~ Truth And Justice ~
“Sire, I beg of you, please let me return to my room.” Stefano beat against the heavy wooden door of Vargon’s suite to no avail. The room was softly lit with just a few candles on various height shelves around the room, accompanied by some of Vargon’s more treasured tomes. Vargon sat in his chair calmly, dispassionate eyes watching his chylde.
“When you submit to my authority, you may go. A simple matter if you think about it.”
Stefano turned to face his sire, his face haggard and drawn. He snarled much like a feral animal, teeth barred. “I will not. Gerik is mine. I shall turn him.” His back slowly slid down the door until he sat at its base. “Sire it hurts!”
Vargon reached forward, collecting some of the dirt that was placed carefully on the dais around his coffin. He rubbed it between his fingers slowly, deliberately. “It amazes me, even now, how much we need the soil from beneath us when we are turned. How it gives us peace and solace. And lack of it … well, you can feel for yourself what its absence is doing.”
Stefano narrowed his eyes and growled low. “You call yourself a Prince. A Prince without compassion or love. How I pity Odessa, trapped in your cold embrace. Or is she perhaps a frigid wench who cannot even feel your presence?”
Vargon stood slowly, his expression showing anger for the first time during their conflict. He walked slowly across the room and leaned over. With the speed of a cobra he struck, backhanding Stefano across the face, splitting his lip. “Speak another word against my wife and we are finished.” He spun on his heel and returned to sit in his overstuffed leather chair.
Stefano rubbed his lip with the back of his hand and winced. Although there was naturally no blood, it also wasn’t healing, sure evidence of the time since he last fed. “As you decree, my Lord Prince.”
“Very good. Are you ready at last to concede your place?”
“I will die before I give you permission to turn my love.”
“Permission?” Vargon laughed cruelly. “You talk permission to a Prince? You must be delirious. Or weak with hunger. Tell me, chylde, which is it you feel most?”
“Contempt.”
A loud knock resounded through the room, accompanied by Viktor’s muffled voice. “Master Vargon? May I assist you in any way?”
“Leave us.” The words crashed through the air.
“My, my. Is the mighty Prince beginning to lose his composure?” Stefano smirked as he stood, gradually sliding back up the locked door. “Given time you shall lose your control, and I shall rip the key for this door from your frail body.”
More laughter filled the room. “Assuming you could even get near me in your state, do you truly think I carry the key on me? It is somewhere,” he motioned around the room, “in here. But you could never find it, even if I gave you freedom to search.”
Stefano stumbled forward to lean heavily on the straight back of a wooden chair.
Vargon watched in silence, surprised his son was still moving, much less conscious. He smiled slyly as he spoke, “I’ve been thinking. Gerik is much better dispositioned than you, he would likely make a strong future in my staid, when the time came. I may have been hasty turning you. Though you have led me to him.”
“When the … time came?”
“Have you forgotten all of your training? No one is forever, not even a prince. Death comes to us all, eventually. And when I go, my chylde shall take over my chair. It is why a prince will often only take one chylde. You should remember.”
“I remember.” Stefano raised his eyes to look at Vargon. “I remember also you have two, not one. Odessa is yours also. The one you turned yet took as your love.”
“Do you fear she should take my place when I am gone? She is wife, not chylde. Until now you are first and only, though I have need to consider Gerik as a son more closely.”
“Wife. And chylde. Or did you lie when you said you brought her over?”
“I spoke the truth. I always speak the truth.”
“The truth as you see it, perhaps. Yet I must ask, how it is a prince can break his own laws. For you turned the very woman you have taken as your lover. I cannot, but you can? You speak of truth and justice, yet where is your justice, oh great Prince?”
“In a century you would have been deemed able to turn your own. Though most would frown on a kindred taking a lover in such a way, there are a few of us who permit it. I am one.”
“Am I not the fortunate one then.” Stefano almost doubled over in pain. “You are killing me, Sire.”
“No, you are killing yourself with your refusal to submit. And trust me, though you will soon fall and be too weak to do much more than think … you have a long time yet before you perish.”
“I shall become. Prince. And that wench shall be first victim of my reign.”
Vargon rose and crossed the room again, fury building in his eyes. “I should end you where you stand.”
“Then what holds you back?”
“Something you seem to forget. My love for my chylde. Do you really think I find pleasure in your agony? Not even as Prince do I find this enjoyable. No one with any heart delights in giving pain.”
“Then why?”
“There are times when only pain can etch a lesson.” Vargon stood quietly, looking at Stefano, admiring the young man’s stamina and determination, and knowing he could never admit it. Not at the present. He finally backed a step and turned around to walk back to his chair. Had his mind not been preoccupied with compassion, he might have heard Stefano’s sudden movement. As it was, his realization came when the chair splintered against his temple.
Stefano watch his sire slump to the ground, then began searching for the key, pulling ancient writings from their shelves to litter the floor. “Where did you hide it, old man? Where have you put my deliverance?” He glanced at Vargon who still lay motionless on the floor. “Where is the key?” He moved to Vargon’s coffin, ripping silk, tearing out padding and material, tossing it aside where it fell like snow. An angry growl echoed in the room as he turned back to the shelves, frantically pulling at anything and everything. In his haste he forgot about the candles, several of which were now on the floor, a few still burning, igniting coffin materials and brittle papers.
Stefano hissed and moved back against the door hard. He hung his head and pulled at his hair before calming some. Must find the key. His eyes rapidly bounced around the room then froze. There, hanging from Vargon’s neck on a leather strip was the key. The bastard lied to me? The great Vargon lied? So much for truth. He dropped to his hands and knees and crept forward, inching toward Vargon’s prone body. He strained for the key as Vargon began to stir.
Outside the room, Viktor began to pound on the door. “Master Vargon. Lord Stefano. Someone answer me.” He took a couple steps away from the door and began gathering all his energies for a single blast. Stefano’s howl pierced the door like a blade, temporarily breaking his concentration.
Viktor raised his left hand, focusing his strength.
By the Fates, let this be enough.
~ Walking In Shadow ~
Gerik lay on the grass on his back, slowly rocking his head side to side. He groaned as his eyes fluttered open. Shadows swirled in his dark pupils and he strained to focus on the figure standing over him.
“Am …. Am I dead?”
“No, my chylde. You have walked a path through death, now to stand with the night and learn how to master your present and release your past.”
"Will you help me learn?”
“If you have something you wish to learn, I will do my best to give thorough instruction.”
“I do not understand.”
“Give it time; we have all you need.”
“Thank you …” Gerik slipped back into unconsciousness; his face a mask of perfect peace.
Above him, his sire sighed in deep sadness. Sleep for now. There is time tomorrow-eve to learn what it is to be one of shadow.
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