NaNoWriMo - Where We Fall, part 13 of 14
As much as Janos knew Vorador's stubborn streak would prevent him returning, it still took a week of sleeping in his fledgling's bed and waking up with only his own boots at the foot to shake him into fully being aware of what that meant. He had no intentions of staying at the Citadel for long, knew the dangers, knew he would find the disappearance of yet more familiar faces depressing on his arrival, but felt in need of someone from his own kind to talk to and knew even if there were none there he could contact them easily from its reaches. Not necessarily for sympathy; just to know there were other blue-skinned faces around.
Taking flight from his aerie was entertaining as ever given the arrows and other missiles aimed at him by the hunters who had gathered beneath, dotted over the frozen lake and its surroundings. Granted they were not friendly company but it was comforting to know he was not entirely alone; comforting to know that at least one race in Nosgoth continued to thrive regardless of their own violent natures.
The differences between modern Nosgoth and its past were at once slight and thoroughly important; the structures and geographical landmarks had changed little, if at all, but life in various forms took root like it never had when he was still young. Areas that had once been barren now teemed with life - tiny life, grass and shrubs and weeds, but life nonetheless. He'd watched even Uschtenheim be touched by patches of grass and strange mountain plant life since the construction of the Pillars; had watched land heal he hadn't even known needed healing. When crops struggled to take hold he had always thought that simply an unfortunate part of farming, had never realised there was an alternative because he had been brought up in a frozen, barren land. He had thought the lifelessness normal, had always thought Termogent Forest to be slightly peculiar in its thriving.
For all that the surrounding lands and forms of life were thriving, approaching the Citadel sent a slight chill up his spine; the elders' room, later the vampiric Circle of Nine's room, had never been fully repaired; and now it seemed that even the repairs managed during the time after his last return to the Citadel had fallen away into ruin. He had not visited since the human rebellion, thought at the time it might have been abandoned altogether, but later years had led him to consider how there truly was nowhere else suitable as a vampiric meeting ground. Wards against humans would render the building safe again if they were set up, and there were few structures left that soared so high.
Still, landing left him with the eerie sensation that, while the building certainly looked abandoned and he felt no change in the wards save how they had weakened with no one to support and refresh the magic sustaining them, he was not entirely alone.
Thank God, though, for his defensive instincts letting him duck out of the way without seeing his attacker coming; her sword hand was steady as ever, would have taken his head if he were not careful.
A quick, quiet laugh passed between the both of them, any noise they might have made stolen away by the silent surroundings. "Good to see you too, Sianne."
"I've met with too many feral humans and vampires to justify asking questions first," Sianne announced, before adding, "You still have your talent for survival, I see." After a moment's awkwardness Janos was almost alarmed to find her arms around his waist, hugging him tight; this much he had never, ever thought he would find happening.
"Sianne?"
"Don't talk for a moment, Audron," She replied in a half-snarl, voice unsteady. "Please."
Janos held her a little loosely, half expecting her to pull back and punch him at any moment as if he were the cause of her slip. Sianne was not... he had never known anything truly soft in her after Hannah's death and there was something alien and almost a little frightening in seeing it.
"I think we may be the last," Sianne said after what had to have been several minutes of holding him, her eyes shadowed when she pulled out of his arms. "The last alive."
Janos wondered what had prompted the correction, repeated her words back, "The last alive?"
Sianne looked uncomfortable. "I can't say I was ever fond of our god despite his words, but there are... there are moments, now, when I start to feel that maybe his worshippers were right. I don't believe in ghosts, but in the lower echelons of the Citadel, I could have sworn I felt... something. Something wrong. And I heard whispering."
Without wanting to provoke her anger or refusal to share any more of her thoughts, Janos asked, "What felt wrong?"
"I can't quite explain it," She mused, her discomfort far more visible now, "But it felt like Hannah was there."
