A Tale Of Desolate Times
Full Summary: On a night of celebration unlike any other, the storytelling elder Eimahr tells a tale of legend. A companion fic to the up-and-coming White Apples.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any likenesses to places, incidences and people (lving or dead) are entirely coincidental, and shouldn't be taken all tha seriously. I have made no money except for charity with this work.
‘A Tale of Desolate Times’
Torches hung in sconces on the chiselled stone walls shone lustrous and soft in the ancient hall. Court shoes stepped lightly upon the marmoreal floor as they waltzed. Dressed in their finery, all high buttons and lace, the ladies and gentlemen danced to the music rising from the piano at one end, to the faint crash of the waves upon the Cliffside, for this masquerade ball in their fortress by the sea.
“Heed this, oh children, you who walk cloaked in Night, who dance by the light of the Moon. She has much to teach us, and we have much to learn, if we are to see tomorrow.” The timbre of her voice was low, and emanated from the far end of the hall where she sat alone at a round table. Almost immediately, the dancing ceased, and the ladies and gents began to gather round her table, the piano playing still.
The one who spoke, the lady in her gorgeous dress of fuliginous black, had not demanded that they cease in their merriment; only that they listen if they have ears, attend if they have care to - yet, with steel gray eyes deeply-set, and a mouth lipped thinly above a sturdy jaw of implicit strength, no one about her would have thought to refuse the invitation. She was a creature far wiser than they, one who had seen it all; who had been there when this ancient fortress in which they stood had been but ruins bought for a high price by their lady from tenants; who was said to have seen the first wax of the full moon, to have fought amongst warriors in the Desolate Times. She was a legend in her lifetime, this lady, a legend still. Anyone who knew this, then, would know better than to refuse the opportunity to hear her tell one of these legends, as she would do now.
“Eimahr, my dear,” the gentleman at the piano ended on a minor, dissonant chord and stood up from the seat, striding towards the swelling crowd. “Why do you insist on starting your tales in such a backward manner?”
The lips of the lady upturned in an almost playful manner, but only for an instant before they settled back into the natural frown. She didn’t turn to face the gent, but to the audience to address them instead. “I insist, my dear Gorrith,” she said, “because that is how any true child of the Night starts any tale. Fact or fancy, truth or fantasy, every one of them starts in this way.” The hall was almost silent in anticipation, but for her low voice. “As it just so happens, my tale tonight is a mixture of both.” As Gorrith moved the table from in front of her, leaving Eimahr in her chair, every one of the gentry sat down upon the dance floor as one, not caring of their shoes and their lace, or their trousers or dresses. Dust settled on their finery, and their shoes scuffed, no longer finely polished, and the trousers of the gents became creased at once as they knelt. It did not matter though: These were pupils at the school master’s command, adults though they were.
As all settled, one of the younger ladies, a red-head of perhaps 13 years dressed in blue, stood up and sat upon Eimahr’s lap without shame, kicking her legs lightly and twirling the lady’s dark tresses between her white-gloved fingers. The elder didn’t resist, merely smiled and pulled the girl further into her lap, stroking her fiery hair.
“As I was saying,” Eimahr began, “we already know of many tales, and of many legends, many of them quite true. The First Moonrise, when we first rose with Her light; the Battles of Garoul, fought against the Ùlfhednar Warriors; Nights of Black and Red, when so many warriors were lost on both sides, that the very earth on which we fought was saturated with the blood of their forces.”
“I remember those nights.” A gentleman in the audience spoke up, and all eyes fell on him. “The ground was no longer firm; for many moons after, no one could stand on the battlefield without slipping on the blood of our fallen comrades.”
Eimahr nodded briefly. “A legend though it became, General Arawn, the Nights are a true part of our history, but a mere tale in theirs.”
“And what tale will you really tell?” The voice was high, reedy, coming from the little lady upon Eimahr’s lap.
“I’m getting there, my fledgling,” the elder chided gently, continuing to stroke. “Be more patient, little one.”
“Yes, do be patient,” Gorrith smiled from his position stood by the lady and her fledgling. “All her tales are doomed to be this pedantic.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy,” the veteran of the Nights spoke up, “I for one wouldn’t have it any other way.” The ladies and gentlemen among him nodded their agreement, solemn and silent. The fledgling laid her head against Eimahr’s breast, her eyes half-closed in a sweet imitation of innocence. Taking a moment to give a tender stroke of the girl’s cheek, the elder continued. She was calm, composed, not to be hurried. The sound of a wave crashing against the rock face below broke the silence before she did.
“You know I tell legends, like I do tonight, but this is because it is our legends that we thrive on above all, even the lifeblood. We do so because we ourselves, we children of the Night, we are the legends. We have always been legends. Even now, at a time when not one among them is prepared to admit our existence to one another, not even when it stares them in the face. It is due to their ignorance, their ability to blithely ignore whatever refuses to adhere to their sense of reality that we are nothing more than bedtime stories to frighten their children, or the intellectual products of too much drink, a pen in the wrong hands and an old bench.”
