *threatening look* Don't make me do it, people, you know I will.
Chapter 10
The Fate of Traitors
Nosgoth ~ 254 A.C. ~ The Sickened World
Sympathy for the 'vampire menace', Raziel? he asked himself, glancing at Magnus as he turned the corner. There was something about the fledgling that the Soul Reaver found disturbing. He noted how blank the young vampire seemed, and how he moved with the otherworldly grace of his kind, not thinking about where he was going. Magnus seemed to follow him in a daze, eyes locked upon the floor.
Without comment they neared a junction in the corridor. The Soul Reaver glanced down each of the possible passageways. "This way," he directed, turning down the leftmost one. The young vampire's steps quickened ever so slightly as he followed.
Raziel examined his motives for helping the other as they moved through the dimly lit hallways. True, it was possible that Magnus could provide information about the outside world, but to what end? Raziel, despite the time he had spent seeking an exit, was proof that escape from the Eternal Prison was unlikely, if not impossible. Yet, seeing the Wardens close in on Magnus, the instinctive defiance and willingness to fight; something within him had snapped.
There by the door had been a vampire; one who had devotedly fought for Kain and, for some reason, had met his doom because of it. Magnus, in that moment, had reminded Raziel too much of himself for the Soul Reaver to sit idle. Besides... what else had he to do in this place? They entered a room that was open to the water, a few broken columns made stepping stones that one vulnerable to water could traverse. He had no use for them, but they would make it possible for the fledgling to reach the hiding spot he'd carved from the wall. He used the stones this time, showing without words how Magnus was to follow him. Halfway across the water, he turned and jumped to the wall, talons catching in the niches he had made, and climbed up into an alcove near the ceiling.
The fledgling was panting lightly, hands shaking just a bit from exertion by the time he crawled into the ledge. Raziel studied Magnus as he pushed his back against the wall, moving as far as possible from the edge of the stone and the watery landing far below. The vampire's eyes were pale; the blue of Nosgoth's sky in the far past. Magnus' hair was black, and hung down to his shoulders in small, tight curls. Two hundred years old, by the talons on his still-human hands, but certainly no more than that.
He wore a garment sewn with pads of leather covered by thin plates of metal. It was an armor that was form-fitting, yet pliable enough for easy movement. While not heavy enough to stop a sword thrust, the plates would deflect an idle slash. From what Raziel had seen of the fledgling's movement, Magnus' defensive technique was to dodge any blows that were sent his way. Heavier armor would only slow him down. The dull black finish on his clothing also spoke of stealth. The Soul Reaver was curious to discover just what kind of vampire he had rescued. The 'Sarafan Lord' had called identified Magnus as Kain's Champion, but Raziel had never before heard of either of them from Kain.
"Do you require blood?" he heard himself asking. Without looking at him, the fledgling shook his head.
Magnus sat in a torpid daze, staring at the stones between his feet. His body shied away from the edge of the nook, its fear of water instinctive, taking control while his mind sat bewildered and afraid of the Sarafan Lord's words. Kain was dead. He did not want to believe it, yet, the odious creature had held the Soul Reaver. The blade Kain had never allowed another to touch- the one he had proclaimed time and again would only be parted from him upon the event of his death. Logic dictated then, that his liege was dead- but somehow the idea could not take hold in his mind. Magnus understood the words, but they didn't form a coherent meaning within him. He did not, could not, make sense of what he had been told.
Perhaps if he had seen the body, seen Kain, still and withered before him, he could have accepted, mourned the passing of so great a warrior, so inspiring a leader, and vowed revenge. He had not seen the body, however, and the soul within his un-living body would not believe that Kain was dead. Yet logic- but he did not care about logic. Logic did not rule in this place. A place that was larger on the inside than out; one from which there had been no escape, for any known prisoner; one that trapped its prisoners in their own, un-aging bodies. He was one of them now, the unchanging castaways of time. Nosgoth's deviants. For wasn't that what he was, what he always had been?
A fish swimming against the current; one who went against the natural order- who embodied the unnatural. He had been a warrior. Now what was he? A prisoner, a captive, a...
"Who are you?" a voice murmured. So soft, it was, that the words almost seemed to blend with his thoughts, guiding his contemplations down a different path.
Who am I? "Nothing... a failure- certainly a fool," he whispered.
"Who were you, then?" the voice asked in a neutral tone.
He had been so many people, all of them dead now. "I was human once," Magnus offered. "A nobleman, and trained from childhood to serve as a soldier, should my country ever go to war."
"When were you born?"
"Some five decades after the pillars were corrupted," he answered. The voice was soothing to listen to, he mused. By answering the questions put to him, Magnus could avoid thinking of his losses. It was a fair arrangement. "I was perhaps twenty-eight winters when I was turned."
"How?"
