Under Water
He could see her hair beneath the surface—black as night, shimmering like jet— spread out and dancing along with the rhythm of the swaying water. Her body wafted beneath the dark cloud, but there was no sign of struggling, no sudden movement—just the listless motion pushing and pulling her in the depths. Something inside him, despite the jealousy and hatred still welling up in his heart, was breaking at the sight of it: the vision of his own malice in manifest. It scared him sometimes to know what he could do, but power warps a man and the results are never pleasant to observe. And the rule applies just as much as ever—a beautiful woman can wreak havoc no man could do, because beauty is a driving force. And unless something was done, Aidan could have destroyed everything he held dear; everything he had worked centuries for.
It had not been his idea at first; no, the command came from a much higher hand than his own, and after discovering what she had done, he found he had little resistance in fufilling the task. But he did not blame her moral fall on her own spiritual weakness or youthful gullibility. Vorador had more than enough of an ability to manipulate even grown men, with solid beliefs and great influence of their own. Several long-time devotees to the Sarafan order had been seduced by Vorador's promises some several years back, and in order to attain the blasphemous immortality Vorador promised they had even attempted to deliver the order's secrets to the vampire front. They were each apprehended, some together and some alone, and every traitor received his just rewards. Moebius oversaw that himself. As such, Aidan's transgressions had to be equally paid. There were no exemptions for women in his ranks; the same loyalty was expected from every soldier, be it man or woman, and the same sentences stood in the event of loyalty forgotten.
But it did hurt—a feeling he had long since forgotten—to have been betrayed by one he had such hopes for. Aidan would have been a godsend, had she not strayed from her holy path. She would have been the very first of a new breed of warrior—a matron saint to the people, compassionate in all things but in toleranace to the vampire plague.
When people see the images of men in armor, they think war and harsh times. But when they see a woman in their midst—beautiful and young, the image of feminine strength and compassion—they think hope.
And so, upon seeing her in the city, armed to the teeth and bedecked in iron plate armor, Moebius saw that which he had sought so long for: a face by which the common man could identify and which he could adore. She was of common blood and common rank; a warrior to the bone, much like the bulk of the Sarafan ranks. But upon her induction into the highest of the Sarafan order, women too could look up into a warm face and feel more acquiescent toward the order's demands.
But his hopes had sunk—in more than just a metaphorical sense. And with his hopes, an entire dream had been put to death: a vision in white, with jet-black hair and eyes as blue as a clear spring sky.
She was a vampire sympathizer. Vorador had tucked her underneath his foul wing like he had many other soldiers. But why? he asked himself. She did not want immortality. She had expressed this to him before. In fact, she pitied the immortal. She said that in resisting the pull of death, they resisted the call of the earth beckoning for the flesh it bestows and ultimately became in spirit what they were in body: idle creatures, rotting in mind as much as in physicality. Steadily the vampires were growing distant from the physical pleasures they sought to hold on to more and more by the day. She said that in essence, the more they live on, the more fondnesses they will lose fondness for, and if those corporeal pleasures are all they strive to survive for then their purpose for living is self- defeating. He would recall her ponderings as she sat beside him in the atrium, the leaves falling all about her soft, round face and into her hair. She appeared angelic that day: pale face, full, pink lips, raven- haired, and those eyes—those blue, blue eyes that seemed almost to burn in their brightness. But Aidan was more than just beauty; she had the mind of one far beyond her years. He could recall their conversation clearly, even to this day.
"The pleasures and benefits of the flesh are ephemeral," she had sighed. There was an exhaustion in her face he had never seen before that afternoon; it spoke of age, but there was not a wrinkle on her face. She was, in this, a very unique individual. She carried herself with the wisdom of years, but could only claim to very few. "The food you savor in your mouth will lose its flavor as soon as it passes your tongue, and youth is fleeting. Your priests have taught me this. And the pleasure we have in life greatly comes from the knowledge that it will pass. As such, with immortality, there is too much time; all that which is worth savoring in life loses its poignancy. And with repetition, any pleasure loses its intensity. Isn't it said that vampire leaders with harems often lose interest in sexuality over the years? Sex is just another pleasure in a thousand. It can be replaced. But its replacement will lose its flavor over the years as well. It is tragic, but life draws to an end with a purpose in mind. Avoiding death is a fool's errand."
She had a good mind. All that which passed her she drank in and understood; her eyes were bright with intelligence. It was saddening to know that her judgment had lasped so terribly. Aidan knew better—or so he had thought.
He pitied her just a little. She had been so young—too young to die. But there was little point in pondering the universal validity of the death of a lovely youth; it happened often, and the Elder God knew best. It would only be respectful not to question.
Still, he wondered. The decision to kill Aidan, to the Elder God, had seemed far from sudden. He knew her every move, her every crime—and her sentence he had already planned.
"Let her sleep in the darkness forever—under water. There, she can do us no harm."
