ADOILE II - THE CRYPT
By the time he reached the gate of his keep, the sun was a sickly red ball in the western sky. He had shifted the dead weight onto his shoulder, holding her in place with one arm around the back of her knees. The icy wind played with the thin white funeral dress, exposing her legs in a way that would have shamed her had she been alive. The gatekeepers greeted the sight with hoots and laughter.
"Who's this?"
"At last! A decent meal."
"Oh, Lord! We're not worthy!"
Raziel smiled. "She's already dead, gentlemen." They loudly voiced their disappointment. Raziel addressed one of the men, short but strong, and past the first changes. "You. Are you not Harald's son?"
"I am, my Lord. My name is Arvin." The laughter had ceased, Arvin regarded him earnestly.
"I have a task for you. Go to Birktal, follow the main street past the well and up the hill. On your right, you will find a fachwerk house with a tiled roof and a round flagstone path. Assure yourself there is no one inside."
Arvin nodded.
"Burn it to the ground."
Arvin bowed his head. "What if there are people inside?" he asked.
"Allow them to leave," Raziel said indifferently. "Unless it's the monk. He's yours if you want him."
"Yes, Lord. Thank you."
"Do not delay, Arvin."
Raziel continued into the keep. He was met with curious glances, but asked no questions. Carrying a burning torch in his free hand, he descended the long, winding stairs into the crypt, a place where many of his children had been raised. It was a small set of rooms, with low, arched ceilings. Centuries past, the human inhabitants of this keep had entombed their lords and saints in these chambers. Nothing was left of them now but faded names and dust. He lay his charge onto a granite coverstone, and straightened out her limbs and her clothes. He went to close the heavy steel doors and bar them, and lit the various candles placed around the room. They only seemed to feed the darkness and intensify the inky shadows around the stone caskets, but shadows did not bother Raziel. He sat in the candlelit catacombs for a while, waiting for night to fall properly. If anything was sacred to him, it was this. Making a new vampire child, calling out into the void in the hope his gift would be accepted. It was taxing, but ultimately rewarding, and yet he had not tried in so many years. He loved each of his children, remembered each of the ones he had lost -- to the humans, to stupidity, to melancholy. Some had turned against him and died by his own hand. Their betrayal still pained him.
The crypt was silent, and darkened as the torch flicked out, leaving only the tiny dots of the candleflames to light the room. The still, pallid corpse seemed to be waiting, silently imploring him to get started. He shook the sad thoughts out of his head and approached it. This was a new child, young and beautiful like no other. She would be his, loving and true, no betrayal would stain her soul. Tenderly, he undid the thin ribbon that tied the front of her dress closed and then ripped it open down to her navel. Skin to skin was the best way. He lay the palm of his left hand on the centre of her chest. Then he slowly closed his eyes, and reached out.
He had not done this in a long time, but he had not forgotten how. His spirit loosed itself from its body and opened its eyes. He could see the candles, but their flames were like ice. He was still in the crypt, and yet somewhere completely different. He called out for her. No words, no names existed here, he simply called. The faint remains of a spirit answered, something dead for centuries, but he blew it away, and called again, more forcefully. Only silence. The walls here seemed to shift and twist, and then a sharp noise whistled in his ears and he was jolted back into his body -- if he'd ever left it.
His heart was pounding, his senses were at their sharpest. He looked around, the crypt was unchanged, the candles, the caskets still and silent, the doors shut and barred. Nothing could have disturbed him here; nothing would have dared. He wondered if there had been a sound, or if there had been nothing but his own fear. He breathed deeply, willing his heart to be still. Four days was not too long, he thought, frowning. In fact, it was his custom to wait for at least two days before breathing new life into an intended child. The longer they remained dead, the less they would remember of their mortal lives, and the easier they would accept their fate. Four days was not very long at all, he had raised dead much older than that. He pressed his hand down on her sternum, and tried again.
Again, the crypt was twisted and cockeyed, the flames seemed to blaze with a freezing sound. All senses were confused in this state. He looked around without eyes, and called out. This time, she answered. It was a faint and dreamy sound, from a place where sound had no meaning. He knew why he had missed her before; she was barely here at all. Come to me, he called, without words, without a voice, with the pure force of his will. It tugged at her, but she was weighty, anchored to the place outside of places that she inhabited. Her soul seemed to be asleep, something he had never encountered before. He called again, but his demand passed her by as if it did not apply to her. He reached out for her, shook her, tugged at her. He, Raziel, would not be denied. Not by this one. She complained with something between a moan and a hiss. She was waking, but resisting his call. Come, he pleaded, but she slipped away as he was pulled back to the material world.
He found himself sat on top of her corpse, his hand pressing heavily down on her ribcage. He closed it into a fist in frustration, cutting three deep gashes into her dead flesh. His head was pounding and he felt weak. "Come, come to me," he heard himself murmer, "let me take you back..." He rested his head in his hands. Weariness overwhelmed him. He had pushed himself to the edge to catch her soul, and still he had failed. Her body was still silent, lifeless, unfeeling. Death had bested him.
