Nine
The Taste of Blood and Candle wax
and The Abbey
The book lay open before me – its pages torn and scalded around the edges, worn weary from many centuries of water and the remains of damp. It was tattered and frayed, a symbolic object of an item that stood to be a testimony of the passing times.
Oh if only the pages of that book could have uttered, think upon all that they would have said, all those stories of history they could have told.
"The Rahabim may be called upon should –" There was a pause. "Rahab?"
My eyes ran over the words and prose. Unquestionably, mortal hands had woven this book, for the accounts on vampirism were not favourable. I conclude, they wrote about vampirism as if it were something that was a poison of the blood. Alas, if only they knew the true standards of vampirism and what being a vampire meant.
They viewed vampirism as some curse, and though I could see their point of view, I felt inclined to feel that in its absolutism, it was more of a gift. What they said proved to be spoken in moments of worry; to the mortals it was a curse because the immortals overpowered them.
Regardless of how tiring and draining change is, the gift Lord Kain bestowed upon my brethren and I, I have never regretted. I would sooner walk through the path of flame than regret my gift or question Lord Kain's intentions in giving it to me.
It was clear that the hand that had wrought the writing of this book had done so in times when the mortals had been 'powerful' and 'strong' – such irony in words such as those. Yet now they proceed to be little more than a dying breed of ignorance. Our vessels, our servants, they survive only at our own desires ...and yet our own needs... They are here because we allow them to be.
This book –as all books and parchment pieces of that time – was written in their favour, with vampires as the scourge of Nosgoth. Whilst them, they – the victims, attempted to put 'right' to what was. To put 'right'? Ah, of course, only the 'right' that they see, the 'right' of what they are led to believe. Mortals remain to be blinded, and their blindness makes them foolish. I see this now...
Within the centre of the table there was a small collection of candles; they proved to be the only light within the room, except the slight stream that came from the open doorway.
The flames danced aloft the candles wick, flickering and waving their deadly tongues of the hot element. Meanwhile the light from the room played upon the stone floor, silhouettes gracing their presence every once in a while when it was a fledgling would pass the doorway.
Upon my face I could feel the shadows that formed, embracing my features – the equalisation and unfaltering contrast of the darkness and the light.
For a moment I looked up from my book and glanced at Raziel. My mind did not acknowledge his presence at first, despite the fact that it had been I who had greeted him, and I who had placed the chalice before him. And I, now completely submersed in an overwhelming knowledge of written history wrought by mortal hands, I was showing a rare moment of conceit. In truth, Raziel had been forgotten to me.
The forgotten figure picked up his chalice and glanced at the contents – the last dregs of blood – before bringing it to his lips and finishing it off in one dignified swallow.
Distantly I watched Lord Kain's first son. At the same time I considered the theory of how it is history is always written, written by those who are the conquerors. As for those who remain to be unsuccessful on the ongoing quest of domination, well you never hear their voices. In their deaths so the history of the winners silence them. The looses are left to the dusts of time, consumed and twisted; only existing in the minds of those who remember them.
In the depths of my own mind I recalled fragments of that theory, elements of when I had first heard someone say how history was, and how it was always going to be written. The memory however, is not complete and above all it is broken and fractured, though I can still recall the words...
"History is always written by the victors – and Rahab, in all accounts that is what we are, the victors, the vanquishers. Bah, let us not question this, why question it? Time runs within our favour, and it will always be that way. Your helm, loyal Knight..."
Now it was us – the vampires, who were the successors. We would write history how it was intended to be written – with the will of Lord Kain to guide of words.
"Rahab?"
Raziel's voice felt intrusive within my mind. It pierced the thin and delicate membrane of my thoughts, my thoughts that wanted nothing more than silence.
We sat at one of my tables in the main hall of my dwelling. It had been two nights ago that I had submerged from my chambers having gone through change. Four nights and it had ended, concluding that this particular moment of metamorphosis had been brief.
The changes themselves were small. For four nights of being locked away I did not have a lot of evidence to show for a bout of evolution. Outside I remained the vampire I had been nights before; nevertheless, it was my senses that had gained... Though one began to suffered more...
Light was to forever to hunt me, hound me for the betrayal that I had acted centuries ago, when I had first turned my back upon her. My progression in evolution would continue, and with each fated step, the weaker to light I became.
For her act – the servant – in seeing to the hunter she was to receive a most callous reward. I denied her heart the right to continue throughout the realms of immortality. Instead I quelled it to an aspect of quietness, though not silence.