"The usual way... a vampire bit me, drained blood and replaced it with his own-"
"No," the voice interrupted gently. "I meant- what were the circumstances?"
"I was recruited to fight for the Sarafan order... what remained of it, at any rate, and it was there, fighting for them, that Lord Kain- in the guise of a human nobleman- took note of the most skilled fighters. We fell on the battlefield, and were revived again as vampires."
"Did you fight for them willingly?" The words came quickly, as if they'd been spoken without thought.
"Those who didn't, died... the Sarafan had various methods of ensuring cooperation; threatening eviction from ancestral homes, the execution of family members... they threatened to throw me into the Eternal Prison when I argued." Magnus chuckled at the irony.
"I meant the vampires..." the voice murmured. "Did you fight willingly for them?"
Magnus looked up for the first time, surprised at the question. "Why wouldn't I?" He looked upon the being sitting across from him, curious for the first time in regard to his savior. The creature's twisted body was thin, gnarled, and Magnus found himself thinking of an inexpertly raised vampire he'd seen.
Kain had believed himself strong and knowledgeable enough to do so, and created, not a whole vampire, but a simple body. The thing could stand, and walk, and speak, but with no mind of its own. Magnus remembered standing there, in horror, as the creature collapsed in upon itself mere minutes after having been raised. The entrails had shriveled, causing the stomach to recede as the skin dried completely and pulled across the muscles. The eyes had crumbled into dust, lips pulled back eerily over pointed teeth, the blank eye-sockets and grinning mouth burned into his memory for all time. Suddenly, the being made him feel nervous.
He returned to the question he'd only half-answered. "I adapted quickly to my new existence. I had always loved battle- now there was more to enjoy. New senses to make use of, greater strength to aid in my sword-work. Talons. A new weapon to use, should I lose the crafted ones."
"You thought nothing of murdering your once kin?" The scarf wound about the lower half of the creature's face never moved.
Magnus was very certain that he did not wish to see what lay beneath it. "They weren't my race anymore," he answered. He heard the defensive tone in his words and wondered why it was there. Why did he feel answerable to this being? "My master taught us that we were superior, accepted us, loved us... what more did we need to know?"
The being sat for a time, seemed to nod once. "We?" it asked.
"The other vampires my sire raised, near to the time I was made."
"Who were they?"
Magnus shrugged. He shook his head slightly and looked away from the creature's glowing eyes. "Warriors. Past-lives mattered little to us, and we seldom spoke of them. I suppose they were like myself- petty nobles who could boast some skill with a blade, or had the minds for tactical maneuvers."
"What happened then?" the being asked.
"...Who are you?" Magnus asked, glancing nervously at the creature. The being's head tilted to one side, clumps of ebony hair sliding past blue skin. "I have seen only one other being with cloven hands or feet, and never one like you..."
Smoldering eyes seemed to glance at the floor for a moment, then returned to him. "Answer my questions, and I will answer yours," he offered.
Magnus considered, then nodded. "Five years ago, Lord Kain began his conquest of Nosgoth. Two years into the war, the Sarafan gained a new commander, one that was completely unknown to us. This being had strange powers, and taught them to his troops. Then the battles became more challenging. Our forces no longer cut down the humans like so much wheat- the fighting was more equally matched. The losses began- and the confidence of our army began to wane. Vampires would disappear in the night; either to run from the battles or to change sides..." Magnus' voice grew hard, full of anger. "Vampires serving the Sarafan, betraying their own kind. Sometimes I followed the defectors into the woods and cut them down before they had a chance to give information. Stealth was a new tactic to me, but I leaned quickly, as such is the way of my kind." He sighed, clenched a fist in his curling hair. "We made haste to Meridian, meaning to kill the Sarafan Lord and the traitors in the same battle," he trailed off.
"What went wrong?" the other asked gently.
"I attended a meeting with Kain and my Sire. A last briefing before the attack planned for the next night. Kain left to retire. I spoke with my Sire of the state of the army... what chance we had to win the battle with our forces depleted and the knowledge the traitors had surely given the Sarafan Lord. We had the element of surprise, but not much else...
"Then I left, and as I did, I noticed a vampire slinking off into the surrounding woods. I followed, intent on dispatching him, but as he neared the edge of the forest, another met him, one of those who had betrayed early on-"
"They plan to attack tomorrow?" Sebastian repeated, stroking his chin.
Faustus chuckled. "An hour after sunset."
Sebastian nodded. "I make no guarantees, Faustus. It will be my Lord's decision, whether or not you join us."
"The Sarafan Lord will come to know my loyalty is absolute," Faustus smiled, giving a mock-bow. Hidden in the brush, Magnus' lip curled and he shifted his balance, planning to rush out and rend both their throats. A tiny branch betrayed him, cracking underneath his booted heel. The two vampires whirled towards the sound, ready to attack.
