Authors Note: Standard disclaimer applies. Revisions still continuing. Slow process but oddly satisfying.

Aftermath of the Hunt

Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.

Terry Pratchett

Present, London, 1837

LEVI

This is my reality now…my world…the world where I chose to exist after I turned my back on my right to rule over the Council that gave birth to my being. I chose to hunt alone, instead of having the usual retinue of servants that should've done the hunting and scouting for me. I gave up all but the most meager trappings of my former position. For some reason unfathomable to no one but myself, the Council refused to let me continue my existence in a manner unbefitting my state of mind. They argued loudly that exile or not, I am not allowed to live in a hovel. I chose to ignore their decree. If they wish to provide me a domicile—be it hovel or palace—I doubt if it would've made any difference to me. I was not seeking a way of life. I was barely existing as it was. All that consumed my mind was the relentless hunt for answers that has thus far eluded me.

Nearly two centuries have passed since then. The Council still waits for my decision, whether this would be the night I would finally take back the reins of rule or stay in my self-imposed exile. Every fortnight they sent an emissary to my door and every next day they receive my reply in a small ornate snuff box. The Council once stooped to ambushing me in the midst of a hunt to reprimand me for reducing messengers into ashes. They never repeated that same mistake.

And yet the emissaries still arrive promptly at my door, patiently waiting for the answer they hope would be forthcoming. After the first few hundred emissaries, I have stopped counting. I also stopped immolating them. I simply ignored them and in time, they too, went away. Now they sent me mortal emissaries, hoping that I would be tempted by the feast they are offering. That's when I started hunting from the noble houses of the aristocracy. Mortals still operate under the rule of their mortal society. A lowly messenger can never hope to touch me while I lie in the very bosom of the privileged.

I know that my actions are temporary measures at best. I know this well enough. Just as I know that the Council would soon formulate yet another method to elicit a response from my own lips. But it was all for naught. I still have no answer for them. I don't have any answers for them. I have none for them. After all, I have none even for myself. They could send the devil himself to my door and unless he has what I desire I might be tempted to ignore or destroy him just I have done to the others in the past. None of the things they want matters to me and the sooner they understood that, the sooner their losses would be minimized. Until then, he could use the provided cannon fodder for free training.

The servant opened the door before he even had the need for it. This service was one of the many things he has taken for granted since the day the Council of Elders forced their exiled Captain to stay in this mansion. The servant arrived here, delivered along with all the other necessities-accouterments of a life away from home—furniture, clothes, carriages and clothing, gold and jewels from the four corners of the world-illusory trappings of wealth that they deemed only suitable. Material wealth accorded a man in his station in life. The servant that provided for him day and night served just as one more furnishing in his hall…

The mansion was no hollow box that concealed its true purpose like so many other Immortals domain. The mansion was not a prop, a front for what lies beneath its floor. The rooms above were completely furnished, albeit to a lesser degree of opulence than the suite rooms at the catacombs. Out of habit, he began shedding his evening clothes the moment his well-shod feet hit the polished marble floors of his well appointed prison.

As expected, the servant was there, scrambling to pick up every stray item that he carelessly tossed over his shoulder, uncaring if the child diligently following him could actually see where it would land as the house was never fully lit. With only the moonlight pouring out of huge vaulted windows and arches aiding his descent, he spared no sympathy for the difficulty of the chore. He had none to spare.

In the cavernous halls of the old catacombs, he found the ingenious water work system that the engineers he had hired had created. It supplied the catacombs with water enough to fill a small pool where he would take his bath before resting until he rose the next night.

Stripping off the last garments from his body, leaving behind only a delicate chain where a tiny glittering pendant winked in the pale light, he took an assessing look at the crystal clear pool as it reflected his flawless, sinewy length. The eons have barely left any trace on his ageless body save for his mysterious tattoo…it was the same as it was the first time the Elders held the miracle of his creation. The black pool was an excellent foil against his brilliant, soft illumination…mirroring skin whiter than the finest alabaster.

He stood still and wondered anew at the bitter irony that even he would be apt to make the mistake that he was a statue placed in front of a reflective pool. There was barely any visible mark on him…nothing to note that he has been alive for far longer than most civilizations in the world. His misty colored eyes traveled over his smooth, unblemished shell, noting the allure of his physical form with no outward sign of pleasure or pride. The body was simply another tool in his vast arsenal of weapons. Truth be told, it was his weakest weapon, though, ultimately the most tempting to the mortals that flocked to his side…drawn as if called by some irresistible siren song.