“You speak of the Abbey Issue.” A lady said from her floor seat beside Arawn. Not question, but a statement of fact.
“Indeed I do, Maddelin. The very same Abbey Issue that held this very fortress in the ownership of cattle for hundreds of years before Our Lady bought it back and made it habitable for more than monks.”
“Sire,” the girl whispered, “tell them where she told them they could stick that tourist value.”
“Not tonight, Morrigan. I have a tale to tell.” The girl smiled, and closed her eyes fully. “Besides, this is still a tourist hotspot, and not much we can do about it.
“But many years ago, we were as real to them as we had ever been, as real as the Garouls themselves had been, may they Howl to the Moon in Eternal Night. In those times, when our markings covered our skin and we refused to hide them, we were a very real threat; creatures to ward against with emblems of Christ.” Many of the gentry laughed lightly, mockingly, a favoured joke. “During this time, so-called witches were burned when their people became ill or disorderly, and when one of us was careless enough to leave a body within fair vicinity of a settlement, they desecrated their honourable dead to seek the culprit, certain that she danced with the Undead.
“These people seeking real ghouls, especially their community leaders of Faith, preached from the pulpit about these agents of Satan, dark creatures that prowled in the shadows, patiently waiting for the opportunity to pick off the weak and faithless among them, to kill them and drink their blood, and make them members of the Undead with their burial in mortal graves. Now, we could go on about their foolishness in this matter, but I won’t, because that would take the rest of the week to explain it to any satisfaction.
“While most of their ravings were wild and nonsensical, some of them had truth as the more knowledgeable among them gained influence. They knew of the distinctive markings that covered our skin, having somehow seen them and lived to remember, of the black blood that courses through our veins, that their relics held no more influence on us than the relics did on them. Once upon a time, we held no more contempt for them than we did the rest of the wretched herd, but now they were correct. Now, they couldn’t be ignored, not for much longer.
“When we hunted, we did so with precision, our eyes no longer alighting upon whatever calf took our fancy, but upon the very bulls spreading the gospel truth of our existence. These fools, though no longer ignorant, were felled swiftly, their meat left to rot for they were not worth the trouble of preserving for later; but not without causing havoc to the rest of the herds, who startled, and - fearful and maddened - charged back in their multitudes.
“Our attempt to destroy the truth and take down these hunters backfired: As foolish as they were, they knew who to blame when the leaders of their anti-Satanic movement went missing, or were found dead. What was more, they correctly inferred that their leaders’ ravings were true also. When they attacked, they came prepared, brandishing carved-out stakes of the Reviled Wood, recognising our markings for what they were.
“From that time onward, we had something to fear of our common prey. We ran from them when they found us, unable to hunt in peace or keep control of the herds. We were confined to walk entirely in Night, never to see the brightness or feel the warmth of the Sun again. As they charged, speared, gored, slayed us, our numbers plummeted. The most marked among us, whose skin always shone so brightly of our Blood Marks, they were the first among us to go, slayed on sight. In those times, only the least marked of us stood any chance of walking the next night. When we were not impaled by the horns of cattle, or trampled under their hoofs, we died of thirst, weak and driven into madness as our blood turned to red, until the Sun found us in our fever and embraced us at dawn, taking our miserable lives when we had not the strength to end them ourselves. Many of us tried going underground, hibernating, waiting for the storm to quell, but all of those who took that route, who came back from that state of sleep, not one of them lives tonight.
“At that time, in an era we call the Darkest Night, we knew what it was to be victims, to be truly robbed of our dignity and slaughtered by our prey - the greatest humiliation. By the end of that era, after years of struggle through the Desolate Times, only Our Lady of the time, Our Lady Valdis, and her Sainted Guard remained in any measure save for the straggling few of us. Having resided in our fortress in Paris since thwarting an infiltration during the Battles of Garoul in AD1450, an act for which she was lauded by Parisians with the renaming of the fortress in her honour, Our Lady Valdis lived on, her survival a shining hope in the midst of our near extinction: If she remained; then we were not finished, not yet.
“Almost overnight, the slaying ceased as one by one they believed us gone, dead. We knew, of course, that it could only be a temporary reprieve, but we were thankful for it, nonetheless. At her command, restoration of our people became the first and, for a long time, the only course of action. For a time, only females were selected from the herd to join us, and they themselves made only female fledglings, determined to reassure our population. In those Years of Growth, as we increased in number and the cattle became inevitably aware of our presence, the struggles began once more. The only difference between then and the beginning of the Darkest Night, however, was that we were prepared. Their hunters had weakened over the years, and we weren’t touched by age. They had lost touch during our absence, and we were driven on pure instinct. We had only gained strength. For the first time since the beginning of the Darkest Night, we were steadily taking back our control and position at the apex.