"No need for alarm," Magnus spoke, moving from the shadows.
"I made my decision in that moment. I would feign betrayal of Lord Kain and, at the first opportunity, kill the Sarafan Lord. I do not know if Sebastian and Faustus believed me, but they brought me before the creature all the same."
"But the Sarafan Lord saw through your ruse," the other murmured.
Magnus smiled a bit, "Not until he saw the sword carving towards his heart. But I failed." His voice dropped to a whisper and he laid a hand on his forehead, despair setting in once again. "I should never have left... if I had stayed perhaps- perhaps I could have been at his side in the battle- taken the blow that felled him. Perhaps Kain would still be alive."
The other gave a soft sound of acknowledgment. "If it is any consolation to you... I would have done the same."
"The end of the tale is this," Magnus indicated the walls around them, sighing. "The bastard killed Kain, took his sword, and entombed me here."
"I saw that much," the being admitted. "-The Sarafan Lord you spoke of... holding the Soul Reaver."
The Hylden General, now called the Sarafan Lord by the humans who served him, sat upon the intricately sculpted metal chair that served as his throne and looked in satisfaction over the scene before him. The Great Hall of the Sarafan Keep, which he had made his own. Once the richest mansion of the city, it served well as his headquarters. the room suited him well with its tapestries of Kain defeated and his vampiric horde dying on the cliffs outside Meridian. These works of art were a few of many that hung about the building, and the craftsmen who were responsible had made a small fortune each by their ability to finish them so soon after the war.
They were the more obvious sign of his dominance. More subtle, but infinitely more pleasing, were the Glyph lights that adorned the walls, the floor, and even his seat. Slim metal wires threaded about the legs and back of the chair, conducting the jade-colored energy. The softly illuminated chair was aesthetically pleasing, but the reason behind it was far more important than image. The Glyph energy warded off vampires, and after his near-wounding by Kain's champion, the Hylden General had no wish to allow a vampire close access to him under any circumstances. This throne made certain that the two under his employ kept their distance.
He sat calmly and smirked at the court of humans that stood before him. Today he gave rulings over the grievances of Meridian's nobility. It was amusing, he found, that the humans seemed to think they possessed any form control over the city. They had given him power long ago, as the threat of Kain's army had grown and spread across the land. Now that the war was over, he retained control. The humans grumbled and contented themselves with the belief that once the vampire threat had been extinguished for good, he would return the rule of Meridian to them. The more intelligent ones understood that he had crept in at their own urging, and was strong and ambitious enough to keep the city in his grasp, should they try to take it from him. It was unlikely, however, that the humans would attempt any such thing. He controlled the Sarafan, and through them, Meridian.
The complaints he heard today were the same as always; the vampiric threat. Three months after the war, vampires continued to trickle into the city walls- no doubt planning his demise. But as they did so, his Glyph Wrights continued to install energy vents throughout Meridian. Once they were ready, the receptors and various control panels installed, Meridian would be a cage for vampires; and would be hunted down easily by his soldiers. Once the plan was carried through to its final stage, the Sarafan would not be needed. The Glyph energy would consume every vampire where they hid, from the edge of the slums to the waterlogged wharves and beyond. No vampire in Nosgoth would be safe from the Mass's killing touch.
Not even those vampires under his employ. He smirked lightly as the humans left and a dark shape moved in the shadows. None of their Enemy's foul offspring could be left in Nosgoth. None deserved to exist in the first place. This was their world- the Hylden's world, and all who dwelt on Nosgoth would know it before the end. The Sarafan Lord smiled fully, but it went unnoticed. The humans and vampires all dead, all in a single moment. What a magnificent thought.
The humans filed out, the Sarafan guards at the door following at his signal. It was only then that Sebastian emerged from the darkness, followed a moment later by Faustus, and he by the third- the new one.
The armor-clad vampire bowed his head respectfully towards him, Faustus, standing on the left, echoed the gesture.
"My Lord," Sebastian motioned elegantly towards the third vampire, "I present Marcus. He wishes to join your cause." The vampire's words were bland, but a slight smirk graced his lips. The Sarafan Lord looked upon the third vampire, who calmly took a place between the other two. Marcus bowed at the waist without ever breaking contact with the Sarafan Lord's eyes. It was then that he noticed the soft flittering touch along his mind. Inexperienced, but deft, tiny 'fingers' of power curled about his mind, attempting to creep in. The Sarafan Lord closed his eyes briefly in annoyance and waved Marcus closer. Dominance tests. The Hylden had no need of such things. Their Lord simply chose the most powerful and raised them as warriors or commanders as He saw fit.
