Chapter Two

The fire is currently
burning out of control.

. . .

Raziel stood pensive as he stared blankly ahead.
The road was open and empty. Nothing moved on its lenght, which got lost in the horizon of Nosgoth herself, and the blue wraith felt the same nothingness shift in his hollow chest.
The anguish of the moment when the Reaver had been embedded in his chest had never abandoned him, ignored and shoved to the bottom of his mind, perhaps, but never defeated. Not for the first time, he mourned the loss of the relative simplicity of his life of before -before this hideous body, before his fall, before his wings, before all this. The knowledge of what awaited him in the end, as if he were trapped in a huge, ironic circle, weighed him down like a boulder in the empty cavity of his chest. He almost laughed bitterly at the thought. To be devoured by the same sword he'd thought of as a mythical relic for most of his life... it was ironic indeed.
He started down the wide path with a sense of angry defeat burning in what remained of his heart. All for nothing, he thought bitterly. Not even Vorador -whose mansion he'd left two days ago- had been able to uncover the Reaver's secrets, and the one who could have done so had been murdered by Raziel's own hand. Ironic, this too -bitter, cruel irony seemed to be the only constant of his life.
His steps sounded light on the ground, though to his own ears, the sound was both hollow and heavy. He'd have gritted his teeth had he still had the chance to do so, but alas, his upper jaw only grazed the coarse fabric of the once-red cloth he wore on his face, as he attempted to move muscles that were no longer there. That was one of the things that grated on Raziel's nerves the most. He'd never realized just how much he relied on facial expressions until they'd been taken from him.
He scowled at his own thoughts. Ever since the Reaver had attempted to consume him, his thirst for vengeance and boiling anger had somewhat died down, turning him towards feelings he'd never allowed himself to feel before: defeat, resignation, dark sadness. Perhaps, he reflected as he walked, the overall success of his life (both the first and the second one) had kept him from ever truly feeling what most of his enemies had felt as they fell beneath his armies -feeling as he wouldn't make it, as if there was nothing more to fight for. The harsh reality was that, even if he did manage to revive Janos Audron, the entity
(it's me it's always been me)
dwelling in the Reaver would still be there, waiting, prowling like a caged predator in the back of his mind. As much as Raziel always summoned the Mind Guards to drag that thought away in chains, it always managed to escape again and come back to grin into his face.
The wraith hated it. Hated that he couldn't fight his own mind, exactly as he couldn't fight the Raziel waiting in the wretched sword. Yet another invisible enemy, and one he couldn't face unless he destroyed himself, and that was decidedly not happening, thank you very much. As much as he hated this body with a passion, he was quite attached to the life it allowed him to live.
Wretched as it is.
With a snort, he quickened his pace. He still didn't have a real destination to reach, most of his plan building in his head as he walked, but running had always helped him clear his mind, and now was no exception. The landscape flew around him at vampiric speed, trees, clearing and even a stream passing by without Raziel really noticing. A few animals froze and cowered as he passed, but then returned to their previous occupations once he disappeared. Raziel didn't fear getting lost, so he didn't bother looking where he was going. He'd reach somewhere and then he'd worry about it.
So, yes, Raziel ran. He thought. He took some time to stop worrying and just mourn for what he'd once had. He felt stupid doing so consciously, seeing as his time as Kain's right hand man had mostly brought foul memories with, but then he'd remember the times when he'd sit with his brothers. The tales they'd tell and the laughter they ensued, the way their eyes looked when they glanced at each other. He remembered the way everyone kept considering Melchiah the little brother who needed protection, and how they'd tease Rahab for his passion for books and not women. Janos would have liked them, Raziel thought suddenly, and wondered about the way things could have been had the Ancient been alive to get to know them. Rahab would have been his favourite, no doubt.
His feet and musings had brought him far from Termogent Forest, longer a distance than what he'd expected to cover in one day. The clouds covered the now twilight sky, promising a rain that was fortunately no longer acidic to him. Raziel could have kept going the whole night, if he so wished, but he decided against it -if he chose to go to Avernus later, he didn't want to be too far and have to double his efforts when there was no reason to do so. Besides, a night's sleep would probably help him make a decision about what he wanted to do with his life. He only had to find a decent spot where to curl up and close his eyes without Moebius' soldiers tracking him down.
Raziel had nothing but the cowl on his face to his name, so he didn't have a map, but during his struggle to find the ancient Vorador in his home, he'd come across several of them. The old vampire had even had a tapestry with Nosgoth's wasteland woven in it, and had pointed out the human settlements he controlled -admittedly numerous, Raziel's warlord side clapping and nodding in admiration as he simultaneously smirked at such a self-celebrating show. Vorador could allow himself his hedonistic quirks, he thought.
Among the various small emerald pins, Raziel remembered there being a particular village Vorador had marked. It had been north from the vampire's home, and if his senses weren't deceiving him, Raziel believed he wasn't far from it. Still, he filed away the need to get a map of Nosgoth as soon as possible. He could get one in the village and stick it between his naked ribs, he supposed.
Or he could get a bag. That was alright too.
He snickered to himself -for no reason, really- and started down his path once more.