Janos found his old room easily, thought it odd that it should look near the same as when he had left it when the rest of the world had been damn near up-ended. There was something in the air that smelt familiar, as much as old death and dried blood should have overpowered the sense of comfort. He'd spent so much time here wishing to be elsewhere; now he was seeking familiarity that had been lost at home beneath sheets that, while dusty enough to make him sneeze, still weighed the same, felt the same as ever.
The high emotions of recent times had left a fatigue in his mind that could not be alleviated by resting his body; even so, it still seemed intent on attempting to ease itself through sleep, let momentary oblivion come swiftly.
He woke with his underlying sense of unease still a strong presence, if not stronger, found that as he stirred the reason why his unease had strengthened was obvious. Blood was on the air, though still faint enough that he could not identify anything about it save for what it was.
Moving through the corridors meant the scent increasing in strength, though it was not rendering him thirst; though part of him hoped that was due to the blood being from an old corpse, he knew better than to trust in hope; expected what was coming before ever seeing it.
Seeing Sianne impaled on her own sword in one of the lower halls was not a punch to the gut, not an unexpected shock, but it wasn't something he had ever wanted to see either.
Janos pulled the sword out, careful not to step in the blood surrounding her as he did so, and without entirely thinking about what he was doing punched her solidly before sitting on a clean patch by her corpse's side, drawing his knees up to his chest. It wasn't right for her to die this way. She was strong; she should have been taken by a battle, not by her own hand. She was stronger than that. She deserved a better, nobler death.
He'd felt the difference in her, known something was wrong when he arrived in the Citadel, but even so.
Sianne had deserved better. Samael died in battle despite having never been a soldier; Shia had died for all of them.
Sianne had deserved a death like theirs.
After finding enough candles to let him use his limited ability with fire as an element to cremate Sianne's body, Janos allowed himself to wander around the Citadel for a while, listening for any signs of life - hostile or otherwise - but it seemed abandoned. No one had sent word of the last few suicides; no one had sent word of the human rebellion reaching the outskirts of Nosgoth. Sianne aside, he had not seen a familiar face in far too long; had not seen a blue-skinned face of any sort for even long than that.
He might as well be the last of his race, he mused, before the memory of Sianne's words hit like a physical force, leaving him frozen in place and feeling smaller than he ever thought possible in the Citadel's corridors.
She had thought the two of them to be the last true vampires left in Nosgoth, and now she was gone as well.
He might be the last.
On returning to his room in the Citadel - strange to call it his room now he was aware that, essentially, he had no right to call any part of the building his - Janos wondered if Shia had seen this; if she had known he would be left like this, if this was the suffering he was meant to endure. He was sure she had mentioned blood at some point - that physical suffering would be there too; in vague terms that could have meant his thirst, but his thirst was manageable and she was not the sort to mince her words. He had yet to go through anything he could call physical torture, nothing significant, anyway.
He wondered what horrors she had foreseen to call the pain he would endure appalling; why she had not called this appalling. What physical symptoms could ever surpass this? Bleeding was a clean pain, a sharp, measurable pain. This was something else.
This made physical pain seem... pedestrian.
There was no screaming into pillows this time; no acting out against the world; Janos simply packed his bags and stretched out on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. He would return to the Reaver, and he would care for it. His Messiah would come to wield it; the prophets had been right about the war, right about event after event. They would be right about this too.
What use his Messiah could pose after so long he did not entirely know, but that was the right of all divine beings. All he knew was that the Messiah would restore balance to Nosgoth; restore vampires to their rightful place as guardians of the land.
He had thought, in his naivety, that his kind were the vampires to be saved.
Perhaps Vorador's interest in looking after made vampires had been right all along.
Janos wasn't sure when he fell asleep; not entirely sure that he had, because drifting in thoughtlessness and sleep were not so very different when one left their eyes closed to do the former. It was strange; he had expected this to hurt him until he was breathless, the knowing that he might not see another living blue-skinned face unless he looked in a mirror. He had expected to scream and sob and beg his God for merciful death.
