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FC -> Seventh Son (11/10/2008 1:28:34)
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Seventh Son
It happened again. Last night. They found her draped across her windowsill. They said she was a golden-pale in the dawn’s light. Unnaturally pale, even her black hair they had said was faded. I do not believe that rumor. There is no blood in the hair, after all. That, however, did not stop them from calling the Dhampir.
My sister, Tanja, was the first in the village. The first to be drunk from, at the least. They found her sprawled on her bed, one hand resting on the wooden frame of the window. Tanja was asking the dawn and its light for help and finding none. Her ebony hair had not lost its luster, which owed much to her beauty. Her body had wasted away; all color, life and soul gone. She was... no longer my sister. The moon was the only thing that made her look like she had in life.
It was her fault, though. I warned her days before, when they had found the newly-made widow exhausted and crying out heated delusions for hours about her dead husband until her own death. She had died in flames but wearing a sheen of cold sweat, half bloodless and stolen of soul. I ran back to my hometown from my house just a few kilometers from those happenings as quickly as I could. I told Tanja to shut her windows at night. To wear her rosary and hang her Cruz above the window over her bed, even at night. Stupid girl, she only laughed at me and did not listen. She never even answered me.
I warned the rest as well. They, much less foolish than my poor Tanja, listened to my warnings. Perhaps they were all more superstitious. The village's young men were harvesting more garlic than one household could possibly eat. Rosaries rested prominently on the breasts of every woman. The little children taught games that were to torture crows and black rats in the streets. Still, He attacked them. There was always the one young maiden who was too proud, or the man who was too forgetful. They were drunk off by sunrise.
But because of the Baron’s daughter last night, they came to an end. The Baron, pausing from his grief in his high tower, promised no more. They sent out a turtle dove from that morning as the call for “He Who Kills His Own”. Every prayer on every lip that night in the village was for his quick coming, easy work and speedy going.
I stood guard outside the church the first night, doubting His return, but to assuage the fear of the villagers. they all rocked and swayed with unease as the stood guard, but I had little more to lose. So, I stood guard outside the small but cavernous building that would hold the body for a week. She would be set out by candlelight, until they were absolutely sure that any trace of Him had been driven from it and until then there would be no burial.
Even outside the door, I could see the light of the moving candle flames in glowing effect, pouring through the doorway. Dusky light, that flicked around the shadow of her profile and the flowers that abounded, left by a bereaved mother who could not bury her child. I stood, holding a small bud of a white rose nearly crushed in my fist against my thigh. My nerves, for some reason, were much higher and tauter the night of the Dhampir.
Then a flickering of red, that was so dark that it met midnight at its roots, flashed to me from down the road. At first, the strange color was hid by a slope, and a hill, and another slope again as it drew closer to the outskirts of the town. I continued to watch the shadowy figure with its billowing clothes about it. I could see a hint of ice-blue, almost as white as snow, under heavy brows in, glinting in the moonlight. The colorings were both unnatural and uncommon, like the whitish creature perched steadily on his shoulder.
He crossed the Netchkev cottage at the corners of the square, where the road met cobble, and sent off the mottled bird from his shoulder and it fluttered off against the sunset. His footsteps were eerily quiet on the hard stones. He continued to twirl one of its dark-patterned plumes between his slender fingers until he came face to face with me. His presence drew townspeople to their windows nervously and men, protective of their homes and wives, out of doors. A stranger, unfamiliar to this village in ways formerly unimaginable.
“You sent for me,” the stranger said plaintively, instead of asking. He said it to me. Those rare eyes focused wholly on mine. To me. Standing directly in front of me, he had said it to me.
“The Dhampir,” I managed, not focusing on his entrancing stare, “We sent for the Dhampir.”
“Then you have sent for me, Seventh Son,” he answered with a lazy tone. Loudly; too loudly. Even though no one had quite drawn close enough to hear him, I feared it. I hissed for him to be quiet. The glares of the townsmen grew dark, cutting through the church's candle light.
“Hold your tongue! I am the third son.”
“To live to this day,” he said, an annoying agreement, cocking his head to keep his eyes in contact with my own which had now narrowed, “But the Seventh conceived. I will fight you . . . Someday.” He flipped his wrist gracefully as if it were another matter all together and smiled carelessly.
“Oh, I shall fight you now!” I snarled my challenge, drawing back for a punch. He only laughed softly and held up that graceful, gloved hand in peace and brushed by me. The edges of his cape flowing over my legs as he peered in the church door.
“All things in their time. May I… See her?”
