by Kindred Ult
And yet, he could not force himself from the dream, even though he did try, as one does when one is asleep. Even as he did try, however, he could not be completely certain that he really wanted to leave the beauty that surrounded him. He had a thought that this must be what a child feels while it is still inside the womb of its mother. The complete sense of safety, invulnerability, and warmth he had not felt in the entirety of his life before this dream. He felt like a door opened to him. A feeling he never knew existed swept over his entire body, and it made him want to convulse with its power. At first he could not tell what the feeling that clenched through his body was, as he had never experienced it before, but slowly he began to realize exactly what it was. It was peace.
His hands went to his face, and his body pulled itself together until he was in a fetal position. His mouth opened and closed, sometimes slowly and relaxed, and other times straining as if he were screaming at the top of his lungs. No sounds came from him, though, as he sat curled in the darkness and drowned in the silence. When he felt the dampness running down his cheeks, though, he felt rage build inside him. He flung himself open on the blank solid in front of him, dug his nails through the resisting nothing, before finally lifting his hate-filled head to the darkness above him. Finally finding a voice, all he could do was scream.
"Let me go!" He beat his head with his hands. "Let me leave!" digging his nails into his face, he cut deep bloody furrows down it before standing to his feet to continue screaming. "I'm wretched, dirty, filthy, disgusting. I'm murderous, vengeful, worthless." The blood running down his face obscured the tears that flew freely with them. He flung his arms and body around with his words. "I've killed the innocent. Men, women, children. I'm just like that damn Wulf! I'm evil! I'm nothing!" He slumped back to the ground, his feet under him, his hands resting on the floor, his back bent, and his head flung backwards. His entire body wracked with sobs as his screams lost their meaning and devolved to animalistic shrieks of anguish. When those subsided, he was left with nothing, his face was streaked, his body beaten, and the worst part was that he still felt the warmth, comfort, and peace from before.
"I'm just...scum."
"I know."
Instantly Demenn's eyes shot awake, and he jerked up and looked around, his eyes wide, and his heart beating wildly, like he was in the middle of a fight to the death. His head swept the room swiftly, and he turned his body with it. He was alone, but he barely felt like it anymore. He had heard that voice. Not in his dream, but right next to his ear. It had woken him, and his breath still came swiftly.
Despite all he had felt and heard, however, there was no one in his tent. After one last, breathless second, he strained every sense to the max, but still he received nothing. At last he calmed, and his breathing slowed.
"Well, I suppose it was noth—" just then a drop fell on his foot, and it was at that moment he realized that he was crying. His adrenaline at being awakened had dulled his sense of touch, but now he could feel the dampness, even more poignant than in his dream, flow down his face. He placed his hand to his face, and it came back shining in the dim light. At first it did not phase him, but then the thought struck him that not once, in the last hundred years since he became a vampire, and also many years before that, had he ever cried. What could have happened in that dream that could have possibly—
There was a scratch at the flap of his tent, a sign for entrance, like knocking on a door, and he spun around. He should have heard the two vampires walking up to his entrance. He walked up to the other side, but did not open it.
"What is it?" His voice sounded like it always had.
The second class vampire on the other side paused, confused. "Um, the Matriarch requires your presence sir. The last council of all of the races will convene very soon, and as such all figures of importance are being called. Please come quickly."
"I will." Demenn assured them, and after he heard them leave, he threw on his trench coat, large hat, gloves, boots, and stuck the Sword of Office in his belt. It's presence would be enough, he imagined, no need for unnecessary pain. Finally, he ran his sleeve over his face until it felt dry. When his sleeve came away, his face was stone once more. 'There is no time for any of that.'
Composed now, he withdrew from his tent and walked out into the twilight. The sun was not completely set, but it was fairly close to the mountains in the distance. This could be the time when it was the most dangerous, as at times the rays came almost straight at them. The sun was also weakest at this point, however, so the danger was lessened. It could still kill easily, of course, but now would be the time that a few mistakes would be lived through.
Even if he had not seen the large pavilion being erected earlier that day, he could have very easily guessed where it was, as there seemed to be a general shift of all of the inhabitants of the camp toward it. It looked almost like a slow-moving river of bodies, flowing through the small alleys and large roads made by the tents scattered everywhere. He joined one stream and allowed himself to be moved by it until he reached the pavilion, at which point he pushed his way through and was admitted.