So here it was, and wasn't this little Dellmeadow town something to be admired. These folks had to be brave indeed, to deal with someone like Vorador on something like a weekly or monthly basis and not get killed. Still, as the old cranky bastard had once pointed out, Raziel did look more like a demon than a vampire -these people, however used to the presence of the undead, would not cooperate with him unless he spilled blood. Well. Their loss and his gain -he was still good at spilling blood.
His cheeks -what remained of them, anyway- lifted in the grotesque imitation of a grin. He discreetly walked into the town, slipping into the shadows of late evening.
Not many lights were on inside the houses, most humans having already gone to sleep. Raziel could hear the wailing cries of an infant, somewhere in the distance of the dark alleys, and in the small church the torches burned still.
The wraith walked soundlessly towards the decorated building, intent on finding a niche or something where to sleep in peace. He knew humans still believed they'd be safe in a sacred edifice, believed that vampires, unholy as they were, could not step into a church without burning to ash. The thought ripped a snicker from Raziel's inexistent throat as he walked inside.
The burning torches illuminated everything. The altar, the decorated columns, the crucifixes -and weren't those peculiar, Raziel thought, observing the way the wood had been carved: the cross looked as if it was made out of golden feathers. But what caught his eye the most were the engraved depictions and the stained glass windows.
He remembered the way the humans had painted Janos in the Sarafan fortress, and the images he found here, though similar, couldn't have been more different. Oh, some things were the same -the ugliness of the monster, for example- but the meaning...
The bat-like creature grinning from the glass had blue skin, sharp teeth and white wings. She was engulfed by roaring flames and a dark red halo surrounded her head. She sat on a throne of skulls and charred flesh, a child in her lap and another winged figure standing at her side, hands clasped behind his back and eyes gleaming golden. Raziel was shocked at how similar to himself the second figure was -when he'd still been a vampire, that is, handsome, fair-skinned and helplessly arrogant. The child in the woman's lap looked terrified, and soon Raziel found out the reason why in the red holes on the side of his neck.
A child-eating beast, then, Raziel thought, not at all surprised by the emptiness of human imagination. He took a step forward and saw that, beneath the main, larger window, there were three smaller ones with three different scenes. The same woman of the throne casting a spell that evoked hellish flames, burning a small clutter of houses to ash, was the scene in the centre. It was connected to the other two by the enormous structure of her wings: on the left, the winged man was offering a young girl for her to bite and, on the right, whole cities kneeled with outstretched arms as one of her immense white wings extended, covering them like a deathly dome. The faces of those people weren't scared, though -no, they looked almost relieved, happy even, and Raziel suddenly realized they were offering their wrists as her wing shielded them from the blood-red rain falling from the clouded sky.
The young priest found Raziel like that, staring with his wide blank eyes at those depicted scenes. The remains of his face showed shock and dismay, but he still was attentive enough to hear the young man as he entered the room.
The human didn't resist Raziel's attack as the vampire shoved him roughly against a wall, a taloned hand pressed on his mouth hard enough to leave shallow wounds on the sickly pale cheeks. His cry was muffled by Raziel's palm, his hands pressed to the wall at his back, and to the wraith's utter surprise, he instantly lifted his chin and left his neck bared.
The skin of his throat was littered with bite marks, ranging from angry purple bruises to faded yellowish stains on the once creamy flesh. The raw wounds bobbed with his harsh breathing, the marks spreading over his spasming breast and collarbones. Raziel was familiar with such a display, for he, too, had helped create them most of his life. He remembered all too well the nights he'd spend with an attractive slave, giving and receiving pleasure as he painted the canvas of their skin in blues and reds.
«Are you a bloodslave?» he hissed, the boy's eyes going all the wider for it. He frantically shook his head and Raziel growled, low in his hollow throat.
«What are these marks then, boy?» he snarled. «And speak truthfully -you wouldn't like what I'd do to you otherwise.»
As he said so, he used his free hand to pull the cowl down. The human's eyes went impossibly wide, a muffled whimper leaving his lips. A pungent stench suddenly invaded the room, a wet patch growing on the front of his pants, and Raziel tsked.
Once, he would have felt somewhat flattered at such a display of weakness. It meant that the human in front of him saw him, perceived his power, felt his presence. Now, he only felt disgust welling in his nonexistent gut, an exasperated sigh making his chest heave.
Slowly, he let go of the human's face. The boy shook, but remarkably managed to keep the tremors from showing in his voice.
«I'm not a bloodslave, m'lord» he said, and Raziel arched what remained of an eyebrow.
My lord?
How long had it been since anyone had called him that? Since he'd been more than just Raziel?
But then the boy continued, and his eyes shone with a sick mixture of terror and devotion.
«These marks you see are the proof of our Mistress' greatness» he said, his hands suddenly raised high above his head. «Our women and children are safe and protected from this wasteland's wrath -our Lady offers us her wings to send our spirits flying. She only asks for sustenance in return, and when I volunteered, I did so gladly.»
Volunteered...
A vampire worshipper, then. And the acrid smell of fear was no longer in the air, either. This boy really believed in what he was saying.
«Your soul wanders, lost and forlorn» the young man said suddenly. Raziel's eyes narrowed, but the boy didn't let the threatening expression stop him. «Our Lady can help you, I'm sure. She will show you the path through the fire and to redemption.»
Redemption! Hah!
«I do not search for redemption, boy. The very concept makes me sick» Raziel said calmly. «But I do wish to meet this Lady you speak so highly of. You made me curious, you see.»
«Curiosity is good, m'lord» the human said, smiling. «Curiosity will make you listen. Curiosity will save your forlorn soul».
Raziel rolled his white glowing eyes, but didn't contradict him. Now sure the boy wouldn't try to run away screaming, he let him go and stepped back, adjusting his cowl so that it would cover his face once more.
Although, he did want to meet this human's Mistress, if only for the wings they had painted on their stained glass windows. He remembered all too well the way the Sarafan had painted Janos in their fortress, and though this woman looked more... disturbing, in a way -what with the mad grin on her lips-, Raziel had long since learned to be wary of paintings. He'd thought Janos was the last of the Ancients, he himself had said so, but what if he wasn't and had never known? After all, the ancient vampire had been hardly omniscent. Could it be that two members of his race had escaped the mass suicide and the following slaughter, building their own empire far away in the middle of nowhere?
Undetected? Even by Kain?
Difficult, perhaps, but hardly impossible for the Ancients. Raziel was sure of that, because the other options -that Kain had, indeed, known of their existence and left them alone; or that he'd tried and failed to conquer their lands- were simply too absurd to be believable. Kain had never had mercy on anyone.
Not even me.
Oh, stop the pity party, will you?!
But it was true, and the knowledge made him try and fail to grit his teeth. A flame of the old anger he'd come to thrive on flared, but it was short-lived.
That disturbed Raziel more than he cared to admit.
When you take away hatred and anger from a man that only thrives on them, what does indeed remain, if not an immense void?
«Lead me to her» Raziel said, the sound of his voice distracting him from his own thoughts.
He'd expected protests, but the boy surprised him yet again. His smile widened even further and he nodded, bowing deeply. «I would suggest we wait until morning to leave, though, m'lord. Our Lady is more dangerous at night.»
«I do not wish to be seen by your fellow villagers.»
«Then you shall not. I will keep the explanations to a minimum when I'll take the wagon. We receive many lost souls like you, seeking salvation and not wanting to let others see their current unclean state. There will be no questions.»
Raziel sighed. «Just find me a place where I can sleep, boy.»
«Certainly, m'lord. Please follow me.»