“But it wasn’t over. The herds, which once fought amongst one another, united the known world over against our nation, and war was declared upon us, a holy crusade. We had no choice but to comply, and before the end of that month, we were preparing for a great battle, the likes of which the world had never seen before.
“The Nights of Black and Red had begun.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth did her audience bow their heads, their left hands raised in fists to their hearts, their right thumb drawing across the left wrist to end in line with the shoulder. “And may the Moon never dawn on her.” Arawn’s performance of the ritual was particularly solemn. His voice was louder than the others, shaking. As the gesture ended, Maddelin’s hand rested on his shoulder, gripping it in reassurance.
Eimahr allowed another smile to light her face. In her lap, Morrigan’s eyes were closed, her breathing slow, steady, but not quite to sleeping. “Of their war generals, we made fledglings; of these fledglings, we moulded warriors to our cause. Of cats we made spies, agents willing to carry our messages and do our bidding for the trade of cattle flesh. As the bodies piled, we paid them handsomely, and their descendants have not forgotten our generosity even tonight.
“On the appointed date, a date that few remember, we met the herd’s army at the battlefield, at a location known only after as the Iron Fields, or the Iron Front. Under the light of the Moon, before She reached her height, the battle begun. On both sides, blood was spilt heavily, and even as they spilt their blood both in combat and by means of distraction, we fought through the temptation and spilt more, even as many of us were felled by their stakes of Reviled Wood, despatched by their cruel weapons. By the end, as the Sun rose on the Iron Fields, not one hundred warriors survived. Our Lady endured, only for the courage of our Generals, while their leader died in the face of extreme cowardice, fleeing from our predominantly lady warriors.
“We claimed the victory with their leader’s death, and with it won our freedom from slaughter… but not without price. Many died valiantly that day, buried by Our Lady Valdis herself into the very earth on which they died. The Iron Fields became their burial ground. All over the world, all who were not cattle mocked us for being victimised by our food, for having to fight for our right to live and imbibe them as Nature intended.
“The Sun that rose at the end of the Desolate Times was the first that many of us had seen for a long time. It hailed the beginning of a new era for us, a time of peace, one that we’d been waiting for since the beginning of the Darkest Night. We were, in one sense, free to recover, free to thrive. Yet in another, we were easily vulnerable to other uprisings. We weren’t in the clear, not until Our Lady Valdis stepped in and demanded a contract to be made between the two sides, a treaty binding both us and them. Within this document, our people were named for the first time by the written word, and so we are as duty-bound to serve it as they are.
“After a long month of negotiations between Our Lady Valdis and their governments, the treaty drawn demands that…”
“By the treaty hereby known as the Treaty of Independence, the Human race and the ones known only as ‘Vampyr’ are to henceforth be at Peace, and will no longer war with one another. Vampyrs will be permitted to feast upon the flesh and blood of Humanity, as is their right by God and the Moon, and Man shall have naught to fear by their existence. Vampyrs may walk by day but hunt only by night, and Man may walk as he chooses.
“Every Vampyr must obey only the Laws of their government (Their Lady) and this document, as they are bound. Every Man shall be bound only by the Laws of God and Man, and this treaty, as they are bound. The Vampyrs’ existence must not be known to any Man, save the exceptions, the kings of nations. Any Man who knows must, by decree, be killed by the Vampyr for sustenance, or become one of them. The revelation of Vampyrs to Men en masse is henceforth a flagrant violation of the treaty, punishable with death by Wood or by Rope. The Battle at Iron Field must not be known to or spoken of to any Man. Every Vampyr holds the right to convey knowledge to another Vampyr. To give Man the knowledge of the Battle is punishable with death by Wood or by Rope. Thus, no Man now or beyond will know of the Battle or of Vampyrs.
“Intended slaughter of a Vampyr at the hands of Man is unlawful, by decree of the treaty. Any man found guilty of unlawful Vampyr-slaughter shall be tried and punished with death, in a manner befitting the crime. No Human exception is to reveal the existence or the contents of the treaty, nor the existence of Vampyrs, regardless of his current status. This shall only be exempt in the event of the treaty’s dissolution, or in the event that the treaty no longer applies. In this case, no punishment is to be accorded.
“Upon their agreement, the treaty was signed by Our Lady Valdis and the leaders of the known world. It went into many details, but those were the essential rules by which we should all live, for we know they were created for the wellbeing of our people, of vampyrs.