Instead it was the urge to resume his duties that was overwhelming. He did not know why; did not know what about the Reaver drew him back to caring for it over and over again, beyond reason, beyond caring for his race's passing or the hunters outside his aerie or, God help him, even for Vorador. The Reaver took priority over all in his thoughts; was a presence as great, maybe even greater than God had ever been.
He let those thoughts slide, picking up his bags and tying them around his waist and across his chest, wondering where the peculiar calm he felt had come from. Samael rarely spoke of oblivion with any fear; perhaps he had slipped into some strange oblivion of the mind. It made sense - one mind could only take so much, though he was mildly relieved to see that his ability to think coherently had not been sacrificed to achieve this sense of calm.
The flight felt slow; humans did not even seem to be looking for his kind, no mages or magical weaponry aimed at the sky as he passed from one safe enough site for making camp to the next. Strange, on the way to the Citadel he had not even noticed that - thought the hunters around Uschtenheim were typical of all hunters across Nosgoth.
Given his kind had been adept at easing the task of hunters by ending their own lives, it was not so surprising said hunters should have turned to the newer breed of vampires, apparently ignorant of their human origins. That or the humans acknowledged as his kind had that the made vampires' abilities were on account of being cursed.
It was strange on his return to find a note waiting for him on the balcony, safeguarded by what would look to anyone else like an ordinary black cat though he knew better. The minion disappeared once he took the paper from beneath its paws, fading away to wherever it had been summoned from while Janos read its contents.
He had not expected word from Shianna; was torn as to how exactly he felt at her choice of message. At least its arrival meant that she was still safe, but then, she had the savvy possessed by most Hylden; lacked any interest in sentiment. If she were in danger she would move out of her residence, never worrying about making herself a 'home' as long as she had shelter of her own.
Tucking the note neatly into the first book on the aerie's shelves, figuring it was as safe a place as any until he brought it to be filed away neatly in his study, Janos wondered what humans made of her. He'd yet to hear word of another winged being despite now knowing for certain that she, at least was still alive; had little reason to render herself otherwise.
Perhaps it was a strange side effect of whatever had come over him with Sianne's death, but when he considered what had happened with his race, Janos felt... not quite angry, not entirely sympathetic, but frustrated. He understood why so many had taken their lives but did not understand how they justified it to themselves; the guardians had been born into strange powers no one else understood, and the priests had found themselves without a guide, but everyone else had lives they could lead. Hunting was unpleasant but a necessity, and with practise it could be done with a swiftness that reduced the hunter's guilt and left the hunted dead before they had a chance to suffer. Returning to the Wheel was something that could only be forced by murder or suicide, but why had everyone rushed?
Regardless of what had been the norm for everyone else, Janos felt as if he lacked the option they had taken. Someone needed to guide the saviour when he came, and while educating made vampires in their race's history was perfectly possible, he had seen what was in their nature. They would be another manipulative force against him and the matter of guiding him down the right path was such a delicate matter, with so much stacked against him according to the legends, he needed someone who could give solid answers.
Besides, while the Reaver certainly didn't have legs as Vorador had so harshly pointed out once upon a time, it needed a home; a resting place, rather, until the saviour came for it. More than that, it needed someone to make certain it ended up in the right hands - while its thirst for blood meant using it against vampires would likely have little effect other than to render those attacked by it wounded and starved, Janos remembered what Kylian had muttered and scrawled. The Pillars were the lock, the Reaver was the key.
He could not die knowing that there was a chance of the Hylden finding a way back into this world.
With no one to take time from him, Janos found himself settling into his guardianship more readily; without others he could consider himself directly responsible for in any way, it was easier to retreat into the library and read, or into his study and look over Kylian's old notes once more, copying them onto fresh paper as best as he could when the original copies started to fade and brown with time.