Hours later, Raziel lay awake in a comfortable bed.
The boy -who had introduced himself as Rohan- had led him to an elegantly furnished room, not used often but kept very clean. Tall, expensive candles burnt on the silver candelabra scattered on the desk and bedside table, illuminating the many heavy tomes the shelves and the clean parchment and ink waiting on the table. A long, elegant quill waited beside the parchment, the sharp tip gleaming with orange sparks in the candlelight. A large closet stood in the far corner of the room, while a door on the left led to the private bathroom. On a small decorated table with a glass layer on top, next to a beautifully engraved goblet, was a glass carafe filled to the brim with blood. There was even a small metal tripod where one coul put the carafe, and then heat the red liquid up by means of a candle that could be placed beneath it. These people had thought of everything, and Raziel wondered just how many vampires had wandered there -and then what? Had been killed by these people? But no, the bite marks had been authentic. The young priest wasn't a bloodslave, Raziel had seen no marks from a collar or handcuffs, but the wounds littering his neck showed that he might as well have been. Whoever this boy was, whatever this whole village was, they served the vampires as f they were their own version of Janos' Messiah. So what had those undead souls found here?
Blood and rest, that was what. And the demonic grinning woman. And what had they found in her?
His thoughts went back to the stained glass windows in the church, to the red-orange glow of painted flames. Had those vampires found the 'redemption' the boy had mentioned in the form of scorching heat and charred flesh? Or had they found the solace, the relief they'd been searching for?
Raziel doubted it, and not just because, since the Abyss, he'd become a hopeless pessimist. He had a bad feeling about the woman, but reconsidering his decision wasn't even an option -it was useless to debate about it, knowing he would be going anyway.
He left the candles to burn when he lay down. He stared into the flickering flame of the one closest to him, feeling so terribly strange lying on an actual bed, his cowl within reach on the bedside table. The once vampire looked at the shadows playing on the worn fabric for a long time before his lids fell on his glowing eyes.

. . .

Authoress' note:
I do not own in any shape or form the characters featured in this story -this also applies to the story's image cover and to the quotes at the beginning of each chapter. I only own my OCs and the story's plot.
Comments please!
Have a nice day/night and love Legacy of Kain!