Velari
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(10/8/06 1:00 am)
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Power Without Redemption (An original story by moi!)
This is one of my spiffy stories. This is just the prologue and one chapter, other chapters will be added at a later date, if y'all like what's here. Post a reply and let me know what you think! ^_^
(I couldn't get the tab to work for the main chapter, so there's a blank line between paragraphs. ^^;; )
Prologue
Written October 1403
The Vampyr, the Childe of the Nyght, lives Forever. It is not so different from its Mortal counterpart, the Human. It can Live. It can Love. It can Die. Or, more rightly so, it can be Killed. The Vampyr does not Die naturally, as Humans do. It must be slayne. Any Blayde can do this. Any Poison, if strong enough, can Kill the Vampyr. If one is Fortunate enough to catch the Vampyr unawares, slaying it can be easier than reading these very Words. Of the many ways to Kill the Vampyr, the Rays of the Sun are the most Potente. Such intense Purity as is contained in the Rays pierces the Vampyr and renders it helpless. If in such Pure Lyght for any length of time uncovered, the Vampyr is reduced to Ashes. Mere Dust.
The Vampyr has existed since the Dawn of Tyme. The Vampyr was already ancient when Tyme became Tyme. They are as old as the Skye. Mayhap even older.
The Vampyr lives on the Blood of the Mortal. It must drink the Blood of the Living to sustain Itself through its many years. This Blood renews that which flows through the Vampyr’s Vaynes. Without such Sustenance, the Vampyr becomes as a Living Skeleton. Its skin shrivels and it becomes a most horrible Syght.
If, in the event taking Blood, the Vampyr Kills its Victym, the Vampyr loses its Soul. The Soul of the Vampyr, once lost, is virtually impossible to regayn. The Vampyr no longer wants to lead an unadulterated Life. It becomes wholly Evyl, its will bent on the Destruction of Virtue and Innocence wherever they can be found. The Vampyr loses the ability to feel Regret, Love, and Sorrow. In their places stand Revenge, Hate, and Cruelty.
~
1647, Castle MacAlister, Scottish-English Border
Ambrose MacAlister looked tearfully out at the lightening horizon, wishing the relentless pain would end. His body was rent with bloody wounds, his princely tartan reduced to mere rags, his entire being trembling with exhaustion.
It was almost too much to bear. He had won the war, barely, but his lands had been decimated. He had lost everything: his honor, his castle, his wife, his children. It was a strain not to weep at his wretched state.
He moved closer to a shell of a tree, limping heavily as he leaned against it, wincing when his shoulder wound reopened and the gash released what little blood he had left. His increasing hunger elongated his fangs, gnawed at his innards. He ignored it, intent on watching the sun rise for the first time in 2,840 years, and ending his life along with it.
Isobel watched him, weeping the tears that he could not, feeling every wave of his pain as if it were her own. She drew near to him and put a tentative hand on his arm. “Can I help?”
He looked down to the girl. No, woman, he corrected himself. He saw her tears and another slice of pain went through his heart. She was too young to witness this. In her mind he saw the devastation she had seen. He saw her parents slain before her. He saw her brothers and sisters mutilated. He saw her home and property burned to the ground. How she had survived, he did not want to know.
“Can I help?” she asked again.
He crushed her to his chest in a fierce hug, mindless of his own pain as he tried to heal hers, taking it on to himself. She stood frozen for a moment, then hesitantly put her arms around his waist and held him as tightly as he held her, feeling his tears hot against her neck.
“Make it stop,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Make the pain stop.”
She nodded frantically and held him even more strongly. She felt her pain lessen as his increased. She felt his loneliness, his hunger.
He felt his hunger take over his pain. There was a beautiful, young woman in his arms, ripe with blood. There was no one to miss her, was there? Her loss would not be remarked, would it? No, he told himself viciously. Never hurt the innocent. But was she really innocent? She had seen destruction. She had participated in it by killing two men who had tried to use her for their own pleasure.
He tried to rationalize his thoughts but knew his body would not be denied its final kill. He felt his hand raise and fist in Isobel’s hair, felt his arm tighten brutally around her waist. He felt her cry out as his fangs pierced her flesh. He felt her searing blood warm his throat as he consumed her very essence.
Her blood pulsed through his veins, healing his wounds and lessening his pain as her life drained away. Let go, he commanded himself. Stop. His body would not comply. The Hunger had taken over and would not relinquish its control until it had conquered its victim.
Ambrose felt his soul leak away as Isobel’s life dwindled with every passing second. His hold on her tightened as hers weakened. Her arms fell away from him as a feeble plea escaped her lips, taking her last breath with it.
He did not care. This was his moment. This was his victory.
He let her lifeless body drop. He felt free. Without his soul, without his conscience, there was nothing to restrict his power. He would have revenge on those who had made him suffer. He would destroy their lives as they had destroyed his. He would obliterate their hopes and annihilate their dreams. He would slay their families, their loved ones. He would lay waste to their world, and be damned to those who would try to stop him.
He looked east toward the rising sun and grinned at its deadly rays before stalking back to the ruins of his castle. He would not die this morning. He would not die until he had his vengeance.
He pushed through the detritus, glancing at the bodies of his fallen warriors, his fellow vampires, his own kin. He ignored them and continued on to the remnants of his bedchamber. He shoved aside debris and pulled up the trapdoor.
His world had been shattered. But he was still strong. Retribution would be his.
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