I could have crushed her essence and then brought her back as one of my own, if I had wanted to. But the aspect of power is all too delightful, especially on the accounts of bloodlust. In that area I can be just as cruel and cold as Zephon. You see – I am not as gentle as I may be perceived. Like Turel I can loom and seem as unmoving as a shadow. Yet, I am always watching, and wait in silenced judgement, going in for the final strike when others least expect it.
The doors to my chambers had opened just as the blood had entered my mouth. The provoking taste of crimson had teased my taste buds as my tongue had begun to lap upon her life's flow. I was adjoined to her through this connection, and some of her thoughts spilled over into my mind. Nevertheless, I was not being my usual self and took little heed of what I had to learn from her.
Profound moments like this placate all thoughts, one where the hunter is close to its prey, and secretly we worship their heartbeats. Why – because the heart is the one important organ that keeps the bloodstream flowing.
Blood, just blood, and to feed, that is all I wanted, that is all my body demanded. Could I not just give it that?
My senses and rationality were torn by what this lust for blood demanded of me, and if I did not do what it demanded, then torment would only follow. Though I admit in truth that I did not want to disobey this lust. Why should I but remain entirely loyal to it? This lust that made me better off, this lust derived from the gift Lord Kain had bestowed upon me.
Foolish, foolish mortal. She should have indeed gone when she had the chance.
I rocked and lulled her gently within my grasp, muttering those words of 'foolish' with every spill of blood. It was an utmost caring gesture, one that could have been shown in a compassionate moment. Intimate it was, but her lover I was not. For though I caressed her skin greedily, with each draw of breath – I drew upon her life.
We remained adjoined for a small while, like two threads of fundamental nature interlocking within each other. Wound around the intermingled boundaries of fatality, we were two sculptures both representing either poles of the spectrum of providence.
Fate had spared her from that moment with Zephon so that I could be the one to take her. And so we waltzed within her requiem, whilst her heart stuttered and anticipated the final strike, the final moment when I would take it all.
I would crush the core and capture every lost drop, absorb the hub and the heat that flowed from there.
'Humans are here for this purpose; they are given life to serve us... Their lives, their life flow belongs to us, and we may choose to do what we wish with it, however we wish to spend it... They are ours...' Inside I was laughing deeply with those thoughts. How concerted and single-minded this hunger in change made me
A small congregation of candles flickered upon the sideboard, standing like some omniscient watchers. Shadows became cast upon the floor, and I looked up to see three of my fledglings standing there.
Silently as the night they had come – my children, creeping over the horizons of time and answering my long distant calls. They made me pause my assault upon her life's flow.
Fascinated by their sudden appearance, I watched the shade dance upon my children's features, whilst I could feel a trickle of blood escape the edge of my lips and descend down my chin. Between them they had brought me something more, something that would make this hunger retreat.
In my grasp the servant distantly began to stir, an unconscious moment of movement. To me, she had now been forgotten. To my mind and the ongoing call of lust for blood she was instantly unimportant. With that thought I released my grip upon her and allowed her lifeless body to drop onto the bed.
Automatically I reached out for them. Forget all dignity and honour, for none can be found in a moment such as this, all is forgotten.
I was embraced, and in the intermingle that became I was conscious of one hundred thoughts, the respiration of my clan, the callings and the feelings and our desire for that one element. How can one describe the moments that followed? Decadent. Decadent these moments were, to which the night waned on moments of just drinking, embraced in the grasps of my own.
And so my children offered it to me – fresh crimson blood, all that I could want, all that I could desire, and all I could take. It filled me, satisfying my body with such a feeling that the living would never be able to appreciate, for they feel it all the time – and it is only this feeling that I envy them for. A feeling I cherish, the feeling of life channelling its way through my lifeless senses, nourishing with ever drop.
The heat of life consumes. In this shell that was my body so the blood of the living embraces my decayed and broken soul. With every drop so the life of another fortifies the chains of my body that anchor my essence firm into this breathing corpse, though it breathes without a reason.
I gasped and took in more of the element, drawing it in slowly so that I could prolong the warmth for a little longer. The warmth entered my mouth and made its way down my body, breathing its warmness into my limbs, animating frigid skin. This was everything... Everything I was driven by was for this moment, and everything I existed for was highlighted by this need, a need that I could not be without.
Within the peek of the instant I gave in fully to my desire, surrendering to the sweetness of the lust, retreating back onto the bed, and collapsing between the blankets. The blood drove an exhilarating element into my own decrepit veins, strengthening and fortifying myself, the weakness pushed firmly away.
Finally I had had enough, enough substance within me to allow myself to withdraw, to rest and not awaken until change had occurred fully.
I stretched. The sheets around me were highlighted in pools of crimson. Corrupt and ruddy, the element of mortal life ate away at the dull white of the sheets, as like I devoured life so this textile absorbed the relics.