“By the time the Independence Treaty was drawn up and signed, twenty years had passed since the very beginning of the Desolate Times. We all rejoiced at our accomplishment, at our new freedom, but it was a tainted sort of victory: We had lost so many of our brethren in the massacre and the battle that followed. Not one of us had wished for a war that would spill the blood of our cattle so unnecessarily, that would force us to forge and use unnatural weapons against them. As for we that remained, we were thankful: We had gained the freedom that we’d so desired. We were permitted to sate our thirsts and take part in harvest, to walk in the Sun like any of the cattle. In short, we had all the freedoms we asked for, with only this contract of Man’s making to obey as well as our own Laws.
“We will always be thankful for these sacrifices, and so for one week of twenty years we celebrate our Independence, revelling in our freedom with dance and retellings of the legend, as we do tonight. We wait twenty years for Independence even now, to commemorate the struggle we faced centuries ago when Man was a creature to be feared, when cattle attacked their herders.
“Tonight we have gained wisdom. Let us learn from it and live, and let us meet again in Her light once more.” Eimahr bowed her head, her lips finally still, silent, her eyes closed for a moment as the torches sputtered, struggling to remain lit. Around her, a silence grew, the audience refused to move, leaning in closer, waiting on bated breath. Even Gorrith was still, transfixed, staring at his mate with rapt attention.
“The end.” Eimahr’s words broke the silence, a stab in the ether of the hall.
A muttering began. It started like a ripple on the surface, rising outward, bouncing off the walls until it was an indefinite roar of defiance and malcontent. “What do you mean, ‘the end?” “Surely there’s more!” “And you call this a tale?”
The elder wasn’t worried as uproar began to spike, as the vampyrs practically leapt to their feet to surround her, their teeth bared in their yells. All she did was smile, lift a hand to them, and motion downwards, shushing with a finger to her lips with the other, watching as the most peculiar quiet came over the gentry at her request, as they stepped back and knelt back down, ignoring the dust and creases on their fine garments once again. It seemed she had more to tell, and that, for them, was all they’d ever ask of her.
“You are all right, of course. As any teller will tell you, whenever a tale is told, an obligation is held by the teller to add to it, to allow it to grow. As it happens, I have a particularly interesting addition to this tale, and I would have waited until the second night of celebrations for this, but as you have insisted, I won’t curse you with anticipation like that.” Words of thanks were muttered, and they sat down properly, heads bowed in supplication as they awaited her words.
“Between now and the last twenty years, before this week’s celebrations, word came to me from a prophet of high repute and skill, of a prophecy concerning Vampyrs and Man, of disturbing events that will threaten our freedom once more. It speaks of the coming of a teller like myself, a so-called ‘Indestructible Bard’. We do not know of allegiances, only that this bard is male, and that he brings a prophecy of his own.”
A laugh rose up from the group, a feminine laugh of cold disdain. “That’s a prophecy?” Maddelin spat. “An ‘Indestructible’ Bard! What sort of lunacy is this, when a mere male can call himself indestructible, and a storyteller at that?! What’s more, you think a prophecy about a prophecy is acceptable fare for-”
Eimahr growled, a rumble low in her throat, threatening as her hackles seemed to rise. “Never speak ill of the tale, young one, not if you wish to remain out of them.” Maddelin growled back, stopped short of standing by a hand on her shoulder, Arawn’s hand. She seemed to remember herself then, for she settled back down, her brunette head lowered in shame.
“Sire,” There was that whisper again, high, reedy, Morrigan’s. Her eyes were still shut, apparently undisturbed by her Sire’s threats, but awake. “What do you mean, when you speak of a bard, exactly?”
“A bard,” The anger washed out of her, and the elder responded with that mothering tone, soft and pure, “is a storyteller, just like me. He, however, is not limited in his form as I am. Songs, chants, poetry, legends, even the written word; these are all forms in which the bard can tell his tales. What is more, a bard requires payment for his services; I merely do it for the cheap entertainment you all receive every time.”
“A bard with a prophecy.” Said Gorrith. “If we were to accept this prophecy as truth, as something to be wary of in the coming years, what could we see of it?”
Eimahr smiled, her gray eyes twinkling. “Now that, my dear, is interesting: According to the prophet, we will know he has come when our sacred treaty is broken, and we are robbed of our Independence. With him, he will bring only one offering to us, an offering that we cannot refuse.”
“And what, pray tell, would this offering be?” Gorrith asked. The audience nodded, waiting on bated breath as the elder fell into silence, as though brooding on the topic herself. When she finally answered, it was in a whisper that carried clear across the hall.
“Chaos.” Eimahr whispered, and that is all she permitted herself to say.
Author's Note: This was originally written for an anthology that was sold to raise money for a hospital charity. However, this still stands as an official companion fic to the up-and-coming White Apples. In other words, this is actually part of the canon. The reason i've posted this here is because it's only available in the original form to a small amount of people, and I want you guys to enjoy it. Aren't I kind to you?
