ADOILE III - ARISE
The second loosing of his spirit had left him drained and exhausted. He decided to return later, in this state he could not hope to find her soul. He needed sleep, perhaps a drink. Clumsily, he crawled down from the slab and stumbled to the doors. He fell against the bar and had to rest for a moment before he could shift it. It was as if his soul could not get comfortable in his own body anymore. His vision seemed to blink in and out as he climbed the winding stairs, and he realised he had not tried this hard since he was a fledgeling. He knew it had been hours, but was surprised when he saw pale daylight filtering in through the blinds and curtains in the hallway. His eyes burned. He needed to rest. He locked himself into his inner chamber and welcomed the gentle death of sleep.
He awoke refreshed, but ravenous. What was usually a mild heat in the pit of his stomach had turned into a painful, cramped inferno. He made his way through the bustle of the keep to the east cellars, where they kept their prisoners, delivered to him in payment for the protection he offered. Orphans, strangers guilty of crimes true or imagined, sometimes they were picked by a lottery. It was not his concern. His people needed their sacrifice, and so did he. He kept bottles of preserved blood in his room, but this hunger called for something stronger.
There was a light flickering at the end of the stone corridor. A few Razielim of the youngest generation were sat at a table, playing a game involving beads of glass. He nodded at them as he walked past. They regarded him wide eyed and muted. In the corridor beyond, there were two mortals chained to the wall, a man and a woman. The man looked sick, plagued by some fever. The restraints had chafed wounds into his wrists that would now never heal. He had been here for a while; the harvest was greatest if the blood was drawn out slowly, over a period of weeks. Raziel passed him by. The other captive was a young woman, who began to stir from her stupor as he approached. She struggled against the shackles around her wrists. Raziel watched her calmly.
"Please," she whispered when she saw him. "Help me, kind sir! Are you not the lord of this land?"
Raziel was surprised that she should know such a thing. She was quite an attractive young woman, the soft flesh of her face looked positively appetising.
"I'm not meant to be here," she continued her plea. He stroked her cheek gently. "I'm no vagrant. I was only travelling to my sister's farm, I am innocent!"
Raziel smiled. "You are not held here for a crime, my girl," he said softly. His hand travelled up beneath her skirt, over the warm skin of her thigh. Hunger mingled with desire, and it quickened his blood.
She whimpered. "Please, don't... can't you help me? I didn't do anything wrong..."
"Listen to me," he whispered in her ear. "You are not here because of any wrong you did. I want you to understand that." He gently moved her hair aside and drew his claws lightly over the skin of her neck. She moaned and strained to turn away from him, a movement that exposed the shallow cuts perfectly. Beads of blood welled up, and he licked them away. He could taste her sweetness, her young, warm blood. He leaned against her, pressing her to the wall. "You are here because I want you to be here," he growled. He took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. "There is no other reason. I wanted you here."
Her eyes were wide, tears welled up and rolled down her cheek. "Please," she repeated. He smiled and ran his hand down her body. He could feel his heart beat in his throat when he knelt in the dirt before her and lifted her skirts, his hunger an all-consuming fire deep inside him. She suppressed a scream by biting her lip. He breathed deeply, savouring the slightly sour smell she kept hidden under her skirts. One of the main blood-rivers ran close to the skin here; he traced one finger up the inside of her leg to find the spot. He could feel it pulsing under the skin.
She screamed when he bit her, ripping a chunk of flesh out of her leg and covering the hole with his mouth. A fountain of sweet hot blood coursed down his throat, and he clung tightly to her as she struggled and convulsed, sobbing loudly. He did not draw out her blood, allowing her heart to feed him instead. It was slow, but so much more satisfying. He loved to feed properly.
The stream slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She had grown still. He heard a small sound behind him and got to his feet. The girl was ghastly pale, flopping from the wall-mounted shackles like a rag doll. He wiped his mouth on her apron.
"My Lord?" a wary voice asked behind him. "Is anything amiss?"
Raziel turned to look. It was one of the guards, a thin, young thing with fair hair. He wondered idly who might have chosen to gift him. "No, nothing is amiss. I was simply hungry." He realised how long it had been since he had been down here; he had become so used to bottled blood, he had almost forgotten about the dark pleasure of the kill. The young vampire looked doubtfully at the mortal girl he had been guarding, now dead and worthless. "Please dispose of her for me," Raziel said. The young man nodded.
Restored and emboldened by the meal, he descended into the crypt, where his daughter-to-be was waiting. He would not fail again. He might have given up already, if she had not been so beautiful, so sweetly innocent in death. He wanted her, and he would not give up until she was his. He climbed on top of her now, straddling her cold corpse, and studied her frozen face. Her eyes were open by just a fraction, her burst, dry lips slightly apart. He punctured one of his fingers with his teeth, and painted her lips with a drop of blood.
"Come, little one," he whispered, "taste the sweets I offer you..." Her chest still showed the gashes he had cut into it the previous night, and he spilled a drop of blood there, too. Then, he grabbed hold of both her shoulders, and rested his forehead against her soft chest, bowing as though in prayer. He knew she was close.