I turned and noticed the servant's body still lying inertly, blankets folded underneath her.
In the oncoming moment of rest, as it slowly drifted over my body, I kept my eyes upon her. I felt overwhelming contentment. Was she dead, and was it in my arms that she had died? I remember no more.
"Will the Rahabim be ready should they be needed?" The chalice was now back in front of Raziel, whilst in a noble gesture he gently wiped away any remains of his beverage that may have lingered upon his lips. He frowned when he noticed that he still did not have my full attention.
"Rahab, the Rahabim?"
"Yes." 'Twas a faint whisper, a trail of my own thoughts, and not an altogether answer to Raziel's questions.
What was I saying yes to? In honesty I was not entirely sure. I had heard Raziel's voice, as well as the words that had left him and the vocals they were fashioned in, but I had not heard the full statements he had spoken.
"I wonder. Will their lord be ready?"
"There is something about this..." My claws lay resting underneath the sentence I had just read so that I did not loose my place of reading from the book.
"Some of this speaks of the Abbey..." I chuckled and carried on to read out loud. "Used in moments of our defence as well as..." The words became lost in my own muttering – it was apparent that this conversation was being held between myself and only myself.
"Like the ruins of the Sarafan Stronghold..." I muttered, again to myself.
Without warning the Razielim Lord's hands shot forwards. With such he took the book promptly from me and turned it around to face him.
Raziel glanced at the pages with only mild interest before swiftly flipping through the next couple and then finally flicking it to a close, resting his claws on the leather bound covers.
"I regret the time that I ever mentioned this Abbey to you. You are so close to wanting it as yours."
I paused before replying "Mine?"
"Do not play games Rahab, I know what goes through your mind. Turel has his own land claim, as do I. Zephon already has his eyes set on the Cathedral – and do you, like the rest of us, not want for the same?"
I considered the question, though I wished not to speak of my own desires. Desires can make one obsessive that much is truth, and so I avoided speaking about my desires and myself altogether.
Our conversation continued to which we spoke of history and debated its many concepts – though I did most of the debating and Raziel half-listened – only mildly interested – whilst resting his chin upon the back of his hand. Talk about history however, was always best spent in the company of Turel.
From our conversations, the rekindling of another memory – a memory that I cannot place anywhere within the timeframe of my vampiric lifetime – was stirred. But it is not something I will speak about at this time.
Talking about history with Raziel – even if he was not entirely interested in such – was... 'pleasant'. In truth it was a welcome relief, for past months all we had seemed to ever speak about was the 'taming of the Humans' – as Dumah liked to put it.
Nevertheless, like most things, our discussion brought us full circle, and before long our conversation became lost amidst the talk of vampiric advancement and the affairs of the clans – something Raziel keenly discussed with me, as it became apparent he felt as if he was on familiar conversational territory here.
The mention of the clans and the ongoing battles between mortality and us, brought me to think upon the Melchiahim. I worried for our youngest. Since he had left we had heard nothing from the clan.
I rested my chin upon one hand, whilst the other rested listlessly upon the table – a claw twitching instinctively every so often.
We had received no message back from the Melchiahim. We had no idea of what was happening within the lands Melchiah had been sent to, and Zephon was swift to whisper to his clan that a mistake had been made.
I had contemplated upon whether to send some of my own clan forth. However, I had decided against this idea when I thought about how Melchiah would feel if I was to do this.
Indeed, how would he feel if his older brother was to send forth some of his own clan? That in Melchiah's moment of glory he would suddenly notice a legion of Rahabim coming forth out of the night as nothing more than 'unneeded reinforcements'.
If I was to do that then what did that show in the faith I had placed upon him? Of course the idea of my faith within Melchiah was conflicted with the idea of what if something had happened. The nights I had regarded such thoughts I had simply turned towards my own archives, deciding against dwelling on such terrible thoughts any longer.
Before Melchiah had left I had told him that I had placed my faith in him, as had Lord Kain. Now I made myself promise that I would not go against what I had said to him. Indeed, my faith in him was strong.
"Your mind is not on this."
"Forgive me Raziel, I mean not to be impolite. I thought that I had..."
Raziel's eyes narrowed, he knew that this was unlike me. He leant back in his chair and brought his claws to his chin, where he continued to rest them and study me through one of his scrutinising gazes.
"Rahab." His voice was firm and demanding, a fierce edge hinted throughout the vocals. "Tell me, what preoccupies my brother's mind so much that is unable to concentrate?"
"'Tis nothing, Raziel, I promise you."
In truth it was a variety of things, mainly tiredness of change, the torn elements of my soul feeling listless. It can take a couple of nights for you to regain the same vigour that you beheld before change.