“Can you not go in yourself?” I spat. He found this funny as well and a strange, strangled smile tortured his thin, colorless lips, “I love the touch of the Church, but the Church will not love me touch her. Without invitation.” His gaze kept to me for a moment more and then went back to stare at her from the frame’s corner, not yet daring to touch the wood even, but look on distractedly.
I bore holes into the back of his head as I considered it for a few long moments. The Church was a final sanctum for the town, but nonetheless I said, “Enter, Dhampir.” Though I was not sure if I had said it at all.
“Thank you, Seventh Son,” he glided by me, sugarcane in his voice.
“My name is Vaclav,” I seethed anxiously surveying the men who had joined us. They flinched at his term for me and started to back away apprehensively. I flashed them a look that would have screamed ‘stay’, and they did.
“Ah, well, my name is Nikolai,” he tossed over his shoulder coolly and strode directly up to the altar where the girl lay in her elaborate noble’s coffin. His walk had a confident swagger, but his stance gave no impression of the same drunken manner. No, when standing he was as serious as an open grave. His leaned forward almost stiffly to examine the cruz clasped in her hands and the white candles surrounding her completely. The townsmen and I watched carefully from behind the frames of the door, cautious of the untrustworthy man. After all, he was the son of a Vampire and never to be trusted. A thick curl of the dark red that hung down over his eyes told us that indefinitely.
Still, he went over the Baron's daughter gently. It was almost a paternal touch he took as he opened her mouth to check under her tongue and place a large glass bead in each cheek. There was something kind and worried in the way he ran a hand over her stomach to feel for bulges of a harbored soul. He was kind with the dead. After a moment, he turned to stare at us again with those bizarre and empty eyes.
“Where was she bitten?” his voice was soft and wise, deftly understanding. It seemed now unfit to the person. Both his question and tone ashamed and quieted us into modesty.
“In the middle of her bosom,” I said quietly, as if scared to say the very word in reverence to the poor child. This seemed to make everyone flush a bit more before returning their eyes to him before their gazes turned to the middle of her chest fleetingly. He nodded and untied the loose knot at the scooped collar of her burial clothes. All of the men looked away again with another blush climbing their rugged, countryman’s cheeks. Only I continued to watch his rude examination, which was almost nothing less than violating the dead. The gentleness still tainted his unnatural touch, but there was something so wrong about it all.
“You may remove her from here,” he declared, after retying her clothes with a dignifying gesture, “She is free from his presence. Though I recommend a proper, Christian burial at dawn, or she could turn her own.” They all faced him as he walked confidently from the church, his great deed done. I stared at him, my gaze angry, but nothing more to do.
~*~
We had dispersed out behind him, the men back to their homes and I to my post shortly outside the chapel again. I watched the strange Nikolai make his way to an inn at the end of the square. Though it was not a traditional “inn”, they gave out rooms. I took a back room there, in fact. It was where I slept in the day, when I did not guard at night.
I had become obsessive after the widow died, and, if it was possible, even more consumed by the thoughts of it after my sister’s death and my return. I had tried to protect her and had failed. So after, as if to make up for it, I made rounds in the town nightly. I shooed children from their games and into their homes and watched out for the dark creature stalking the town. Till the fingers of dawn reached across the sky, I would walk. Some nights, nothing happened. Some nights, I was too careless.
This night, I turned back before dawn, moments before the cockcrow. I returned to my room by passing through the front rooms of the inn, still warm from the embers of a dying fire. I tiredly wandered through the main front room of the inn to find my room. Casting one last cautionary look around, I saw a crumpled figure by the warmth of the leftover fire in the large, open fireplace. It could not be the vampire. It could not possibly be the vampire. It would not leave its self this open, would it?
“Dhampir?” I questioned softly, keeping a safe distance. The dozing creature looked up somewhat sleepily, a strange twinkle in those stranger eyes under the cover of a hat.
“Yes, Seventh Son?” he replied, stretching out and rising from his sleeping place on the hearth. He struggled to stiffen a yawn, but lost the battle, smiling at me all the while with an egotistical confidence. I wanted to fight his words, but the yawn caught me and I fell into the action as well. He took another turn to speak, “You sleep during the day, do you?”
I fought off the urge to yawn again and answered, “I sleep when He sleeps.” I growled again and stalked back towards my bedroom.
“You do not eat?” he asked again, leaning his tall, thin frame against the edge of the fireplace. An empty goblet and the signs of an eaten dinner accompanied him. His sharp vision coursed my body and I frowned at his presumption of familiarity.
