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Story Four: Sunrise Purging
Topic Started: Sep 13 2009, 06:03 PM (222 Views)
Darkom
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Sunrise Purging



The night was generally clear, with only occasional cloud cover to obscure the pristine beauty of a full moon. How it illuminated the rest of the world, he could not say, but it bathed the world around him in a gentle, silvery-blue light, adding a muted beauty to the luscious hues of green foliage and brilliant colors of summer flowers. He did not study the demure beauty of the scene, but, even in his haste, he could not help but take it in.



He walked quickly through the still, slightly chilly air of an early midland summer night. The foliage about him was thick and fully developed, but young enough that it retained the vibrancy of youth; in daylight, their greens were luscious, plentiful and varied, but in moonlight they seemed different ghoulish shades of black and bluish gray. It was a strange paradox that these things of beauty and youth should so resemble things of death and decay with only a change of light; and stranger still that they should seem more beautiful in the mystery of their darker forms than in the guileless light of day. 'Maybe there are two faces to everything,' he thought, 'and two ways to see those faces."



He strayed now from the solitary path on which he'd been walking, picking his way between trees and rocks with ease, as if, even in the most shadowy passes, he could see clearly. Aside from his muted footfalls, the night was very still. Not even the animals were out tonight, or, at least, not around him.



His step did not slow as he distanced himself further and further from the path, and headed deeper and deeper into the untouched and overgrown areas. He was headed far away from the reaches of man, far away from the cleared paths and paved streets of civilization. He was destined to pass through the wildest and most untamed reaches through which his legs could carry him, and he hastened to find them as if beckoned by some unseen force.



He made his way through groves of trees, disappearing utterly only to reappear on the other side, his dark hair seeming black in the moonlight, and his pale skin appearing to rival the moonlight in pallor.



He was an able walker, and neither his haste nor the sometimes rough terrain seemed to interfere with his unruffled appearance. His shoulder length hair remained tied back, fastened at the nape of his neck in the style of gentlemen, and his plain white shirt, black tunic, and black leggings remained untouched, never snagging or getting caught on anything. Only his dark shoes seemed to be effected, with little beads of dew accumulating here and there on the leather and buckles.



He had been walking for a long time now, and all at once veered his direction, heading up what seemed to be a long hill. Still, his pace did not falter, nor did he show signs of weariness. His ageless skin showed no beads of perspiration, and his breath did not come any faster. His forehead was slightly creased, though, as if he was lost in deep thought, and his eyes seemed to flash fire, as if the thoughts were not happy ones.



It had been a long time since he'd traveled this path -- if path it could be called, as it was one that existed only to the traveler's familiar eye. Once, he'd traversed this way frequently; but that was years ago. Then, he had traveled it to push further and further, until he could follow it without turning to come back home at the end of the journey. Now, he was coming back home, and his journey had ended.


Tears welled in his eyes, but he brushed them away quickly and brusquely, as though they aggravated him. 'It wasn't supposed to be like this,' he thought, and felt the despairing tears threatening to return. 'But it is,' his mind contended matter-of-factly, pushing the sentimental side of his thoughts aside with cold, unemotional reason. His steely resolve returned, and his eyes grew fiery and dry.


His home, at least, the home he'd known since birth, was at the end of this way. His family, too, waited there, hoping someday that he'd return. But he had chosen a different path than they'd planned for him long ago. He had known that he would since he'd been a small child, and he had grown surer and surer with every passing day of his childhood. The easy, comfortable life of a country squire had been to him like chains of steel and fetters of iron. He was not born to oversee fields and tenants, to control other's lives and be responsible for their well-being. He was less than that, and yet more than that. He'd yearned all his life for a freedom and purpose that he would never attain by telling other people what to do, and making sure that they did it; not even the thought of ensuring his tenants success and well-being would be enough for him. That was why he left, so many years ago. He'd found glimpses of his freedom before then, when he'd traveled this path, pushing himself harder and harder each time, as if to see how far he could test the limits of his own strength and resolve. And the day had come, when he merely dared himself no longer...when he simply continued to walk, and did not turn back like he'd done so many times before.


