Tuesday, April 23, 2013


Jonathon passed through other rooms and different chambers. He saw interior courtyards and high towers, hidden from the outside world by soaring mountains. Young, elferina girls (waif-like, pointy eared, pubescent vampires) ministered to the good natured cherubs, sharing tiny blood drinks and wrapping them in warm, woolen buntings. Even night-folk children appreciate comfort. 

And there were hospice-like dormitories where silent vampirinas cared for seriously ill mortals, usually much loved retainers, but occasionally a sympathetic local tribesmen or two as well.  

Many vampires assembled for the Creed Song, their version of a religious service. The Choir Master, reputed to be a former liturgical composer from Hagia Sophia,  mother church of The Eastern Roman or Byzantine Empire, led them through intricately layered chants and hymns. The gold leafed, rough stone walls echoed with fine, clear, more-than-natural voices. 'May He Who made the universe, make us forever one,' they sang. And the song had many verses. At certain intervals they stopped for silent contemplation, or prayer-like recitation. Toward the end, each took the wrist of a neighbor and drank a bit of blood, before offering his own wrist to another.

Now all these sites were wonderful to see and Jonathon was truly appreciative. The gold embroidered robes, influenced by Persian courtiers, had no equal.  And he savored wine tinged blood, drawn from the arteries of faithful mortal attendants, who were rarely, if ever, killed. Indeed, the memories would fill many pages in his journal. 

But the one who led him here sensed something and  said - What troubles you?....... Jonathon quietly answered - Everything...... The man with the sharp, cunning fangs whispered - A true vampire, I might say...... And he smiled. Then, in a small, soft, tiny voice added - Lose yourself. Become a vessel. Gather in the blood and let it out...' for those who must be saved.' Let the wicked die. Help the worthy live...... Jonathon said - Who taught you that?.... Though the man only shrugged and smiled.

The young life-eater from Al-Andaluz stayed in that place for perhaps three or four moons, sheltering there through the worst of the winter. And then he simply left, retracing his steps back toward home. Each day he hid from the light. And each night he assisted the worthy. Sometimes he ate. Not often, but monthly as was his habit. He fell into a rhythm and even forgot his name.... in the manner of the truest night-folk of all.

Jonathon has seen many things.

But please do not forget that what we've discussed are memories. For now he waits, pierced by many long, thin needles and unable to free himself from their bite.

His blood, so filled with many things, belongs to his captor now. And his tissues thirst because of it.

The old man, known as Tobias Maxwell, dips his hands in the red, frothy brew and rubs it on his face. But the large, golden bowl holds so much more....

As Jonathon quietly suffers, within his leaden tomb.
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