And as much as he ought to have let Vorador's influence entirely disappear from his life, once in a while as night stretched on and he found himself overtired, he could not help but abuse the link between their souls a little, just enough to glimpse Vorador's surroundings and make certain of his health. He should have let go by now, accepted Vorador's leaving for what it was, accept that he had not been visited since and acknowledge what that meant, but just as Vorador had not abandoned him to hunger and madness, he could not abandon his fledgling to hatred. Not entirely; not without making certain that at least he was healthy in his anger.
Janos did not bathe very often; had little need to given that he had managed, more or less, to reduce hunting to a few swift, relatively mess-free motions. All he need do was drop silently down by someone alone and out of the sight of others - hunter, tourist or villager, it mattered little - snap their neck, and carry their body back for draining. Time seemed to soothe the hunger a little, or at least render it more familiar; he usually had it manageable by now, rarely needed to hunt more than twice a week any more as long as he was not careless in his feeding.
Even so, once in a while he permitted himself to bathe simply for the pleasure of it; Uschtenheim's cold would always be more comforting to him than too much warmth, but in the depths of winter or during particularly cruel weather the hot springs provided a welcome source of respite.
Janos opened his eyes after a few long moments spent simply enjoying the peace of the springs, if not quite quiet, found himself a little perplexed. After blinking a few times at the unusual presence curled up on a rock at the spring's edge, he fought the peculiar urge to poke at the source of his curiosity lightly to see if it was alive given he had no idea whether the creature in particular was poisonous. It certainly looked out of place, and he wondered if the high winds of the last week had blown it out from its territory; perhaps this unusual visitor had been swept up from the swamp. Uschtenheim's animal inhabitants mostly moved on or went into hibernation at this time of year when the cold was at its harshest.
Curled up like that the snake looked quite restful, though Janos found himself wondering what would happen to it if left alone. He couldn't conscientiously allow the creature to freeze to death by wandering off into the snow, and it was unlikely enough sources of food would come by the springs to feed it through the winter - especially not if it had come from the swamp and was used to animal life as readily available as plant life.
Janos slid down into the water a little, remembering the little note that Shianna had sent; Shia; he corrected himself after a moment, still struggling to think of her as having inherited her mother's name with her death as per Hylden naming rituals. Still struggling to think of Shia as dead, truth be told, even after all this time; that the woman he'd had a childhood crush on, the wife of his also deceased best friend, had passed on.
"Vorador is safe.
He moved into the swamp.
Don't visit.
- Shia"
During a hunt he'd overheard human whisperings about a witch living in the canyons down near Meridian; some travelling merchant, bringing wares from the capital, with a little too much beer running through his veins. Apparently she'd even acquired a new name for herself - humans had butchered it down to 'the Seer', which he suspected she would find amusing given it somehow combined her name and abilities into one descriptive package. And somehow it was a relief to know that despite his kind slowly being wiped from the planet, she seemed to be thriving alone.
He would not visit Vorador; Shianna's powers might not be quite as strong as her mother's had been, but they were significant enough to warrant attention. He had only to return the snake to Termogent Forest and then he could return home with a clean conscience.
Though, that said, he had only been ordered not to visit. Provided he made certain not to be seen there seemed little wrong with just looking over his fledgling's home, and he could not say that he was uninterested in knowing how Vorador was spending his time. Briefly glimpsing what he could through the connection of their souls had a voyeuristic, seedy edge he did not entirely enjoy; he only ever used it to ensure that the ongoing sense of Vorador still being alive was an accurate one.
After finishing up bathing, flicking his wings to get rid of what little water his natural oils had been no barrier against, Janos slipped back into most of his robes and used the top layer to wrap up the snake. It did not protest much at the treatment, too fatigued from the cold it had been through or hunger to put up much of a fight, and after an initial mild worry that it was going to wriggle out of the bundle he'd packed it into he found it seemed to settle.