He'd found his purpose, too, and a good one at that. Oh yes, he'd put his determination and drive to good use this last decade. He'd worked with men and women of all sorts, the good, the bad, and everyone in between, as long as they had the same goal, for whatever reason, as he'd had. He'd had outstanding partners and terrible partners, ranging from the inept to the treacherous, and he'd worked alone for stretches of months or even years at a time. Yet, through it all, he'd managed to survive, and continue with his work. He'd made Cyrodiil a safer place, not just because of the monsters he'd killed, but because of the monsters he'd pushed underground. He'd ended the foul lives of many of the darker creatures of Cyrodiil, and made life so perilous for the rest that they stayed away from the populace, holed up in their lairs where they dared threaten no one. Even then, he had not rested...he'd hunted them to their secret haunts, not allowing them to simply outlive his natural life with their unnatural ones and begin preying on innocents all over again.





No, he'd hunted them down wherever they'd gone, stopping at nothing to find and destroy them. He'd traveled to lands outside of his own, dealt with people unlike those he'd ever known, and escaped countless perils, all for his self-imposed duty. He'd tracked and fought new monsters and old monsters, those who had seen a few days as a creature of darkness and those who had seen centuries. And, though he'd come close to death time and again, he'd always pulled through and won the day...until...


He seemed to shudder as the thought crossed his mind, and his jaw tightened noticeably, even by the shallow light of the moon. His already rapid pace quickened, and he hurried forward, up the long slope before him.



As a child, the hues of green and brown, the earthy smell, the fragrance of blossoms and the refined moonlight that surrounded him now had been the most soothing force he'd ever known; the whisper of the night breeze in these untouched hills had ushered in a sense of absolute serenity and freedom to his young heart. Back then, it had seemed to offer a promise of peace that was real and in sight, but somehow just ahead, just beyond his reach. That idea had driven him onward as a young man, and still onward as an adult; it was always there, that sense, but always a step ahead of him. He had never tired of following it, because, somehow, the search was freeing in and of itself. But now...now it was still missing, and the search was done.


Yet he didn't regret the search, because it hadn't been time wasted. No, he'd seen to that. He'd left his mark again and again, on all the people who would never be preyed upon by the hosts of vampires he'd put to rest; he'd left his mark on the villagers who rested easier now that the terror outside of town was gone; he'd left his mark on the beasts who recruited new monsters. And they...they had left their mark on him, too, hadn't they?




It was why he felt this urge to return home...it was the instinct of the beast, sending him toward the easy, unsuspecting prey. There would be no alarm, no reservation, no fear at the return of the prodigal son; and then, he could strike and prey upon those who loved him best and trusted him most in the world. It was the way his disease worked, driving him by terrible instinct even when his soul recoiled in disgust. He had seen enough monsters in his day to know what was happening to him; he had seen the new recruits, chosen willingly or unwillingly, succumb. He had seen them use every ounce of cunning and guile to abuse the trust and love of everyone they'd ever known, and prey upon those who had nurtured and cared for them. He'd slain them for it, hadn't he? And now those instincts, the same accursed instincts, were driving him to the same terrible ends.


He stopped now, having reached the summit of the hill, and looked down at his village. It was at the base of the hill on which he stood, in a little valley surrounded by more hills. In any other climate, it would have been a mad place to build a village...but here, it was perfect. The gentle, seasonal rains were not enough to flood homes or fields, and just enough to produce the richest and most fertile soil around. He saw the fields, tilled and planted neatly, and smiled. It all seemed so serene and beautiful...so much more so than he remembered. 'Maybe,' he thought with no little irony, 'it was here all along.' He sat against a tree trunk, indifferent to the cold, wet grass underneath him. Resting his elbows on his knees, he watched the moonlight bathed fields and homes before him. Maybe it was here that he'd been looking for all this time. Funny that he hadn't seen it before.


His smile still remained, but it had changed. Now it seemed more expressive of melancholy than anything else. He saw the home he'd grown up in, a massive two story structure, albeit one done in a cottage-style, painted white and crossed with supports. As if the size and grandeur of the home wouldn't distinguish it, the tiled rather than thatched roof easily gave away that this was no peasant home. And yet, it had been built in this style as a symbol of the squire's understanding of and sympathy with his tenants, and also to pay homage to the humble beginnings of his family. Maybe it failed on both counts, but it was something that he loved about his home, perhaps for the sheer silliness of it.