“I shall eat when He starves,” I answered, stopping to stare right back at him. There was a warning of olde: ‘Never challenge a Dhampir by his eyes; you will lose.’ It did not hold true this time. His burning stare backed down and he went back to looking over the rest of me.
“You shall die first,” he said as if he agreed; nodded down as he looked over me. It seemed true. I could feel myself becoming thinner over the past few weeks of guarding. Though I had not lost much weight and I felt no hunger, I was fed by my passion of . . . revenge. Yes. Revenge.
“He shall die first.” I spun, breaking away from his hypnotizing look, and hurried back to my room. I fell into my bed and slept dreamlessly until light waned on the horizon. When I woke again, I looked out my window, as its view slanted into the plaza. Saw nervous mothers as children were herded into their homes before dark and the sun faded away.
Men were a bit more confident. They took a slight more leisure in the bar, hitting on the flighty barmaid. Most nights, she would play the coquette for all of them, whether it was her personality or her charity. Tonight, however, her focus somehow centered on the Dhampir. Which did not phase the village men too much, as they were half-dead drunk in any case.
His gaze was a bit glazed, but he took her advances sweetly, playing with her as much as she with him. His smile lazy and easy, his movements loose and just a bit wild. This facade seemed fade and those icey eyes to focus more on my as I left my gloomy room for the first dregs of night. Indeed, he nearly forgot about the shapely girl in his lap and called out to me from his seat.
“He comes! The Seventh Son emerges!”
With his words, peals of drunken laughter and a nervous, guarding smile from the girl. (No self-respecting country innkeeper would dare house such a monster!) He stood, gently placing the girl on the chair, and approached me to place an arm about my shoulders like an old friend. Leaning ever towards me, he whispered into my ear, “Forgive me, Vaclav, but I fear we shall fight tonight. Your grievances repaid, and all.”
I shook off his burning touch and walked for the open door, grumbling a few small curses and angry words. I heard the townsman mutter to his companion,
“Strange man who only ever talks to himself… he would not be here, if he wasn’t saving us all.”
I cast him a dark look from the door and he shivered, turning quickly away from me. I protected them nightly and they spoke of me as though I was just some old lunatic! How comfortable would they be, had I not been heading out to guard the haunted village every night? I shrugged the insult off and took my leave of the room to wander the streets in search of the Vampire. However, I kept a wary eye out for the Dhampir. His words had unsettled me and made me quite a bit suspicious.
~*~
The moon had reached its peak just as I strode across the plaza in a soldier-like march. The door to the Inn opened and there stood the half-man, half-vampire. More than a few drinks coursed his system by this time and his red hair flamed and coiled around his face, locks licking at his cheeks and eyes like flame. His blue eyes flashed dangerously as he pointed in my direction.
“Tonight!” he cried out, drawing a small-but-growing crowd, “Tonight I fight the Vampire!!!”
I stared at him incredulously, his finger pointed at me and such words were a high insult. No doubt he waited to lose his head! The townspeople kept their puzzled eyes gazing over and on me like an empty space and flashing back, frightened to him.
“What are you doing, Dhampir,” I snarled like a trapped animal as he neared me and the men stayed behind, quaking from both intoxication and fear.
“My duties given to me as a birthright, Seventh Son…” he said softly, approaching me with a staggering but controlled walk. I took a few steps back, but he pursued with a strange agility, “Pardon me, but I cannot read much into the future now. Though I do believe that I shall win out this one, if solely by experience. You have been an interesting catch indeed.”
He stood his ground only for a moment more with that whimsical smile and deathly pose before I leapt at his throat. This chimera of a monster would not destroy my reputation for the simple reason of a drunken pleasure. I would fight this insane man! And, what was more, I would win!
Still, he had somehow expected my attack as quick and vengeful as it was. He only half side-stepped my jump and clung to my arm mid-air, pulling me back to the ground. Twisting it around to an unnatural angle, he forced me to my knees in a throbbing pain. With a feral smile, he pushed me down to the ground, my arm still bend at a painful curve and creaking in protest and curses streaming from my mouth.
“Why?!” I thought I had screamed, but must have only murmured, as I saw him pull a stake from his cape and take careful aim at my chest.
“Because you have been terrorizing the people of this Town for months now. You have killed many young girls and men. You killed your own wife out in the deep country. You should have been dead and long buried, but Seventh Sons always come back, do they not?”
“I am no Vampire... I am living!”
“Why do they always believe such?” he said, half musing to himself, half sad, “It makes it so much harder on me.” I saw him swing his arm around bury the wooden spike through my chest with a swift movement and felt an empty pain. Then... all was but a thick, black nothingness.
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-FC
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