The vampire came without fear. Marcus stopped as close as the Glyph energy would allow him, the mockery of priestly vestments he wore swaying gracefully around his body. He wore a faint smirk upon his lips. One that disappeared as if it had never been when he found himself staring at the cruel tip of the Soul Reaver. The Hylden General held perfectly still for a moment, meeting the vampire gaze for gaze. He held the Reaver tightly and marveled at the power within his grasp- at a blade which struggled as if to free itself and act of its own will.
"Learn now, vampire, that I am the master here. Remember the fact, and you will live in safety from my Glyph Knights and their magic. More importantly, you will live in safety from mine." Before Marcus could voice an answer, the Sarafan Lord had pressed the edge of the blade against Marcus' neck. "I have no qualms about slitting undead throats. I have even less to consider when the coat that closes around it has turned. Those who betray are often prone to repeating history." The last statement was directed at all of them.
The bareheaded vampire kept up a brave face, but he strained to keep from showing fear, and the Hylden could see that he ached to pull his neck away from the blade. In response to this, the sword flared brighter, delighting in the vampire's anxiety. "Then you have nothing to fear from me, Milord..." Marcus smirked, but his words almost tumbled over each other in his haste to speak. "I never joined Kain's side. He would have had me fight, and die in battle, to be rid of the threat I posed. I refused, so he attempted to kill me with the very sword you now hold to my throat."
"How fortuitous that you survived, Marcus," Sebastian murmured. "Usually if Kain meant to kill someone, especially with that blade, they died." It was an accusation, an insinuation that he lied, the Sarafan Lord realized.
So did Marcus. "Kain beat me over the back with the blade," the bareheaded vampire hissed. His eyes were still on the Sarafan Lord, but his words were for Sebastian. "When he tired of that, he put it away, spat in my bleeding face and left me for dead."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow, which Marcus could not see, a silent question about the truth of the vampire's words. The Sarafan Lord nodded once, pretending to be appeased, and withdrew the blade from Marcus' throat. He laid the sword over his legs.
"Tell me what you know about it." The Sarafan Lord watched the three vampires before him. Marcus stepped back. Regaining personal space. The other two advanced on the impressive blade. Sebastian, strongest, physically, of the three, moved forward, his dark cape fluttering slightly with his steps. The armor-clad vampire strode up to the Hylden and looked at the blade critically, eyes narrowed. Faustus came second, stopping a bit behind and to the left of the Marcus. His expression betrayed amusement.
"Tales claim it is possessed," Faustus murmured. The Reaver cast a violet shadow upon his flamboyant garb, changing the red cloth into a shade more like its own. Faustus looked upon the blade with interest, speaking easily, confidently. "Legend holds that the spirit of a monster resides within, and feeds upon the souls of its victims." The young vampire smirked, indicating that he did not believe such stories.
The Sarafan Lord tightened his grip upon the spiral hilt. The Soul Reaver thrummed in his fist, and from what he felt of the blade, he was almost inclined to believe Faustus. As the vampire had spoken, the Hylden lord almost thought the Reaver had shifted slightly in his grip, as if it were focusing on the fledgling.
"Legend tells true, as it often does, Faustus," Marcus said after a time. The third of the vampires had not made any move to come nearer, nor did he look at the blade, but focused his gaze on one of the rich tapestries that hung behind the Sarafan Lord's seat. "It almost took my soul when Kain attempted to kill me."
The quickening of light upon the blade's surface did not go unnoticed by Sebastian or his master. The Sarafan Lord ran his palm over the flat of the blade. His proximity to the wicked, twisting edges called up the energy rippling along its ancient surface. A cloud of energy this time, not the bright, hair-thin lines that had already revealed themselves, rose from the blade, congealing around the Sarafan Lord's hand and pulling forcefully on it. Faustus swallowed an oath at the sight, Marcus started, an inscrutable expression on his face.
"And what did it feel like, Marcus?" The Sarafan Lord asked, entranced by the forceful pull of the blade.
Marcus's eyes reflected the otherworldly light, and he spoke quietly, without the condescending tone that had previously been present in his voice. "Agony," he said. "From a small wound, the blade drains blood as well as one's soul. You feel as if your very 'self' were being ripped from that one small cut. In the taking, the wound would become wider, and wider, until it caused your body to split at the edges and scatter in the wind. It was like being turned; sucked dry from the two small points where vampiric teeth met your flesh." He grimaced his distaste and the vulnerability was gone.
"It hungers," Sebastian murmured, drawing their attention. The Sarafan Lord felt the blade shift, its eagerness at the sound of Marcus' voice dimmed by Sebastian's words. "Once, as Kain fought with the blade, I witnessed the sword leap in his hand- as eager for the victim's throat as its master.
"In a true rage, Kain would put power behind his swings that could cleave a man in two... with the Soul Reaver in his hand, not only would his opponent be ripped in two- but limb from limb." Sebastian regarded the blade with wary curiosity, but it was clear he had no wish to examine the sword more closely.