He wasn't sure if had fallen asleep, but it seemed wholly unaware of its being taken for a flight as Janos headed for Termogent Forest, knowing he could teleport for ease's sake but feeling the need to stretch his wings. He had not been on a long term flight in some time and felt the fatigue of that in the base of his wings, the way they seemed a little heavier than they should; regular flights were good for one's health, and even though he doubted he had much to worry about in regards to that anymore, certain habits felt worthy of keeping up. He could not imagine waking up one day and discovering his reticence had left him unable to take flight any longer.
Familiarity made the journey to Termogent Forest seem less of an effort each time; the route was simple, well known, and he knew its outskirts well even if the dense plant life of the forest rendered knowing its innards near impossible. The snake didn't seem particularly interested in moving when he set it free from the robes, but after a moment it seemed to eye up a nearby bird with the familiar glance of a predator. Assuming that the territory was at least familiar enough for the snake to find itself food and whatever shelter it required, Janos retrieved the robes he had used for its transport and dressed fully before picking his way through the vines, looking for the mansion and finding himself a place to sit when he'd acquired a decent enough view.
Janos looked down from his perch, wondered how much time the forest's previous residents had spent up here in the thick, tall plant life rather than in the mansion. You couldn't quite call it a forest because for every inch of tree there seemed two inches of natural ropes and ivy, vines and veils draped to make a dense canopy; excellent for hiding in, if you were able to get up there to hide.
There was something strangely comforting in looking at the courtyard and seeing made fledglings walking around. He doubted any were truly Vorador's, though that said, it wasn't as if the one vampire he could call his own fledgling was on speaking terms with him; perhaps he was being naïve when it came to one or two of the prettier girls in assuming they had been someone else's. Part of him wondered where they had all come from - who were descended from the few pillar guardians who had killed themselves before passing vampirism on. It seemed strange that so many had found their way here, but then, how many vampires would voluntarily take the role of guardian for their species?
He bit his lip at the thought that perhaps Vorador had more in common with him than he'd allowed himself to believe, though where he guarded a sword, Vorador helped feed and clothe those who had found themselves without sire or home.
Part of him wondered where all the blood for feeding these came from, but then, the swamp had long been avoided by most, and over the past couple of years he had heard the road into Termogent Forest referred to as a path to Hell. Perhaps Vorador had let his adopted, of sorts, children get a little more unruly than he would ever be inclined to admit.
He felt foolish when it happened, but when Vorador finally stepped out into the courtyard, Janos' breath caught in his throat. Shia had ordered him to stay away and he would; common sense told him that after their last argument, the last thing Vorador could ever want was to see him by surprise. Even so, he was tempted.
Age had added further lines to his fledgling's face, additional changes had left his skin with a noticeably paler hue, perhaps even greenish though that might have been the swamp's reflections playing tricks. His hair had receded further.
Even so, he was still identifiably Vorador, and Janos felt relief at seeing his fledgling alive and healthy; ridiculous given that he'd known that to be the case already, but he could not help the fact the realist in him trusted what his eyes saw more than what he could sense through other means.
One of the female fledglings approached Vorador from behind, her clothing almost obscene; he'd seen his own kind wear less, but the fact that hers were near transparent made them seem more deliberately risqué. Words seemed to be exchanged before Vorador dropped to his knees, as if to retrieve something from the girl's feet. When it became clear that Vorador had not knelt for that purpose but to let him slip beneath her skirts, Janos looked away swiftly; even if he'd been as naive as to still mistake the actions for something else the girl's face had quickly turned eloquent enough.
Strangely, he couldn't quite feel jealous of the girl. Vorador liked to surround himself with beauty, collecting trinkets that served no purpose other than decoration, and there seemed little reason why he shouldn't extend that philosophy to fledglings. Vorador had once been human, a race that treated death with utter terror, and thought immortality a gift; even, perversely enough, a blessing.