Disclaimer: This is a work of amateur, non-profit, fan fiction and is not meant to infringe on the copyrights of Anne Rice, or her publishers. The lyrics used are from London After Midnight, no copyright infringement intended, just thank you guys for such wonderful music! Spoilers: Up to and including TVA. Dedication : For Louis Ravensfield, vampire showman extraordinaire, for uniting lovers of the dark side throughout Britain and Europe. Never say die, my coven master.;)
by Beverley [EMAIL PROTECTED] (mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]) Here behind these eyes, here inside my soul, Hear the screams of a crucifixion ring through the dark, ring through the cold. Reach up and pull me down into your hallowed ground, I'll lead you into temptation, buried in passion I'll lead you down. 'This Paradise' ~ London After Midnight Reflection is an art that a vampire can sharpen to the finest degree. I am not one of those that seek the public adoration of the masses. Some of our kind are as addicted to this cheap thrill as much as they are enslaved to the bloodlust. But tonight I feel the need to commit my emotions onto parchment. It does not matter how I came to be here. The details of my journey are mine to keep alone. Be grateful for the chance to see this at all. My surroundings are simple but functional, and all that I require. An old farm building attached to a once bustling stable block, previously an oasis for the weary traveller in this vast land. I can see the arched entrance from my viewpoint, with the battered wooden name sign hanging from one chain. Above me the crisscross of old dry beams amazingly support the tiled and patched roof. Something tells me that the strength of the cobwebs has more superiority than the archaic timber. I stretch my limbs before swinging down from the old hayloft and I use the cemented horseshoes in the walls to descend from my vantage point. I see no usefulness in expending energy unnecessarily. Outside of this crumbling barn the air is heavily pregnant with heat. The substance of it seems to be solid, but I am drawn to the heat of the night, a reminder of lost summer days where the blue of the sky was too perfect to recreate in any artist's palette. Forgive me for a hint of sentimentality. I carry some weaknesses still, but in this silent place I can drop my guard, the time worn stones have no tongues to tell of my frailty. I pad outside to face the night. There are no stars, but the sky is bruised with a blue black hue with only the flaxen light of the new full moon to puncture the nightfall. The vines stand like sentries, falling away down the rolling hillside, until they too are swallowed by the gloom. Behind me are trees, their dark outline like tumbleweed against the horizon. And everywhere are the noises of the night, the beep of the tree frogs and the rasping cicadas and far, far away the haunting screech of an owl. The pull of this land is very strong. I feel the heartbeat of the earth as clearly as I hear the drumming of any mortal heart. The rich soil stubbornly clings to my boots as I slowly make my way through the heavily fruited vines. The night air is sweet and thick, a cleansing transfusion. I catch the scent of the village, throbbing with life, but I am not hungry. Sometimes abstinence makes for clearer thoughts', fasting is good for the soul but I had long ago stopped worrying about the condition of mine. A ghostly shape darts towards me and silently the owl tears a hapless mouse from my feet. I have a certain affinity with this nocturnal hunter. I respect the skills involved. The vines end at a low stone wall and I vault this effortlessly. A sea of sleeping sunflowers greets my eyes; their heads bowed shyly, all eagerly awaiting the first rays of the morning sun. There are thousands of such fields in this corner of France, so many that some are left to wilt and decay in the scorching heat, which once nourished the very essence within them. I move on. Decay does not distress me. I have seen far too much of it over the centuries. I do not get close to ones of mortal stature, your lifetime is brief and I do not wish to feel compassion. I have spent most of my immortality avoiding relationships of any kind. I am the silent one of the coven, spoken about at reunions in a hushed whisper lest news of me reaches the ears of the elders. Lestat once told me that he envied my anonymity, laughing as he spoke and touching my shoulder in a show of affection. I only nodded in reply but he understood. Two minutes in his company is almost enough. He glows like a firefly in the night but I have this urge to squash him underfoot for his impudence in revealing our secrets to the 20th century. These thoughts are with me as I track through a glade of trees clinging to the hillside, their