"I believe Vorador once said it was the power of the Reaver devouring the victim's soul that did it," Faustus added.
They said nothing as the Sarafan Lord sliced his hand open on the pointed canines adorning the skull hilt. He noticed their quickened breathing, the sudden primal look in their eyes, and smirked. The curse his people had placed upon the first vampires had lost little of its potency from that generation to this. Glorious.
He let the drops of blood collecting on his hand fall upon the blade and watched with astonishment as the porous midsection of the Reaver absorbed them. He rested his hand just above the surface of the blade, and again the energy reached up to embrace his palm. The sucking pull of the Reaver, like an infant on its mother's breast, increased now that his blood was flowing so easily towards it. The center of the blade, which seemed imperfect, notched with thin, miniscule fissures, seemed to fix tiny seals upon his wound, holding it open and assuring that the blood would not be lost. The Hylden felt a sense of vertigo. He became light-headed as the foundation of his power, his knowledge; his soul, shifted inside him and was pulled towards the blade.
With visible effort, he pulled his hand away from the sword, feeling as if he were ripping a bandage from a particularly snug wound as he did so. He closed his hand, waiting for the speed healing that the Unspoken had imbued upon his kind to take effect. "Interesting," he murmured, holding up the Reaver. "Most interesting."
"Had you not been a fighter in Kain's army," Raziel murmured as Magnus' story came to an end, "you would not be here now." The Soul Reaver leapt up into a small ledge and draped himself on it, one vividly blue leg hanging against the wall.
The fledgling stood easily on the staircase that wound about it and nodded up at him. "I might be dead," Magnus said, considering the idea.
"Better that, perhaps, than trapped in the Eternal Prison." The Soul Reaver noticed how dull, lifeless his voice sounded.
Magnus looked at him curiously. "If those are your feelings, why not take your own life?"
"I tried," Raziel returned calmly. "I failed." There was no shame in either admission- only weariness. "What year was it when you came here?" he asked.
Magnus looked confused at the phrasing of the sentence, then his eyes widened at the implication. Raziel watched as the fledgling realized that, in the time they had spent talking, weeks, months, possibly even years, could have passed.
Magnus had told him many tales of being a vampire; of being Vorador's progeny and Kain's Champion, as well as all that went with each designation. He even told what elusive stories he could remember of his human life. They had gone to hunt many times during the tales- had evaded the Wardens, and wandered the Eternal Prison. Now Magnus had finally come to the last of his stories, and it dawned on the fledgling how much time might have passed in the outside world during their talks.
Raziel asked the question again, and waited patiently as the young one searched his mind for the answer.
"I was... two hundred and six winters when I came here..." Magnus murmured. Raziel was somewhat amused by the phrase. A human might have said years, but as a vampire, Magnus termed his age in relation to the change of seasons, specifically, the coldest, darkest one.
"Approximately two hundred and fifty years after the collapse of the pillars then, and I have dwelt, for at least one hundred and fifty years of that time, in this place," Raziel murmured. "Not a pleasing thought."
"What of your end of the bargain?" Magnus asked. Raziel did not look down as the other continued. "Who- what, are you?"
The Soul Reaver pretended not to have heard. "I would suggest that you find some form of permanent destruction before the Wardens finally gain access to you."
Magnus smiled slightly. "Is that likely to happen while we both fight them?"
If the Demons see fit to intercede on their behalf, yes, Raziel said inwardly. "What makes you think I will always be here to aid you?" he murmured.
"You said yourself that you cannot be killed," Magnus answered warily. Raziel finally looked down at the fledgling. Magnus looked worried, and so he should.
"I have nothing more to gain from you, Magnus. Indeed, should I stay with you, you will be a vulnerability."
"To someone who comes back from nothingness?" the fledgling asked incredulously. "If anyone is vulnerable of the two of us it is I..." his eyes grew wide. "Or is it emotion that frightens you?" Raziel felt his eyes narrowing. Magnus' expression turned triumphant. "You remember your own days as a vampire and you fear those memories."
"What is this babble?" Raziel tried to effect a careless tone.
"Why else would you refuse to tell me who you are?"
The conversation in Raziel's mind was still turning over the previous statement. Inwardly, he admitted that Magnus was correct, he did fear emotion. He had grown attached to the fledgling during their time together. The Wardens would exploit that if possible. Raziel had no wish to see Magnus tortured, yet knew that it was inevitable. He could not protect the young vampire forever.
"Your ferocity in battle and the way you kept the Wardens from me every time... why did you save me from them in the beginning?" Magnus rushed on. "You fear sentiment; fear being responsible for me, yet you must feel something or you would have no qualms about killing me now!"
