Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Drabbles - Elden from Souls Night

Reposting more 100-word drabbles centered on characters from my ebooks. This time - Master vampire Elden from Souls Night.

~*~

Two centuries had passed, and still Elden could never get a full day of sleep. It didn’t matter how tired he was when returning to the lair at sunrise, he always ended up missing the once familiar presence that had anchored his sleep and dreams for so long. Too often, he gave up after a few hours and left that too big, too cold bed to either sit by the fire or train with a sword for an hour or five. Two centuries had passed, and still Elden thought he could breathe in Debra’s scent when he held her pillow.

~*~

Two centuries had passed, and Elden had given up warming his bedroom. Once, large fires had blackened the hearth and cast light on the room he had shared with his first Childe; his favorite Childe. Now, he only used the common room fireplace, and then only to warm water. He had always hated washing in cold water. So had she. He built large fires in the stone fireplace, and sometimes watched them burn for hours. Colors and light. Crackling wood. Smoke that he could taste on his tongue. Warmth. Two centuries had passed, and Elden had never felt so cold.

~*~

Two centuries had passed, and every time Elden saw the table in the common room, something inside him tightened and bled. He could remember the day he had requested that table and those chairs from Riverside’s carpenters. It had been just days after he had sired his fourth Childe. The lair had needed some improvements. He had asked for ten chairs, hoping to make the set last. When the Great Death had come, there had still been two empty chairs. Two centuries had passed, and Elden could still hear each of his Childer’s last heartbeat when he closed his eyes.

~*~

Two centuries had passed, and the weapons on the wall still gleamed. Elden only used a handful of them, depending on his mood and how tired he was of it all. The heavy ax when he wanted fast kills. The long sword when he felt like giving demons a fair chance. The dagger on nights when his loneliness and despair went beyond his better judgment. He cleaned the weapons he didn’t use every few days, caressing hilts and blades with a soft cloth and remembering the hands that had held them. Two centuries had passed, and Elden continued to hunt.

~*~

Two centuries had passed, and no one came to offer blood to Elden anymore. He had once forged Pacts with seven villages, but they seemed to have forgotten him. For a few weeks, after the Great Death, they had continued to come. One by one, the villages had stopped sending offerings. Five had asked him to take new Childer. They hadn’t understood why he wouldn’t; why he couldn’t. They hadn’t seen his clan die as he had. Two centuries had passed, and Elden wasn’t sure he remembered the taste of human blood, but he always remembered the taste of tears.

~*~

Two centuries had passed, and Elden continued to mourn his Childer on Souls Night. Small candles on their tombs, silent words given to each of them, and the continued promise not to fight on this night, the night they had died. Let it be the one time when steel wasn’t drawn and blood wasn’t shed. The one night when he allowed himself to grieve fully for his lost clan. Two centuries had passed, or maybe a little more, when a human child once stumbled on Elden’s private ritual and changed his life. She wasn’t even twenty. Her name was Myrna.

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