And then, there was the well in the center of town. He'd drawn water from it many-a-time, alongside the poorest and humblest of his village. He'd talked and played and even fought beside it with his friends and siblings. There, and by the old oak tree too... He frowned. Where had that gone? He blinked, realizing that it was missing. He couldn't explain it, but a tremendous sense of loss filled him. That tree had been ancient when he'd been an infant; he'd grown up under it's shade, and he'd climbed its bows as soon as he was able. Now it was gone. He found himself wondering how. Was there a storm? 'Was it lightning or strong winds? Surely they didn't just cut it down.'


Then he laughed out loud. Here he was, staring down at the village where he'd grown up, not knowing how many of the people he'd grown up with were still there or even alive, and he was worrying about a tree? But then...he knew about the tree, but would never know about the people, would he?


He closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the tree behind him. He could feel the dew soaking through his clothes, but he somehow didn't feel terribly cold. Maybe he had just got used to feeling cold after the disease set in. He sighed, a long, drawn out, mournful sigh. He could feel sleep weighing his eyelids down. He had not slept in days, ever since he'd been infected...and he was still human enough to suffer from the mortal weakness for sleep. He had barely made it this far; only the knowledge of what he had to do, before he changed further, had driven him on.


He opened his eyes, staring at the silvery full moon overhead for a few moments and then rose. It had to be done, and sooner rather than later so that his courage would not fail him. He sighed again, and unfastened his belt buckle. Slipping the belt off, he looped it around his left hand. Then, he surveyed the tree against which he'd sat, and picked out a branch. It was not high, reaching about to his waist, but it was strong, and would resist his pulling. He gritted his teeth, and wrapped the end of the belt around the branch and then his other hand.


Taking the leather in his mouth, he pulled until it was tight around his wrists, and he saw the clasp fasten. Then, he sank downwards, his arms held securely over his head, and closed his eyes. He made himself as comfortable as was possible, but that was not very comfortable. It didn't really matter, though, he knew. It would all be over soon.


He knew what was coming. He was a young vampire, approaching the end of the first stage after infection. Now, he was immune from the sun. But he had not fed -- 'oh, gods, of course not!' -- since infection. The vampiric powers had taken hold of him, but they had not replaced the human weakness. Now it called to him, and his senses reeled under its power. He had not slept in days, and had only barely been able to force himself to eat anything. He'd seen the effects of this weakness enough to know what it meant...oblivion, he had used it to his advantage more than once when hunting young vampires! Now he'd use it to his advantage to protect those he loved.


He would succumb to sleep soon -- he would have to -- and then the next stage would come, brought on by the lack of human blood in his diet. It would bring with it great powers, and it would dull his human weakness...but it would bring weaknesses of its own. It would bring weakness to sunlight. He swallowed hard, opening his eyes to glance at the bonds that held him in place. When the sun rose, he would be fastened here, unable to escape to shadow. The thought terrified him and relieved him all at the same time.





He had devoted his life to purging the world of the monsters that he had become. He had believed in what he was doing...he believed in it still. He closed his eyes, and tried to banish thought from his mind. Weariness began to overtake his senses, and he didn't struggle. Soon, he was asleep.



* * *



The valley village of Weyebury was roused early that morning, at sunrise, to a sound unlike anything the villagers had ever heard. It was a hideous, otherworldly shriek of agony that seemed to echo off the mountainsides themselves, carrying a chilling pain that was at once atrociously repulsive and desperately human. The bravest of the villagers banded together, found their pickaxes, pitchforks and clubs, and headed toward the hilltop from whence the cry seemed to issue.


It had stopped by the time they reached the summit, and, to the surprise of those present, they found the withered corpse of a strangely familiar man, dressed in dark clothes and wearing his dark hair tied neatly behind him at the base of his neck. There was a look of savage agony on his contorted features, and his bound hands were twisted as though still expressive of his last writhing. But in the open eyes, there was a strange expression of peace.
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