I hope you enjoyed it. Whether you did or not, please tell me below.
Thanks,
Ruin Takada XXX
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any likenesses to places, incidences and people (lving or dead) are entirely coincidental, and shouldn't be taken all tha seriously. I have made no money except for charity with this work.
‘A Tale of Desolate Times’
Torches hung in sconces on the chiselled stone walls shone lustrous and soft in the ancient hall. Court shoes stepped lightly upon the marmoreal floor as they waltzed. Dressed in their finery, all high buttons and lace, the ladies and gentlemen danced to the music rising from the piano at one end, to the faint crash of the waves upon the Cliffside, for this masquerade ball in their fortress by the sea.
“Heed this, oh children, you who walk cloaked in Night, who dance by the light of the Moon. She has much to teach us, and we have much to learn, if we are to see tomorrow.” The timbre of her voice was low, and emanated from the far end of the hall where she sat alone at a round table. Almost immediately, the dancing ceased, and the ladies and gents began to gather round her table, the piano playing still.
The one who spoke, the lady in her gorgeous dress of fuliginous black, had not demanded that they cease in their merriment; only that they listen if they have ears, attend if they have care to - yet, with steel gray eyes deeply-set, and a mouth lipped thinly above a sturdy jaw of implicit strength, no one about her would have thought to refuse the invitation. She was a creature far wiser than they, one who had seen it all; who had been there when this ancient fortress in which they stood had been but ruins bought for a high price by their lady from tenants; who was said to have seen the first wax of the full moon, to have fought amongst warriors in the Desolate Times. She was a legend in her lifetime, this lady, a legend still. Anyone who knew this, then, would know better than to refuse the opportunity to hear her tell one of these legends, as she would do now.
“Eimahr, my dear,” the gentleman at the piano ended on a minor, dissonant chord and stood up from the seat, striding towards the swelling crowd. “Why do you insist on starting your tales in such a backward manner?”
The lips of the lady upturned in an almost playful manner, but only for an instant before they settled back into the natural frown. She didn’t turn to face the gent, but to the audience to address them instead. “I insist, my dear Gorrith,” she said, “because that is how any true child of the Night starts any tale. Fact or fancy, truth or fantasy, every one of them starts in this way.” The hall was almost silent in anticipation, but for her low voice. “As it just so happens, my tale tonight is a mixture of both.” As Gorrith moved the table from in front of her, leaving Eimahr in her chair, every one of the gentry sat down upon the dance floor as one, not caring of their shoes and their lace, or their trousers or dresses. Dust settled on their finery, and their shoes scuffed, no longer finely polished, and the trousers of the gents became creased at once as they knelt. It did not matter though: These were pupils at the school master’s command, adults though they were.
As all settled, one of the younger ladies, a red-head of perhaps 13 years dressed in blue, stood up and sat upon Eimahr’s lap without shame, kicking her legs lightly and twirling the lady’s dark tresses between her white-gloved fingers. The elder didn’t resist, merely smiled and pulled the girl further into her lap, stroking her fiery hair.
“As I was saying,” Eimahr began, “we already know of many tales, and of many legends, many of them quite true. The First Moonrise, when we first rose with Her light; the Battles of Garoul, fought against the Ùlfhednar Warriors; Nights of Black and Red, when so many warriors were lost on both sides, that the very earth on which we fought was saturated with the blood of their forces.”
“I remember those nights.” A gentleman in the audience spoke up, and all eyes fell on him. “The ground was no longer firm; for many moons after, no one could stand on the battlefield without slipping on the blood of our fallen comrades.”
Eimahr nodded briefly. “A legend though it became, General Arawn, the Nights are a true part of our history, but a mere tale in theirs.”
“And what tale will you really tell?” The voice was high, reedy, coming from the little lady upon Eimahr’s lap.
“I’m getting there, my fledgling,” the elder chided gently, continuing to stroke. “Be more patient, little one.”
“Yes, do be patient,” Gorrith smiled from his position stood by the lady and her fledgling. “All her tales are doomed to be this pedantic.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy,” the veteran of the Nights spoke up, “I for one wouldn’t have it any other way.” The ladies and gentlemen among him nodded their agreement, solemn and silent. The fledgling laid her head against Eimahr’s breast, her eyes half-closed in a sweet imitation of innocence. Taking a moment to give a tender stroke of the girl’s cheek, the elder continued. She was calm, composed, not to be hurried. The sound of a wave crashing against the rock face below broke the silence before she did.
“You know I tell legends, like I do tonight, but this is because it is our legends that we thrive on above all, even the lifeblood. We do so because we ourselves, we children of the Night, we are the legends. We have always been legends. Even now, at a time when not one among them is prepared to admit our existence to one another, not even when it stares them in the face. It is due to their ignorance, their ability to blithely ignore whatever refuses to adhere to their sense of reality that we are nothing more than bedtime stories to frighten their children, or the intellectual products of too much drink, a pen in the wrong hands and an old bench.”