Even as Raziel spoke, his mind was guiltily confessing to the accusation. "Your words are impenitent, child...." The Soul Reaver cursed as he realized his mistake. Magnus' eyes grew large and Raziel remembered how often in the past he had heard those words, that very tone, from Kain's lips.
"You knew him," Magnus whispered. "How? How could you possibly have-"
"How unfortunate for me that I did know the arrogant bastard," Raziel spat. "All my reluctance to stay with you, child, is born of my disgust directed at one who could so blindly follow Kain." Raziel sprang down to the staircase and faced Magnus nose to nose. "I have known you before..." he whispered malevolently. "A young, naive, dangerously arrogant vampire; one who gave his loyalty to the undeserving and is now paying the penalty that such unwavering trust warrants." Raziel noticed the slight curl of Magnus' lip and the dark fire in the vampire's gaze. The Soul Reaver began to laugh before he could help himself. He did, however, give the fledgling credit for keeping his next words calm, if undeniably menacing.
"Is there something about me you find amusing?"
Raziel's answer was mirthful. "I am older than you ever will be, child, and I could destroy you with little effort."
Magnus' expression did not change. "Then you will have what you wanted. I will be out of my misery."
"The Wardens will have you," Raziel murmured soberly. "I cannot stop that, just as I could not stop my own time in the laboratories.... When they take you, they will open your skin. They will remove your organs and divine what they can from your entrails. They will fix upon your body machines which will do only the Dark Gods know what. They will cut you open," Raziel leaned towards Magnus' now haunted eyes, his voice growing softer, "and you will never heal.
"Time may pass outside the Eternal Prison, but within, things remain as they are. The humans from which you've fed were centuries your elders. Their eyes were ripped out- the lids sewn shut, and for the rest of their lives, they felt the pulse of the severed arteries, the throb of skin pierced by needles. Should the Wardens slice into you, the cuts will remain open. You will spend whatever time you remain in this place with the pain of your wounds."
With a dry voice Magnus tried to argue. "Wouldn't the blood of humans-"
"Your body cannot die of starvation. Nor can the humans. I allowed you to hunt simply because it is a form of maintaining normality in this place. The blood you drink carries no nutrition for your body to absorb. It would not avail you."
"But you gain strength from-"
"I am a special case," Raziel murmured. "I survive on the essence of other beings, which is the only thing that does not fade in this place." The Soul Reaver turned from Magnus and paced up the stairs, carrying his pain with him. "You were correct... I have no desire to kill you, yet I will not stay and wait for the Wardens to claim you for their experiments. Be wise for once, Magnus, and end your unlife before they begin your torture."
Perhaps it was some trick of the Hylden, or some torture devised by their master, that forced him to dream as he did. The creature who had once been Janos Audron relived, in the haze of pain that served as sleep in this place, the last few moments before his painful resurrection. He would drift off into unconsciousness, his heavy body unable to bear him or his tortured thoughts, and fall into recollection.
Heat- white-hot, eating over his skin to leave him confused and in pain. A shadow fell over his vision, a being that smelled of death drew near and he could feel, as well as hear his heart beating in time with the severed veins and arteries. His body ached, straining to accept the organ, which was held teasingly away from the cavity in his chest.
"Rise and live again, Janos," a voice hissed. "Rise and fulfill your destiny." Then pain- pain as his body regained the heart, and pain as the tiny seed of malice planted within writhed inside his flesh. He screamed as his chest re-knit, as the same heat as before surged through his veins, and under his voice was another scream- the being who had revived him. Janos looked up through the agony and saw the Soul Reaver protruding through the creature's flesh, the startled, glowing eyes staring down at the tip of the blade. He cried out involuntarily and reached out to touch the being's face.
Then he would wake to other pains. Janos had no fear of the Hylden, or fear that they would succeed in their plans. Kain would kill them eventually. His pain was in the knowledge that they faced these circumstances at all. He should never have been resurrected.
As he mused, he heard voices.
"General." The breathy, differential voice could only belong to one of his captors, and there was only one creature they called by that title. Janos lay quietly, listening for news. "It has been many years since you honored us with your presence. How goes the war?"
"It has concluded, with our victory," a deeper voice murmured.
Janos' heart sank at the satisfaction in the words. What did that mean for Vorador? Kain would have survived, he knew, but what of the other vampires?
"Five years ago we shattered the core of their resistance. The vampire resistance is sealed within Meridian, waiting to be destroyed. The Glyph conduits are being constructed and installed within the city as we speak."
The lower-ranking Hylden expressed his pleasure at the news and assured the Sarafan Lord that the Mass was well, as was their captive, and the Mass grew slowly, but on schedule.
"Well done," the Lord said. "I would inspect the captive by myself." Janos heard the hard, quick footsteps of the worker as he left, and the heavier, deliberate steps of the Hylden General.