His gaze fell on his hands and he raised them to the faint flickering lamp light to better see the glass-like talons that were stained with his last kill's blood. They marred the shining surface, making it difficult to explain to curious mortals their cause if they should be impertinent enough to ask but none had dared. He has learned early on that there still resides in mortals a visceral instinct against danger. They stayed away from him whenever he displayed the slightest hint of aloofness—faintest whisper of his true nature proved enough to keep even the most formidable of them at bay.

But that was not the reason he chose to retreat to his lair, instead of giving in to the call of the night. If he was forced to explain, he could say it was dismay and distaste that sent him back. He found the hunt boring, tedious…a chore more than the sport he had thought it would be. It didn't distract him; it made him even tenser, restless like a caged beast that has grown bored and filled with dangerous ennui. Worse still, the prey disgusted him. He could still recall the rotting, foul stench of the docks…the grimy edge of the civilized world where he was situated…but it wasn't that particular smell that caused his repugnance. It was the taint of his prey's personality. The man was born to privilege but housed a soul more depraved than the lowest vermin that infested the slums.

His eyes were half-concealed by his lashes but even that couldn't hide the burning hatred he felt for the human waste that he had recently disposed of. As he drunk his victim's life essence, his mind was flooded by the images of his past victims…the lives he took…the innocent blood he spilled in the name of lust…the scars he left on so many young hearts…the screams that fed his carnal wants even as he slaked it in the pool of tainted innocence.

The torturous nightmares made his hands clench and he recalled how the iniquitous scoundrel caressed his tresses, smelling the fragrant mass like some rabid animal. He turned away in revulsion, hands trembling as he undid the velvet knot that held it back. Hunting prey requires some kind of contact and there were little about himself that he found worth keeping from the clutches of the rabble he associates with but touching his bare skin was not one of them—least of all their touch on his hair and his nape. The touch of his recent kill on the short, cropped mane he felt like his privacy was breached. The bath was more than just for the stench of the docks clinging to his very pores…it was for the unusual bronze key that hung from his neck, brushing against his skin. It was his only memento of his past…somehow; he always kept it from being drenched by the tainted blood he so freely indulges in. The notion that it has been touched by hands not his own felt like a betrayal of sorts and he needed the cooling, cleansing reality of water to wash away the acrid burn of disgust filling his entire being.

When he saw the strands near his hand stained at the tips with blood he gave out a feral snarl. In a fit of rage he wrapped his hands around the first thing that brushed by him and turning, slammed it straight into the nearby wall. A sickening thud echoed in the empty room, the sound of breaking bones loud in the eerie silence. For a full minute, he was unaware of the desperate but silent struggle that his prey gave until it too settled down. Blinking, he realized that what he was clutching in his hand was a living being, held some four feet from the ground, pinned to the unyielding wall like some parody of an animal mounted there. As if waking from a trance, he backed away slowly, opening his hand until the poor creature dropped into an exhausted, unconscious heap on the floor…blood dripping from the deep gouges he has given his unfortunate servant.

Without a word, he turned away and approached the pool once more. His thin lips held firm once again, barely giving any emotion away though his eyes were even worse. The look of loathing they mirrored after the hunt froze into an icy and unforgiving stare as if he has already dismissed the event from his mind. Slowly, he slid into the perfumed waters and closed his eyes; unconcerned and uncaring of the bleeding, bruised living doll he had so haphazardly tossed like an offending, broken toy as his mind spun around the same litany of thoughts that haunted his every waking moment.

He was so tired…so tired…but he will not break his oath…he will hunt and kill until there is no need riding him any longer…but he will not allow innocent blood to taint his lips…never again will he partake of the poison that innocence bears …he was born of the darkness…he will only partake from its endless rivers…soon…he will answer its Siren's call again…once more…soon…the madness would stop and he could rest…just a little while more…just a little while and then he could continue looking…continue his attempt at remembering…

EREN

I am a servant in the household of an undying being that feasted on mortals. You might think that this would be reason enough for me to leave but I suppose that's why I stay. I don't follow reason. I have been a servant in my master's household for many years, and though I was certainly not the first servant he has had, I am certainly one of the few that survived more than a fortnight. Perhaps it was because I learned early on to simply look and observe and serve. It has certainly done me good.

Tonight, my lord was disturbed…

That much I recognized as I opened the door for him, locking it behind him automatically. I followed him, silent as a shadow, on the lookout to see where his clothes would fall as he went through his habit of tossing them away as soon as they were stripped from his body…his movements were jerky, so unlike his normal, fluid grace. He cast the clothes off as if the costly material were of little or no importance. I suppose that for someone as wealthy as he, clothes were not a concern. And had this been anyone but my taciturn, fastidious master, I would've made that assumption and considered it fact.