The familiar displacement, the loss of vision and sound. It was replaced by something that mimicked sound and vision, but wasn't it, just as the crypt was replaced by a similacrum. Although he would never admit to it, he feared this place. He felt that if he was not careful, it would draw him in and hold him prisoner forever. He would be one of those wretched lost souls that howled and sobbed in this dimensionless place. Around him, reality seemed to consist only of sharp angles, ready to tear his soul to shreds. He barely dared to call...
But he was answered, immediately and from nearby. It was her, awake now, and frightened. Her call was filled with disappointment and confusion, a sense of betrayal. She was panicked, her soul fluttered like a moth against a window pane. The edges of this reality hurt her and threatened to disintegrate her. He sang her a siren's song: come to me, I have the warmth you seek, I will keep you safe, I will hold you close and whisper your name...
A flicker of doubt, then she was his. He grabbed her and pulled her with him back into the real world. Her heart lunged and started beating fast and heavily, desperately trying to make her dead, dry blood flow again. Her eyes flicked open, glazed and blind, and a ragged breath escaped her lips. Raziel had opened the vein in his neck with a claw, and pressed her face against it. Soon enough, she began to suckle the wound of her own accord, and he hugged her close, whispering gentle words to her.
She moaned and shook, the pain of the transformation wracking her tender body. He held her fast, still feeding her, while she struggled and sobbed, and mutely railed against him: he had betrayed her, he had brought her into a world of pain instead of the sweet garden he'd promised her. He could hear her thoughts as if their souls were still touching. It was unsettling, but he knew it would soon pass.
"This is the worst," he told her, in the meantime, "keep drinking, and it will soon pass. You are my daughter, and form now on, I will keep you safe from harm. Trust me, it will pass..."
She drank, and continued to drink until he began to feel the loss of blood, and pulled her away. She was sobbing, crying red-tinted tears, weak with pain and misery. And yet, the blood had already erased the deepest marks the disease had left. Her face looked rounded again, her skin restored and smooth. He embraced her tenderly, stroking her hair, whispering into her curls.
"I know it hurts. Trust me, it will soon be over. You are safe now, here with me." Slowly, she relaxed and sagged against him.
AN: The story should really end here, I wrote on for a bit before I realised I was just rambling. You can read the rest if you want, I've put it up mainly because of the introduction (to Adoile) of the six lieutentant in part 5. Please consider this the end of the story, though.
The second loosing of his spirit had left him drained and exhausted. He decided to return later, in this state he could not hope to find her soul. He needed sleep, perhaps a drink. Clumsily, he crawled down from the slab and stumbled to the doors. He fell against the bar and had to rest for a moment before he could shift it. It was as if his soul could not get comfortable in his own body anymore. His vision seemed to blink in and out as he climbed the winding stairs, and he realised he had not tried this hard since he was a fledgeling. He knew it had been hours, but was surprised when he saw pale daylight filtering in through the blinds and curtains in the hallway. His eyes burned. He needed to rest. He locked himself into his inner chamber and welcomed the gentle death of sleep.
He awoke refreshed, but ravenous. What was usually a mild heat in the pit of his stomach had turned into a painful, cramped inferno. He made his way through the bustle of the keep to the east cellars, where they kept their prisoners, delivered to him in payment for the protection he offered. Orphans, strangers guilty of crimes true or imagined, sometimes they were picked by a lottery. It was not his concern. His people needed their sacrifice, and so did he. He kept bottles of preserved blood in his room, but this hunger called for something stronger.
There was a light flickering at the end of the stone corridor. A few Razielim of the youngest generation were sat at a table, playing a game involving beads of glass. He nodded at them as he walked past. They regarded him wide eyed and muted. In the corridor beyond, there were two mortals chained to the wall, a man and a woman. The man looked sick, plagued by some fever. The restraints had chafed wounds into his wrists that would now never heal. He had been here for a while; the harvest was greatest if the blood was drawn out slowly, over a period of weeks. Raziel passed him by. The other captive was a young woman, who began to stir from her stupor as he approached. She struggled against the shackles around her wrists. Raziel watched her calmly.
"Please," she whispered when she saw him. "Help me, kind sir! Are you not the lord of this land?"
Raziel was surprised that she should know such a thing. She was quite an attractive young woman, the soft flesh of her face looked positively appetising.
"I'm not meant to be here," she continued her plea. He stroked her cheek gently. "I'm no vagrant. I was only travelling to my sister's farm, I am innocent!"
Raziel smiled. "You are not held here for a crime, my girl," he said softly. His hand travelled up beneath her skirt, over the warm skin of her thigh. Hunger mingled with desire, and it quickened his blood.
She whimpered. "Please, don't... can't you help me? I didn't do anything wrong..."