Janos levered himself up on his enormous cloven hands, powerful arms raising his bony head, heavily muscled chest and the invasive metal contraption on his back. His legs, tiny sticks of things, acted more as balancing poles more than limbs. They did not give any true support. Were he to lean too heavily upon them, they would break. Lifting his head from the abrasive wire-mesh floor, he turned deeply set eyes upon the intruder. The altered being looked with disgust upon his captor.
"Hylden," the word trickled in a snarl from his fanged mouth.
"How fare you, Beast?" the Sarafan Lord asked sardonically, emphasizing the designation.
The slight growl sounded again; an unbidden expression of his anger. His oversized talons sank into the floor, closing around the unyielding metal. The Beast, as all his captors called him, rose to his full height and looked menacingly down at the Sarafan Lord. His eyes narrowed at the sight of a familiar sword hilt, peeking over the Hylden's shoulder. The green-eyed being noticed and, smiling, drew the blade.
"What can you tell me about this?" The Sarafan Lord asked. He stroked a hand along the blade, calling up violet-blue energy that curled almost lovingly around his thin-fingered hand.
The captive looked upon the wraith coiled within the sword, his eyes softening. History would continue as had been predicted, he could see. Kain would destroy the current empire and build his own, which would subsequently be destroyed by its own corruption. Kain would flee backward in time, the Reaver would come to be possessed, and all would progress to this point, and the next, and the next, in the never ending spiral.
"So long as you wield it," Janos murmured, "your enemies are sure to destroy you." He was gloating just a bit, and by the expression on the Sarafan Lord's face, Janos knew he was aware of it.
"How comforting that fantasy must feel to you." Janos only laughed in response. The Sarafan Lord gritted his teeth. "Your kind lie through their fangs," he snarled.
"And yours are as vile as the dimension in which you dwell," Janos returned heatedly. The Hylden strode calmly up to the force field and caused it to dissipate with a wave of his hand. Janos smirked as best he could. "Did your Master not tell you?" he laughed. "That the blade ripples as a result of the energy inside it is all the proof I need. Kain survived. He will destroy you and build his Empire from the bones of your people."
The Sarafan Lord grunted softly in acknowledgment. Then he kicked at Janos with frightening suddenness, knocking his leg out from under him. Janos collapsed heavily onto the ground, his palms sliding forward, tearing on the broken floor.
The Hylden planted a foot on his wrist, "When the time comes," he said, pressing the flat of the blade into on his upper arm, "I will delight in viewing your true death." The steady pressure became too much, and Janos' growl reached a higher pitch as his arm broke. He gave a short cry as the Sarafan Lord repeated the treatment more quickly upon his other forelimb.
Lights danced before his eyes as he lay on the floor, waiting for his bones to began the healing process. Janos breathed deeply, gaining enough control to speak. "What makes you believe you will be alive to see it?"
The Sarafan Lord's answer was a whistle of air and the wail of the Soul Reaver. Janos roared as the blade cut deeply into the unprotected part of his back, directly between the machine fixtures. He cursed the contraptions that subdued him, fed him the Glyph magic that kept him trapped in this form. They also fed his lifeblood to the Mass. Had only one of these obstacles been removed, he might have had the strength to free himself, but he was weak, and growing weaker with every biting cut the Hylden General inflicted upon him.
His mind grew dim, and it was only vaguely that he could still feel the abuse heaped upon his back. Then the Sarafan Lord pressed the blade down upon one of the cuts. Janos grunted with disgust as the wraith within the blade reached down and fixed itself into his flesh. The thin, fibrous membrane within the center of the blade drew his blood through the fissures, and the wraith reached down into his body, drawing up his soul as it did so. The Hylden pulled at the sword, which drew him upwards, fixed as it was on his back. When it finally ripped from Janos' skin, his pain was spectacular enough to steal the breath he would have used to yell. The Ancient fell, boneless, to the ground.
A cruel hand closed over the bony ridge upon his forehead and jerked backwards, bending his neck painfully. "Now, as much as I would enjoy punishing you for the injustices done me and my kind, I am more interested in the knowledge you possess," the Sarafan Lord purred by his ear. "For millennia, my Lord tells me, it resided in your care. You will tell me all."
Something stirred within his heart, coiling and flowing through his veins. A feeling of sickness sluiced down his body, heavy and smothering as pitch. The 'other' in his soul rose up and sank its claws into his will. Words rolled from his mouth, devoid of feeling as he obeyed the Sarafan Lord.
"Our sword-smiths forged the Reaver using materials left to us by our greatest warrior- the metal of his armor... his sword... his very flesh and bone. In life he led the 'Angels of War'...."
Raziel once again wondered what year it was, if only for the pleasure of having something to wonder about. It seemed he had not seen Magnus in a long while. Perhaps the Wardens had caught him, or killed him. Perhaps he had thrown himself into one of the indoor rivers or the violet-grey cloudbanks somewhere in the Eternal Prison. Raziel wished the fledgling well, what ever had befallen him.