gnarled roots a trap for unwary limbs. Occasionally the moon finds a way to illuminate my path. I do not need the light but it is strangely comforting. Even dead things love the light. I wonder if I will find you again at the place to which I travel and I am annoyed with myself for daring to care. The glade has become a vast army of coniferous trees with a soft, forest track beneath my feet. I duck beneath the claw like lower branches as they snatch strands of my long, dark hair from my once neat ponytail. And there it is below me in the moon glow surrounded by a pathetic wire fence. It is almost indistinguishable in the dappled light but to vampire vision it is dazzling in its brilliance. Nearly two thousand years have passed and still the glory of its infant years reverberates from these ancient stones. An elliptical expanse of golden sand carpets the arena floor where once mighty chariots raced in anger and innocent blood seeped unnoticed into the sand. In three bounds I am standing on the soft surface with the public access to the arena behind me. I close my eyes and can almost hear the excited voices from the crowd; one mans voice above the rest, frantic in its delight. ~"It is Claudius, I see him now!" The roar from the multitude echoes from the walls, even stirring the nobility seated on the podium, the first level of seating. >From the eastern portal there comes a triumphant melee of sound as the gladiators enter in their mighty procession, the 'pompa', and in the same vision as if in complete contrast I see the western portal where the dead and dying are dragged like abattoir meat, their usefulness gone, like a rose snapped at the neck. All this was the fragile equilibrium of roman society maintained by the richest classes who provided the general populace with adequate food supplies and leisure activities, the 'panem et circensos',' bread and games', and what deadly games.~ The soft breeze whips through the eastern portal and flicks my hair across my face bringing me back to this reality. Encasing oneself in history is a way of not dealing with the present.. or the future. I catch the aroma of freshly laundered cotton and I swallow the growl of pleasure in my throat. To play it cool, as they say these days, is the most sensible option. It would not be credible to my reputation to let you know just how violently my heart was beating. And there you are seated upon one of the lowest stones in the podium, legs apart, head bowed, fingers clasped, blond hair candle bright in my vision. I approach you, knowing that your ears are honed to pick up the slightest change in my breathing pattern, and I give you what you desire. One exhale of breath that lasts a little longer as I let it escape through my lips. Your head jerks upright, wide bright eyes, a slight twitch of a muscle in your jaw line. "The rumours are true?" My question is really a statement. No need for the pleasantries of a formal greeting. The lowering of your eyes and the sudden firm set of your lips is my answer. You expect me to continue but I pause waiting for the anger to rise in you which I know it will. How many nights have you come to me now, so childlike in your stubbornness.. "I feel like he's bled me dry." You spit your words like snake venom onto the sand. The pain of your betrayal takes my breath away, but pain is such a catharsis. My move now and one word that I know inflames you. Your name uttered softly with emphasis on the last syllable, so much that it sounds like its feminine equivalent. "Dan-i-el.." One hand entwined in your soft hair and one to turn your face to mine. You close your eyes; your slightly parted lips my invitation. And I take what I know is now mine, tasting the dried salt of your blood tears on your lips, committing the taste to memory in case this feast is taken from me. I pull away before the moment takes me; this is not the place or the time. You rest your head against me and I stroke the hair from your neck, patiently waiting for your next move. Submission comes in many forms and you are one of its finest, but you are submission under a different name, surrender with a tinge of dominance, a capitulation coated in the soft cloak of near madness, but underneath this, an iron clad determination to survive. The Master has finally gained a pupil worthy of his attentions. It seems like life is cyclic, even for a vampire. For as Marius taught Amadeo I now have gained Daniel. Prohibited possessions are always the most coveted. And who am I? I am not going to answer that question. Your evidence is in my text. Pay attention to my words, I do not suffer fools gladly. (http://www.tc.umn.edu/~pres0049/Storypage.html) **************Start the year off right. Easy ways to stay in shape. http://body.aol.com/fitness/winter-exercise?NCID=aolcmp00300000002489