"Listen to me," he whispered in her ear. "You are not here because of any wrong you did. I want you to understand that." He gently moved her hair aside and drew his claws lightly over the skin of her neck. She moaned and strained to turn away from him, a movement that exposed the shallow cuts perfectly. Beads of blood welled up, and he licked them away. He could taste her sweetness, her young, warm blood. He leaned against her, pressing her to the wall. "You are here because I want you to be here," he growled. He took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. "There is no other reason. I wanted you here."
Her eyes were wide, tears welled up and rolled down her cheek. "Please," she repeated. He smiled and ran his hand down her body. He could feel his heart beat in his throat when he knelt in the dirt before her and lifted her skirts, his hunger an all-consuming fire deep inside him. She suppressed a scream by biting her lip. He breathed deeply, savouring the slightly sour smell she kept hidden under her skirts. One of the main blood-rivers ran close to the skin here; he traced one finger up the inside of her leg to find the spot. He could feel it pulsing under the skin.
She screamed when he bit her, ripping a chunk of flesh out of her leg and covering the hole with his mouth. A fountain of sweet hot blood coursed down his throat, and he clung tightly to her as she struggled and convulsed, sobbing loudly. He did not draw out her blood, allowing her heart to feed him instead. It was slow, but so much more satisfying. He loved to feed properly.
The stream slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She had grown still. He heard a small sound behind him and got to his feet. The girl was ghastly pale, flopping from the wall-mounted shackles like a rag doll. He wiped his mouth on her apron.
"My Lord?" a wary voice asked behind him. "Is anything amiss?"
Raziel turned to look. It was one of the guards, a thin, young thing with fair hair. He wondered idly who might have chosen to gift him. "No, nothing is amiss. I was simply hungry." He realised how long it had been since he had been down here; he had become so used to bottled blood, he had almost forgotten about the dark pleasure of the kill. The young vampire looked doubtfully at the mortal girl he had been guarding, now dead and worthless. "Please dispose of her for me," Raziel said. The young man nodded.
Restored and emboldened by the meal, he descended into the crypt, where his daughter-to-be was waiting. He would not fail again. He might have given up already, if she had not been so beautiful, so sweetly innocent in death. He wanted her, and he would not give up until she was his. He climbed on top of her now, straddling her cold corpse, and studied her frozen face. Her eyes were open by just a fraction, her burst, dry lips slightly apart. He punctured one of his fingers with his teeth, and painted her lips with a drop of blood.
"Come, little one," he whispered, "taste the sweets I offer you..." Her chest still showed the gashes he had cut into it the previous night, and he spilled a drop of blood there, too. Then, he grabbed hold of both her shoulders, and rested his forehead against her soft chest, bowing as though in prayer. He knew she was close.
The familiar displacement, the loss of vision and sound. It was replaced by something that mimicked sound and vision, but wasn't it, just as the crypt was replaced by a similacrum. Although he would never admit to it, he feared this place. He felt that if he was not careful, it would draw him in and hold him prisoner forever. He would be one of those wretched lost souls that howled and sobbed in this dimensionless place. Around him, reality seemed to consist only of sharp angles, ready to tear his soul to shreds. He barely dared to call...
But he was answered, immediately and from nearby. It was her, awake now, and frightened. Her call was filled with disappointment and confusion, a sense of betrayal. She was panicked, her soul fluttered like a moth against a window pane. The edges of this reality hurt her and threatened to disintegrate her. He sang her a siren's song: come to me, I have the warmth you seek, I will keep you safe, I will hold you close and whisper your name...
A flicker of doubt, then she was his. He grabbed her and pulled her with him back into the real world. Her heart lunged and started beating fast and heavily, desperately trying to make her dead, dry blood flow again. Her eyes flicked open, glazed and blind, and a ragged breath escaped her lips. Raziel had opened the vein in his neck with a claw, and pressed her face against it. Soon enough, she began to suckle the wound of her own accord, and he hugged her close, whispering gentle words to her.
She moaned and shook, the pain of the transformation wracking her tender body. He held her fast, still feeding her, while she struggled and sobbed, and mutely railed against him: he had betrayed her, he had brought her into a world of pain instead of the sweet garden he'd promised her. He could hear her thoughts as if their souls were still touching. It was unsettling, but he knew it would soon pass.
"This is the worst," he told her, in the meantime, "keep drinking, and it will soon pass. You are my daughter, and form now on, I will keep you safe from harm. Trust me, it will pass..."
She drank, and continued to drink until he began to feel the loss of blood, and pulled her away. She was sobbing, crying red-tinted tears, weak with pain and misery. And yet, the blood had already erased the deepest marks the disease had left. Her face looked rounded again, her skin restored and smooth. He embraced her tenderly, stroking her hair, whispering into her curls.
"I know it hurts. Trust me, it will soon be over. You are safe now, here with me." Slowly, she relaxed and sagged against him.
AN: The story should really end here, I wrote on for a bit before I realised I was just rambling. You can read the rest if you want, I've put it up mainly because of the introduction (to Adoile) of the six lieutentant in part 5. Please consider this the end of the story, though.