“You speak of the Abbey Issue.” A lady said from her floor seat beside Arawn. Not question, but a statement of fact.
“Indeed I do, Maddelin. The very same Abbey Issue that held this very fortress in the ownership of cattle for hundreds of years before Our Lady bought it back and made it habitable for more than monks.”
“Sire,” the girl whispered, “tell them where she told them they could stick that tourist value.”
“Not tonight, Morrigan. I have a tale to tell.” The girl smiled, and closed her eyes fully. “Besides, this is still a tourist hotspot, and not much we can do about it.
“But many years ago, we were as real to them as we had ever been, as real as the Garouls themselves had been, may they Howl to the Moon in Eternal Night. In those times, when our markings covered our skin and we refused to hide them, we were a very real threat; creatures to ward against with emblems of Christ.” Many of the gentry laughed lightly, mockingly, a favoured joke. “During this time, so-called witches were burned when their people became ill or disorderly, and when one of us was careless enough to leave a body within fair vicinity of a settlement, they desecrated their honourable dead to seek the culprit, certain that she danced with the Undead.
“These people seeking real ghouls, especially their community leaders of Faith, preached from the pulpit about these agents of Satan, dark creatures that prowled in the shadows, patiently waiting for the opportunity to pick off the weak and faithless among them, to kill them and drink their blood, and make them members of the Undead with their burial in mortal graves. Now, we could go on about their foolishness in this matter, but I won’t, because that would take the rest of the week to explain it to any satisfaction.
“While most of their ravings were wild and nonsensical, some of them had truth as the more knowledgeable among them gained influence. They knew of the distinctive markings that covered our skin, having somehow seen them and lived to remember, of the black blood that courses through our veins, that their relics held no more influence on us than the relics did on them. Once upon a time, we held no more contempt for them than we did the rest of the wretched herd, but now they were correct. Now, they couldn’t be ignored, not for much longer.
“When we hunted, we did so with precision, our eyes no longer alighting upon whatever calf took our fancy, but upon the very bulls spreading the gospel truth of our existence. These fools, though no longer ignorant, were felled swiftly, their meat left to rot for they were not worth the trouble of preserving for later; but not without causing havoc to the rest of the herds, who startled, and - fearful and maddened - charged back in their multitudes.
“Our attempt to destroy the truth and take down these hunters backfired: As foolish as they were, they knew who to blame when the leaders of their anti-Satanic movement went missing, or were found dead. What was more, they correctly inferred that their leaders’ ravings were true also. When they attacked, they came prepared, brandishing carved-out stakes of the Reviled Wood, recognising our markings for what they were.
“From that time onward, we had something to fear of our common prey. We ran from them when they found us, unable to hunt in peace or keep control of the herds. We were confined to walk entirely in Night, never to see the brightness or feel the warmth of the Sun again. As they charged, speared, gored, slayed us, our numbers plummeted. The most marked among us, whose skin always shone so brightly of our Blood Marks, they were the first among us to go, slayed on sight. In those times, only the least marked of us stood any chance of walking the next night. When we were not impaled by the horns of cattle, or trampled under their hoofs, we died of thirst, weak and driven into madness as our blood turned to red, until the Sun found us in our fever and embraced us at dawn, taking our miserable lives when we had not the strength to end them ourselves. Many of us tried going underground, hibernating, waiting for the storm to quell, but all of those who took that route, who came back from that state of sleep, not one of them lives tonight.
“At that time, in an era we call the Darkest Night, we knew what it was to be victims, to be truly robbed of our dignity and slaughtered by our prey - the greatest humiliation. By the end of that era, after years of struggle through the Desolate Times, only Our Lady of the time, Our Lady Valdis, and her Sainted Guard remained in any measure save for the straggling few of us. Having resided in our fortress in Paris since thwarting an infiltration during the Battles of Garoul in AD1450, an act for which she was lauded by Parisians with the renaming of the fortress in her honour, Our Lady Valdis lived on, her survival a shining hope in the midst of our near extinction: If she remained; then we were not finished, not yet.
“Almost overnight, the slaying ceased as one by one they believed us gone, dead. We knew, of course, that it could only be a temporary reprieve, but we were thankful for it, nonetheless. At her command, restoration of our people became the first and, for a long time, the only course of action. For a time, only females were selected from the herd to join us, and they themselves made only female fledglings, determined to reassure our population. In those Years of Growth, as we increased in number and the cattle became inevitably aware of our presence, the struggles began once more. The only difference between then and the beginning of the Darkest Night, however, was that we were prepared. Their hunters had weakened over the years, and we weren’t touched by age. They had lost touch during our absence, and we were driven on pure instinct. We had only gained strength. For the first time since the beginning of the Darkest Night, we were steadily taking back our control and position at the apex.