Needless to say, I preferred to spend nights afterwards recuperating with only the fleeting visits from my children as company – not speaking of battle strategies, and only leaving my quarters if Lord Kain or one of the elder brethren requested it so. In such times I read more and rested in fitful intervals. Of course this created a deep wanting of solace.
"'Nothing' would see the normal Rahab listening intently to his brother's words. Nothing would see the normal Rahab offering advice, sitting silently yet listening and watching always. This is not the Rahab I see now."
To such a statement I did not reply. No more was said and Raziel merely grunted to himself acknowledging that he was right in what he had said and knowing that I knew the same.
When the moments passed into silence I watched the flames flicker upon the wicks of the candles. Moments later we were interrupted. A Razielim lingered in the doorway until it was I permitted them entrance, beckoning to them with a gesture of claws.
She bent next to Raziel and whispered something into her lord's ear. I noticed at once that Raziel's eyes narrowed and his eyebrows descended into a frown – though a smirk was painted clearly upon his lips. A storm was gathering within the Razielim Lord, of that much I was certain.
"My apologies Rahab, if you will please excuse me." He stood and glanced at his child, resting a set of claws upon her shoulder. "A dispute between my own and that of Dumah's has arisen. I must depart."
He left without another word and I became a victim to the silence. Not that I minded silence. I allowed it to feed from me, to draw upon the quietness of my soul, to contemplate and regard. Silence, and me, we were one – both predators and yet a desire to have others near by.
From where Raziel had sat I snatched up the book and turned to the page I had been considering in his presence. The page opposite the one I had read from had arcane drawings delicately displayed on the parchment.
The diagrams displayed the working system of a mechanism mortals used to use for protection. It showed that in times of peril they used to flood certain areas of their strongholds with water – thus protecting them from those who would attack them from outside. A defence such as this one made such strongholds supposedly impenetrable – especially to their enemies that might have been weak against water.
Well this was certainly something to think upon.
The page I regarded, like the book, was worn and decaying, the pictures themselves had almost faded. A sufferer of time – this book – one who had been wounded deeply, like us all.
Soon enough I placed the book down and turned my attention to the candles on the table.
At the whim of my own I languidly selected a candle. As I picked up the candle and turned it to one side, I allowed the wax to drip and scar the table's surface. For but a few seconds the wax remained liquefied. Then under my watchful gaze it hardened itself. No longer a liquid but instead a solid. Strangely I found this act of interest.
Whilst the candle wax remained a hot liquid it would scar us – scar both mortal or vampire skin for it was in the substances nature to do so, like it was in ours to drink blood.
I paused and stood the candle up once more.
Whilst regarding the wax I selected a claw and dug it deep into the dry wax, mortally wounding it. With a continued lazy mannerism so I picked the 'scab' from my table's surface.
The whole deed of such a thing had been done as a gesture and ritual of my own thoughts. With each mannerism so my mind had been working upon thought after thought.
There was one thought that was dominant – a battle strategy.
Outside the rain fell.
I tilted my head to one side and listened intently to the gentle voice of water. The soft patter of the skies tears beckoned my ears to listen. It was mellow and placid in its forth coming, and then eventually it became a riot of thunderous drops. Even the drops of rain, I considered, evolved to become something much more powerful.
Leaving that room I descended into another and pushed back the veils that hung in front of the window. Composed and unmoving I watched as the rain fell, each drop bringing an element of thought.
"The Mortals are aware of our weaknesses Rahab." Raziel had said in the midst of our conversation.
"We must be one step ahead and always prepared. They are beginning to fall, but would it not be irony if so close to a victory we were to let down our defences?"
In being one step ahead I had already considered how the mortals would fall. But I also knew something else.
The mortals would retreat; it was in their nature to do so. It is in this nature that they are not so different from us, though of course we are more powerful than them.
Not only are we linked to mortals by the prey and predator connection, but also the element and need to survive no matter what, and regardless of the cost. All we awaited was something to trigger this chain reaction, something to trigger the last moment and the pinnacle of the last battle – the battle that would decide the fate of mortals. Knowing they were upon their last breaths, the mortals would withdraw. Already they were doing so.
All through the chronicles of history this 'need' of surviving the threat of being made extinct had been displayed throughout, in both races of immortal and mortal.
With the necessity of survival they would retreat. This motion set deep within their minds triggered a reaction that had the equalisation of the fact that they had a strong advantage over us. They knew, as Raziel had stated, of our weaknesses and they would retreat to a place they knew would take them far out of our reaches.
It would be a place they had always held, a place that we had never been able to penetrate, a place near the deadliest of our weaknesses – the one that would destroy us completely.