He could see her hair beneath the surface—black as night, shimmering like jet— spread out and dancing along with the rhythm of the swaying water. Her body wafted beneath the dark cloud, but there was no sign of struggling, no sudden movement—just the listless motion pushing and pulling her in the depths. Something inside him, despite the jealousy and hatred still welling up in his heart, was breaking at the sight of it: the vision of his own malice in manifest. It scared him sometimes to know what he could do, but power warps a man and the results are never pleasant to observe. And the rule applies just as much as ever—a beautiful woman can wreak havoc no man could do, because beauty is a driving force. And unless something was done, Aidan could have destroyed everything he held dear; everything he had worked centuries for.
It had not been his idea at first; no, the command came from a much higher hand than his own, and after discovering what she had done, he found he had little resistance in fufilling the task. But he did not blame her moral fall on her own spiritual weakness or youthful gullibility. Vorador had more than enough of an ability to manipulate even grown men, with solid beliefs and great influence of their own. Several long-time devotees to the Sarafan order had been seduced by Vorador's promises some several years back, and in order to attain the blasphemous immortality Vorador promised they had even attempted to deliver the order's secrets to the vampire front. They were each apprehended, some together and some alone, and every traitor received his just rewards. Moebius oversaw that himself. As such, Aidan's transgressions had to be equally paid. There were no exemptions for women in his ranks; the same loyalty was expected from every soldier, be it man or woman, and the same sentences stood in the event of loyalty forgotten.
But it did hurt—a feeling he had long since forgotten—to have been betrayed by one he had such hopes for. Aidan would have been a godsend, had she not strayed from her holy path. She would have been the very first of a new breed of warrior—a matron saint to the people, compassionate in all things but in toleranace to the vampire plague.
When people see the images of men in armor, they think war and harsh times. But when they see a woman in their midst—beautiful and young, the image of feminine strength and compassion—they think hope.
And so, upon seeing her in the city, armed to the teeth and bedecked in iron plate armor, Moebius saw that which he had sought so long for: a face by which the common man could identify and which he could adore. She was of common blood and common rank; a warrior to the bone, much like the bulk of the Sarafan ranks. But upon her induction into the highest of the Sarafan order, women too could look up into a warm face and feel more acquiescent toward the order's demands.
But his hopes had sunk—in more than just a metaphorical sense. And with his hopes, an entire dream had been put to death: a vision in white, with jet-black hair and eyes as blue as a clear spring sky.
She was a vampire sympathizer. Vorador had tucked her underneath his foul wing like he had many other soldiers. But why? he asked himself. She did not want immortality. She had expressed this to him before. In fact, she pitied the immortal. She said that in resisting the pull of death, they resisted the call of the earth beckoning for the flesh it bestows and ultimately became in spirit what they were in body: idle creatures, rotting in mind as much as in physicality. Steadily the vampires were growing distant from the physical pleasures they sought to hold on to more and more by the day. She said that in essence, the more they live on, the more fondnesses they will lose fondness for, and if those corporeal pleasures are all they strive to survive for then their purpose for living is self- defeating. He would recall her ponderings as she sat beside him in the atrium, the leaves falling all about her soft, round face and into her hair. She appeared angelic that day: pale face, full, pink lips, raven- haired, and those eyes—those blue, blue eyes that seemed almost to burn in their brightness. But Aidan was more than just beauty; she had the mind of one far beyond her years. He could recall their conversation clearly, even to this day.
"The pleasures and benefits of the flesh are ephemeral," she had sighed. There was an exhaustion in her face he had never seen before that afternoon; it spoke of age, but there was not a wrinkle on her face. She was, in this, a very unique individual. She carried herself with the wisdom of years, but could only claim to very few. "The food you savor in your mouth will lose its flavor as soon as it passes your tongue, and youth is fleeting. Your priests have taught me this. And the pleasure we have in life greatly comes from the knowledge that it will pass. As such, with immortality, there is too much time; all that which is worth savoring in life loses its poignancy. And with repetition, any pleasure loses its intensity. Isn't it said that vampire leaders with harems often lose interest in sexuality over the years? Sex is just another pleasure in a thousand. It can be replaced. But its replacement will lose its flavor over the years as well. It is tragic, but life draws to an end with a purpose in mind. Avoiding death is a fool's errand."
She had a good mind. All that which passed her she drank in and understood; her eyes were bright with intelligence. It was saddening to know that her judgment had lasped so terribly. Aidan knew better—or so he had thought.
He pitied her just a little. She had been so young—too young to die. But there was little point in pondering the universal validity of the death of a lovely youth; it happened often, and the Elder God knew best. It would only be respectful not to question.
Still, he wondered. The decision to kill Aidan, to the Elder God, had seemed far from sudden. He knew her every move, her every crime—and her sentence he had already planned.
"Let her sleep in the darkness forever—under water. There, she can do us no harm."