Now, alone once again, he could admit that Magnus had been correct. The young vampire's stories had stirred his own memories, not all of them unpleasant, of his youth as Kain's firstborn. Bitter as their alliance had been of late, Raziel could no longer view Kain as the evil force he had once seemed to be. The Soul Reaver could not honestly say whether Kain held his loyalty, little aid that it would gain the vampire Lord in any case.
Raziel thought it odd that he wished for company. Magnus was not his blood, and any impulse to protect the young vampire was foolish. Nothing escaped the Wardens forever. Perhaps it was that Magnus had been the first vampire he had seen that was not mutated or staked since- since his execution. Perhaps it was their similar circumstances. What ever the reason, he missed the vampire's company.
It might have been pleasant to have company during the decent into madness, someone to say goodbye to when Moebius finally called him forth to become one with the Reaver.
Raziel wandered aimlessly, unchallenged by both the Wardens and the demons for some time now. Yet he was troubled by his most recent Reaver-induced visions. There had been the usual, cramped confinement. Comfort within the physically tiny and psychologically enormous space that was the Soul Reaver. In this vision, however, he had sensed a soul nearby, and it was not Kain. Kain's spirit he had come to recognize in these memories, the cooperative awareness that kept him drinking deeply of blood and souls from victim after delicious victim.
No, this was another. Raziel could guess easily that it was the Sarafan Lord. The soul hovered, close, closer than Kain- who had never dared cut his own flesh upon the blade. This soul had partially slipped the boundary of flesh and shared its old, very strange power with him. The touch had been teasing, and repeated many times. Open flesh pressed upon the blade, and when the wraith had barely begun to draw in the soul, it pulled away, denying contact. He screamed within the blade, frustrated and indignant at this strange form of feeding. Moreover, he was starving. No shrieking life-essence to devour- no steaming rush of blood; only this trickle of nourishment.
Raziel could remember other visions, other times of starvation. He knew there would be centuries between his entrapment and the time when Moebius would- albeit briefly, gift him to William the Just; creating the paradox necessary to change history, and another fifty years before Kain would claim him in Avernus Cathedral. Sipping of this creature's soul only to have it taken away was torture to the wraith blade's psyche.
The practice had been repeated several times, he knew by the increased sense of hunger in subsequent visions. The wraith blade would reach out when it felt the blood, wrap around the weeping finger and pull the flesh to it's surface, even attempt to cause the hand to close around the edges, to help with the donation. Such reaction to the blood was met with longer periods of starvation.
When the Reaver seemed to accept the blood calmly, he was given more, and the 'feedings' had smaller gaps of time between them. Such a feeding session was only gentle at the beginning. Once the wraith realized it had access to blood, it grew aroused and attacked the hand that fed it. The latest vision had seen the wraith blade coiled angrily, but groggily within the Reaver, as drop after drop of the Sarafan Lord's blood fell upon it. But then other beings had appeared in the room, come close. The blood withdrew, and one of the unfamiliar beings had approached; had come very, very close.
Suddenly the Reaver had sprung at the body. There had been a scream of pain, a wave of blood- the brief but delectable flavor of a soul, and then the reverberation of its impact on the floor.
The wraith remembered waiting hungrily for quite a long time after that.
Raziel's considerably more rational and analytical mind could see what had happened. The Sarafan Lord, through an indefinite period of time and patience, had attempted to condition the Reaver to obey him. This was not to say that the tactic had worked- far from it, but the Sarafan Lord had another method aside from starving to ensure obedience. The Reaver would have turned and cut upon him quicker than words could be uttered, if not for the magic.
Raziel had felt that as well. When it seemed the Sarafan Lord had given up on conditioning the blade by starving it, he had placed his unwounded fingertips on the sword's surface... then came the pain. Pain like no magic Raziel had ever felt before. The power stabbed deep, coiling up and down the blade and inflicting an agony upon him that was reminiscent of his time in the Abyss. It garnered the submission that the Sarafan Lord wished, and much more quickly. Hence, the blade deferred to that being as it had not to any other.
Kain had seen the Soul Reaver as a prized weapon. One with fearsome power, but without sentience, and it would be many more centuries before Kain realized who's soul lay within the blade. The Circle members had never used the sword and William would use it only once.
The Sarafan Lord saw the Reaver for what it truly was; a willful spirit that could be trained, reasoned with, or, when all else failed- tortured into submission and used to further his own ends. Succinctly put, a pawn. Raziel snarled softly. Would ironies never cease?
The Soul Reaver shook his head and paced down the corridor. "I am finding it very difficult to laugh these days, Mortanius," he muttered.
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Syvia- See? I'm not dead and neither is the fic. ^_^ Please review.