But this was Master…and Master cared for his possessions when he was in his usual state. The mansion is run with military precision. His possessions—both living and otherwise—were treated with exacting precision and efficiency. His casual disregard of his clothes revealed more than just his mental state, it spoke his foul temperament clear as bell.

His footsteps on the marble tiles made no sound as he descended to the catacombs where his rooms where kept. I saw my master pull down the lever that controlled the machinery for the water works and I realized that he meant to take a bath. Quick as I can, I folded his clothes and prepared the bathing pool, pouring a generous amount of the perfumed oils that he preferred on such occasions. For reasons known only to him he refuses to wear the same clothes he wore when he comes from a hunt and always bathed after each successful hunt…as if he was washing away the traces of the blood he spilled. This, by itself, was an anomaly for those who are like my master…few of them go through this mortal ritual…keeping themselves clean simply out of habit…some prefer the taint of their kill to perfume their air.

But not my master. He would bathe twice in a single day...once before he hunts and once more after he comes back. There were days when he would bathe more than twice, mostly if things were not to his liking. There were many times I think he is drawn to the water because he feels free and clean within it. Tonight, however, my master was more than distraught…it was as if he was infuriated by some thought or idea…I paid little mind to his distress thinking that it would soon be washed away along with the icy cold waters of his bath, just like all the other instances before.

But tonight, for the first time after nearly a century of service, I was wrong.

The attack took me by surprise and that is the reason why I even tried to struggle. Self-preservation kicked in, even before I actually realized the gravity of my situation. Gazing at his eyes, I recognized the crazed light and the emptiness in them and ceased my fruitless thrashing. When his eyes took on that blood-red glow of bloodied gold there was no reason or logic behind his gaze—there was only abyss behind them. Grimly I bit my lips as I felt the talons puncture the skin of my neck, the warm trickle of blood seeping out of my wounds and through it all remained still.

The pain was already clouding my mind and the lack of air in lungs would soon numb me from the ache. I prayed that it would come soon. As my eyes finally gave in to the lure of unconsciousness I saw awareness of his deed in his deep eerie golden red eyes before the wall that divided us—Master and slave—finally came crashing down.

He opened her eyes and felt the dampness cooling her skin…focusing he noted that beneath him was a darkening pool of blood…his…Once more, he shook off the last vestiges of disorientation that always followed an attack. As if being mauled nearly to death was a matter that occurred regularly, he simply pushed himself off the floor…leaning heavily on trembling arms and numbed hands…he managed to finally get to his feet, cursing under his breath as he swayed unsteadily beneath rubbery legs…and after single in-drawn breath proceeded with his duties as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

He realized belatedly that it has been barely a minute since he lost consciousness…but that was not something new…though it was not often that he ends up as his masters medium for releasing his pent up rage, he has learned to take events in his stride…there was really nothing that surprises her anymore…as the blood that soaked his skin dried up, he simply flicked off the crusted flake of blood like as if this was a common thing…

Moving quickly, he picked up the sponge from the gilt-edged basin, glad that it was just where he had left it, a few minutes before his master's attack. The wounds on his neck haven't healed yet…but it will…sooner or later…they always do. So often has the attacks occurred over the years that, as if he was prepared in advance, he uncoiled a foot-long strip of cotton—the remains of an old cravat that hung from the tattered shirt he used to wear—and tied it around his neck. The impromptu bandage was kept not for some belated sense of self-preservation but simply to keep the blood from dripping into his bath water. He feared tainting his bath water more than he would ever care for his own physical state. This time, he would tread ever more cautiously. The attack occurred because he got careless and he presumed that he would recognize him after all these years. He would not make the same mistake again.

If there was any other thing that kept him safe all this years, more than his silence or his diffident ways, it was his ability to judge when to venture close to the beasts grasp. Tonight his master was behaving like an enraged wounded bull. It would be the height of foolishness to assume he would not attack again. This time, he needs to bring his brain along with his quick hands. Even as hardy and sturdy as he was, he seriously doubts that he could stay alive if he decides to take a second swipe at his neck.

Gingerly I approached the marble-tiled roman bath and touched one of the tiny bells that decorated the edge of the elaborate pool. Since I have never spoken even once my Master and I have found ways to deal with this minor problem. The bells would do the speaking for me. One chime means please. Two means yes. There is no need for a negative response. We both know that I would never give it.