By the time he reached the gate of his keep, the sun was a sickly red ball in the western sky. He had shifted the dead weight onto his shoulder, holding her in place with one arm around the back of her knees. The icy wind played with the thin white funeral dress, exposing her legs in a way that would have shamed her had she been alive. The gatekeepers greeted the sight with hoots and laughter.
"Who's this?"
"At last! A decent meal."
"Oh, Lord! We're not worthy!"
Raziel smiled. "She's already dead, gentlemen." They loudly voiced their disappointment. Raziel addressed one of the men, short but strong, and past the first changes. "You. Are you not Harald's son?"
"I am, my Lord. My name is Arvin." The laughter had ceased, Arvin regarded him earnestly.
"I have a task for you. Go to Birktal, follow the main street past the well and up the hill. On your right, you will find a fachwerk house with a tiled roof and a round flagstone path. Assure yourself there is no one inside."
Arvin nodded.
"Burn it to the ground."
Arvin bowed his head. "What if there are people inside?" he asked.
"Allow them to leave," Raziel said indifferently. "Unless it's the monk. He's yours if you want him."
"Yes, Lord. Thank you."
"Do not delay, Arvin."
Raziel continued into the keep. He was met with curious glances, but asked no questions. Carrying a burning torch in his free hand, he descended the long, winding stairs into the crypt, a place where many of his children had been raised. It was a small set of rooms, with low, arched ceilings. Centuries past, the human inhabitants of this keep had entombed their lords and saints in these chambers. Nothing was left of them now but faded names and dust. He lay his charge onto a granite coverstone, and straightened out her limbs and her clothes. He went to close the heavy steel doors and bar them, and lit the various candles placed around the room. They only seemed to feed the darkness and intensify the inky shadows around the stone caskets, but shadows did not bother Raziel. He sat in the candlelit catacombs for a while, waiting for night to fall properly. If anything was sacred to him, it was this. Making a new vampire child, calling out into the void in the hope his gift would be accepted. It was taxing, but ultimately rewarding, and yet he had not tried in so many years. He loved each of his children, remembered each of the ones he had lost -- to the humans, to stupidity, to melancholy. Some had turned against him and died by his own hand. Their betrayal still pained him.
The crypt was silent, and darkened as the torch flicked out, leaving only the tiny dots of the candleflames to light the room. The still, pallid corpse seemed to be waiting, silently imploring him to get started. He shook the sad thoughts out of his head and approached it. This was a new child, young and beautiful like no other. She would be his, loving and true, no betrayal would stain her soul. Tenderly, he undid the thin ribbon that tied the front of her dress closed and then ripped it open down to her navel. Skin to skin was the best way. He lay the palm of his left hand on the centre of her chest. Then he slowly closed his eyes, and reached out.
He had not done this in a long time, but he had not forgotten how. His spirit loosed itself from its body and opened its eyes. He could see the candles, but their flames were like ice. He was still in the crypt, and yet somewhere completely different. He called out for her. No words, no names existed here, he simply called. The faint remains of a spirit answered, something dead for centuries, but he blew it away, and called again, more forcefully. Only silence. The walls here seemed to shift and twist, and then a sharp noise whistled in his ears and he was jolted back into his body -- if he'd ever left it.
His heart was pounding, his senses were at their sharpest. He looked around, the crypt was unchanged, the candles, the caskets still and silent, the doors shut and barred. Nothing could have disturbed him here; nothing would have dared. He wondered if there had been a sound, or if there had been nothing but his own fear. He breathed deeply, willing his heart to be still. Four days was not too long, he thought, frowning. In fact, it was his custom to wait for at least two days before breathing new life into an intended child. The longer they remained dead, the less they would remember of their mortal lives, and the easier they would accept their fate. Four days was not very long at all, he had raised dead much older than that. He pressed his hand down on her sternum, and tried again.
Again, the crypt was twisted and cockeyed, the flames seemed to blaze with a freezing sound. All senses were confused in this state. He looked around without eyes, and called out. This time, she answered. It was a faint and dreamy sound, from a place where sound had no meaning. He knew why he had missed her before; she was barely here at all. Come to me, he called, without words, without a voice, with the pure force of his will. It tugged at her, but she was weighty, anchored to the place outside of places that she inhabited. Her soul seemed to be asleep, something he had never encountered before. He called again, but his demand passed her by as if it did not apply to her. He reached out for her, shook her, tugged at her. He, Raziel, would not be denied. Not by this one. She complained with something between a moan and a hiss. She was waking, but resisting his call. Come, he pleaded, but she slipped away as he was pulled back to the material world.
He found himself sat on top of her corpse, his hand pressing heavily down on her ribcage. He closed it into a fist in frustration, cutting three deep gashes into her dead flesh. His head was pounding and he felt weak. "Come, come to me," he heard himself murmer, "let me take you back..." He rested his head in his hands. Weariness overwhelmed him. He had pushed himself to the edge to catch her soul, and still he had failed. Her body was still silent, lifeless, unfeeling. Death had bested him.