“But it wasn’t over. The herds, which once fought amongst one another, united the known world over against our nation, and war was declared upon us, a holy crusade. We had no choice but to comply, and before the end of that month, we were preparing for a great battle, the likes of which the world had never seen before.
“The Nights of Black and Red had begun.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth did her audience bow their heads, their left hands raised in fists to their hearts, their right thumb drawing across the left wrist to end in line with the shoulder. “And may the Moon never dawn on her.” Arawn’s performance of the ritual was particularly solemn. His voice was louder than the others, shaking. As the gesture ended, Maddelin’s hand rested on his shoulder, gripping it in reassurance.
Eimahr allowed another smile to light her face. In her lap, Morrigan’s eyes were closed, her breathing slow, steady, but not quite to sleeping. “Of their war generals, we made fledglings; of these fledglings, we moulded warriors to our cause. Of cats we made spies, agents willing to carry our messages and do our bidding for the trade of cattle flesh. As the bodies piled, we paid them handsomely, and their descendants have not forgotten our generosity even tonight.
“On the appointed date, a date that few remember, we met the herd’s army at the battlefield, at a location known only after as the Iron Fields, or the Iron Front. Under the light of the Moon, before She reached her height, the battle begun. On both sides, blood was spilt heavily, and even as they spilt their blood both in combat and by means of distraction, we fought through the temptation and spilt more, even as many of us were felled by their stakes of Reviled Wood, despatched by their cruel weapons. By the end, as the Sun rose on the Iron Fields, not one hundred warriors survived. Our Lady endured, only for the courage of our Generals, while their leader died in the face of extreme cowardice, fleeing from our predominantly lady warriors.
“We claimed the victory with their leader’s death, and with it won our freedom from slaughter… but not without price. Many died valiantly that day, buried by Our Lady Valdis herself into the very earth on which they died. The Iron Fields became their burial ground. All over the world, all who were not cattle mocked us for being victimised by our food, for having to fight for our right to live and imbibe them as Nature intended.
“The Sun that rose at the end of the Desolate Times was the first that many of us had seen for a long time. It hailed the beginning of a new era for us, a time of peace, one that we’d been waiting for since the beginning of the Darkest Night. We were, in one sense, free to recover, free to thrive. Yet in another, we were easily vulnerable to other uprisings. We weren’t in the clear, not until Our Lady Valdis stepped in and demanded a contract to be made between the two sides, a treaty binding both us and them. Within this document, our people were named for the first time by the written word, and so we are as duty-bound to serve it as they are.
“After a long month of negotiations between Our Lady Valdis and their governments, the treaty drawn demands that…”
“By the treaty hereby known as the Treaty of Independence, the Human race and the ones known only as ‘Vampyr’ are to henceforth be at Peace, and will no longer war with one another. Vampyrs will be permitted to feast upon the flesh and blood of Humanity, as is their right by God and the Moon, and Man shall have naught to fear by their existence. Vampyrs may walk by day but hunt only by night, and Man may walk as he chooses.
“Every Vampyr must obey only the Laws of their government (Their Lady) and this document, as they are bound. Every Man shall be bound only by the Laws of God and Man, and this treaty, as they are bound. The Vampyrs’ existence must not be known to any Man, save the exceptions, the kings of nations. Any Man who knows must, by decree, be killed by the Vampyr for sustenance, or become one of them. The revelation of Vampyrs to Men en masse is henceforth a flagrant violation of the treaty, punishable with death by Wood or by Rope. The Battle at Iron Field must not be known to or spoken of to any Man. Every Vampyr holds the right to convey knowledge to another Vampyr. To give Man the knowledge of the Battle is punishable with death by Wood or by Rope. Thus, no Man now or beyond will know of the Battle or of Vampyrs.
“Intended slaughter of a Vampyr at the hands of Man is unlawful, by decree of the treaty. Any man found guilty of unlawful Vampyr-slaughter shall be tried and punished with death, in a manner befitting the crime. No Human exception is to reveal the existence or the contents of the treaty, nor the existence of Vampyrs, regardless of his current status. This shall only be exempt in the event of the treaty’s dissolution, or in the event that the treaty no longer applies. In this case, no punishment is to be accorded.
“Upon their agreement, the treaty was signed by Our Lady Valdis and the leaders of the known world. It went into many details, but those were the essential rules by which we should all live, for we know they were created for the wellbeing of our people, of vampyrs.