From the corner of his eyes, I saw his acquiescence. He sat up from his slackened pose and held out one arm. I dipped the sponge into the perfumed oils once more and started scrubbing his arm, beginning with his shoulders and down to his forearms and wrists. For reasons known only to him, I was forbidden from ever grazing his hands until he expressly orders me to touch them. I worked slowly, efficiently…in absolute silence, like always.

His skin was colder than the statues of gold and ivory that decorated the opulent hall two floors above our heads but that was something I have learned to ignore…submerged as he was in a pool of near boiling hot water, the heat lingers long enough for me not to gasp aloud at the touch of his icy limbs. I have long developed the mindset that enabled me to perform certain tasks with aplomb. I kept in mind that polishing the priceless heirlooms felt no different from touching his naked flesh…Master just moved more than the statues did…

Perhaps it is this iciness of his entire being that drew me…I dare say it's one of the reasons I stay by his side regardless of the sheer amount of harm he inflicted on me. He is indifferent and he is capable of violence but he is never deliberately cruel. He is like a drawn blade—he harms when he is wielded or when he is handled carelessly. I haven't felt the need to contemplate this quite as deeply as such act merited…perhaps if ever I develop the inclination to wonder why I stay beside a monster…perhaps then I would have some good answers…for now, I am simply doing my job.

Finishing his upper limbs and certain that his lower once had been already attended to, I reached beside me, drawing up the jug that held the water collected for rinsing. With a hand that barely trembled I poured the water over his supine form, careful to keep the flow from reaching his beautiful tresses. That would be attended to later.

After a minute Master rose from the waters embrace, the air immediately becoming scented as his body released some of the oils that were used for his bath. Languidly, he stalked towards marble bench that served the purpose of being his bed as his hair was tended. My master was vain…there was no going around that truth. Vanity held no better worshipper than him…and for good reasons.

His form was angelic…there was no other word to use but that…even amongst the most beautiful of their kind my Master stood out like a beacon in the looming darkness…a nighttime star…. glowing like the fires of a thousand sun-struck gems…

His hair was a treasured feature…like raw, unwoven silk…the shimmering strands gleamed even in the gloom of this dungeon…like ebony silk combed into the softest most yielding strands. Obsidian strands that shimmered even within the palest light or deepest gloom. As such Master permitted no one to touch his glorious gift…with the sole exemption of his silent servant…no hands save his and mine was ever laid on the shining mass.

As he stretched out those long, sinewy limbs unto the velvet lined bench, he let his head hang down the side of his marble bench and allowed spring water warmed to perfection to be poured through the thick locks. While one of my hands comb the gleaming mane, I poured jasmine oils onto his scalp, massaging the fragrant concoction all over his head…ensuring that each strand was coated by the precious liquid. I rinsed the oils to remove every speck of dust and the faint tinge of smoke gathered from his night time forays before I rubbed my hands with camellia shampoo, forming thick foam, I lathered the oiled mass to cleanse it…careful not to pull a single strand out of its roots…my movements measured and methodical…having done the same thing for centuries…

As I dried the sweet smelling tresses, I found myself transfixed by the feel of the short locks…they felt familiar and yet unfamiliar and for the space of a breath the fog inside my mind cleared to tell me that his hair hasn't been trimmed for a very long time. The thought and the certainty vanished with my next breath.

Shaking off the strange melancholy that gripped me, I wrapped the damp mass in the velvet towels meant for the task, patting the dripping ends dry as I waited for my master to rise from his impromptu bed so that I could begin clearing up the bath. I held an ebony brushed-silk robe aloft, waiting for him to wrap it around his nubile form. I waited patiently, though mildly wondering why he kept so still. Bowing and assuming that he has something on his mind, I placed the robe in a convenient resting frame and turned to start the task of clearing the remains of his bath. I was just about to empty the roman-tub when he spoke.

"Why did you not run when I attacked you? Why do you stay when I could have easily ended your life…?"

The words were uttered in a calm, neutral tone. It was neither inquisitive nor even slightly curious. It was as if he simply stated a fact. But the demand for a response was there all the same.

Looking up I saw him gazing at me quietly. Though I have lived with him for so long, I could still count in one hand the number of times he actually looked at his lowly servant. I assumed that he wasn't really looking at me but through me and then he spoke… for the first time since I came to be in his service, he directed words to me that were neither an order nor a reprimand. As such I had no knowledge on how to respond to the question he posed.

"Why won't you speak…I know that you can…"