“By the time the Independence Treaty was drawn up and signed, twenty years had passed since the very beginning of the Desolate Times. We all rejoiced at our accomplishment, at our new freedom, but it was a tainted sort of victory: We had lost so many of our brethren in the massacre and the battle that followed. Not one of us had wished for a war that would spill the blood of our cattle so unnecessarily, that would force us to forge and use unnatural weapons against them. As for we that remained, we were thankful: We had gained the freedom that we’d so desired. We were permitted to sate our thirsts and take part in harvest, to walk in the Sun like any of the cattle. In short, we had all the freedoms we asked for, with only this contract of Man’s making to obey as well as our own Laws.
“We will always be thankful for these sacrifices, and so for one week of twenty years we celebrate our Independence, revelling in our freedom with dance and retellings of the legend, as we do tonight. We wait twenty years for Independence even now, to commemorate the struggle we faced centuries ago when Man was a creature to be feared, when cattle attacked their herders.
“Tonight we have gained wisdom. Let us learn from it and live, and let us meet again in Her light once more.” Eimahr bowed her head, her lips finally still, silent, her eyes closed for a moment as the torches sputtered, struggling to remain lit. Around her, a silence grew, the audience refused to move, leaning in closer, waiting on bated breath. Even Gorrith was still, transfixed, staring at his mate with rapt attention.
“The end.” Eimahr’s words broke the silence, a stab in the ether of the hall.
A muttering began. It started like a ripple on the surface, rising outward, bouncing off the walls until it was an indefinite roar of defiance and malcontent. “What do you mean, ‘the end?” “Surely there’s more!” “And you call this a tale?”
The elder wasn’t worried as uproar began to spike, as the vampyrs practically leapt to their feet to surround her, their teeth bared in their yells. All she did was smile, lift a hand to them, and motion downwards, shushing with a finger to her lips with the other, watching as the most peculiar quiet came over the gentry at her request, as they stepped back and knelt back down, ignoring the dust and creases on their fine garments once again. It seemed she had more to tell, and that, for them, was all they’d ever ask of her.
“You are all right, of course. As any teller will tell you, whenever a tale is told, an obligation is held by the teller to add to it, to allow it to grow. As it happens, I have a particularly interesting addition to this tale, and I would have waited until the second night of celebrations for this, but as you have insisted, I won’t curse you with anticipation like that.” Words of thanks were muttered, and they sat down properly, heads bowed in supplication as they awaited her words.
“Between now and the last twenty years, before this week’s celebrations, word came to me from a prophet of high repute and skill, of a prophecy concerning Vampyrs and Man, of disturbing events that will threaten our freedom once more. It speaks of the coming of a teller like myself, a so-called ‘Indestructible Bard’. We do not know of allegiances, only that this bard is male, and that he brings a prophecy of his own.”
A laugh rose up from the group, a feminine laugh of cold disdain. “That’s a prophecy?” Maddelin spat. “An ‘Indestructible’ Bard! What sort of lunacy is this, when a mere male can call himself indestructible, and a storyteller at that?! What’s more, you think a prophecy about a prophecy is acceptable fare for-”
Eimahr growled, a rumble low in her throat, threatening as her hackles seemed to rise. “Never speak ill of the tale, young one, not if you wish to remain out of them.” Maddelin growled back, stopped short of standing by a hand on her shoulder, Arawn’s hand. She seemed to remember herself then, for she settled back down, her brunette head lowered in shame.
“Sire,” There was that whisper again, high, reedy, Morrigan’s. Her eyes were still shut, apparently undisturbed by her Sire’s threats, but awake. “What do you mean, when you speak of a bard, exactly?”
“A bard,” The anger washed out of her, and the elder responded with that mothering tone, soft and pure, “is a storyteller, just like me. He, however, is not limited in his form as I am. Songs, chants, poetry, legends, even the written word; these are all forms in which the bard can tell his tales. What is more, a bard requires payment for his services; I merely do it for the cheap entertainment you all receive every time.”
“A bard with a prophecy.” Said Gorrith. “If we were to accept this prophecy as truth, as something to be wary of in the coming years, what could we see of it?”
Eimahr smiled, her gray eyes twinkling. “Now that, my dear, is interesting: According to the prophet, we will know he has come when our sacred treaty is broken, and we are robbed of our Independence. With him, he will bring only one offering to us, an offering that we cannot refuse.”
“And what, pray tell, would this offering be?” Gorrith asked. The audience nodded, waiting on bated breath as the elder fell into silence, as though brooding on the topic herself. When she finally answered, it was in a whisper that carried clear across the hall.
“Chaos.” Eimahr whispered, and that is all she permitted herself to say.
Author's Note: This was originally written for an anthology that was sold to raise money for a hospital charity. However, this still stands as an official companion fic to the up-and-coming White Apples. In other words, this is actually part of the canon. The reason i've posted this here is because it's only available in the original form to a small amount of people, and I want you guys to enjoy it. Aren't I kind to you?
I hope you enjoyed it. Whether you did or not, please tell me below.
Thanks,
Ruin Takada XXX