The pavilion was the exact same one as was used before the battle of the last night, but when he entered it for the second time, Demenn could easily sense the change. No longer was there a quiet sense of assurance. No one believed that they had a fool-proof plan that would finally end the century-long war. Instead of uneasiness tempered with hope, all he felt when he entered was despair. It lay heavy over everything, like a net that constantly bound itself together the more the one in it struggled. Many different races sat in the seats, but on all of them was the same, melancholic expression. None believed that they would be reassured by this meeting. All believed that they would die, and Demenn could hardly say that he was different.
Still, what he also felt, as he stepped towards the captain's seats, which was now only a little over half-filled, was a steel-hard determination. All of them felt that they would die, and yet here they were, to learn what it was they must do to fight. All of those here had effectively given up their lives to stay. He wondered why they did, although he figured he knew. Some, like Samael, stayed because they knew that what was coming was going to be the best fight of their lives. They knew that there was nothing stronger than the werepyres in this forest, and maybe in the world, and they did not even have to track it down. They lived to fight, and the best fight of their lives was coming at them.
Others, like the other captains, he assumed, probably stayed because of honor. They had pledged themselves to serve their masters, and even though they knew death would come, they still stayed simply because they had given their word to do so. Demenn did not know completely, but he figured that he was one of these. In the back of his mind, he knew that he could try to leave any time he wanted, but he also knew he never would.
And almost all of the others, he could tell, stayed because they had not yet figured out that they could leave. Their current lives were so integrated within them that they knew no other way. Darkoven was their home, and always would be. There was no place for werewolves, or vampires outside of Darkoven any longer. Without their dark forest, they could not survive. They were not accustomed to being hated and maligned, to fight to the death for every meal. They knew, whether consciously or not, that they had only Darkoven, and that to leave would be worse than death.
He sat in his seat, and thought that he had finished his thoroughly unnecessary analysis, but then he saw Brand, who was standing on the raised platform in the middle with his Vampire Slayer garb on, and he remembered that there was one other group. They were very small, maybe five or ten at most. In fact, they might only number one man. They were those who stayed simply because they thought that it was right to do so.
'I guess good really does exist.' He smiled slightly and sat back, letting his head fall onto the back of his chair and daydreaming until he heard the Matriarch's voice finally call the session into its beginning. Her voice split through his mindless thoughts like
a song through the silence of night, and he shot up in his seat once he heard it. She stood on the platform with a man who Demenn assumed must be the werewolf King, as he was large and extremely well muscled, Sophella, Brand, and the leader of the paladins.
She was dressed in a red, flowing gown that ended in a skirt which went down to the knees and was slit on one side. It was attached to her by stiff, form-fitting body armor that glistened in the dim candle-light like it was made of silver. The sleeves of the gown were connected to the dress by small points near her armpits, and they only went to her elbows. They bared her shoulders and gave her complete motion. Her black hair, completely straight down as always, went behind and in front of her shoulders to about her chest, and her lips were as red as her eyes. Her pale skin was the bright white midday sun high overhead, her dress, lips, and eyes were the beautiful crimson sunset, and her dark, voluminous hair was the pitch black of midnight. Looking at her, he had to add to what he had thought before.
'And I suppose there is beauty in this world as well... Damn."It brought another smile to his face, and then Safiria began to speak. Even though her words were of little report, the sound of them itself made it worth listening to. She introduced the werewolf King, who, as Demenn had guessed, was the large man up there with her. He was dressed in a surprising amount of finery. A large, purple robe that almost covered him, but that left a slit along the chest and showed just a fraction of his impressively muscled body. Rings adorned his fingers, a crown his head, and flowing pants his legs.
Despite all of his trappings, however, he still cut an impressive figure, a true king, in every sense of the word. When he spoke, it was the first time Demenn had ever heard his voice, and it amazed him that the person he had been battling for so long was now his ally, and one of his strongest allies, at that.
'War is a strange thing,' he mused.
The King's voice was powerful, deep, and full of vitality. It carried on its own, and made Demenn want to listen just by hearing it.
"Fellow warriors, I am the werewolf King. You all know the problem that we face tonight, and none of you would be blamed if you were to run from the battle that must take place in mere hours. However, we may be the only army in existence with even a chance at defeating the werepyres, and I will not run from this fight, even if it means death. Our chances of victory are slim, and our chances of survival are even smaller, but even so, I pledge myself, and any of my werewolves who will follow me, to this battle. We will die before we admit defeat!"
There was a chorus of screams, cheers, and even howls, as the human-form werewolves in the pavilion, and then the rest outside, echoed through the forest. The sound was deafening, and it was obvious what the werewolves had chosen as their fate, and also where their allegiances lay. Their brays were deathly intense, and it only increased as the werewolves released their anger and frustration at not gaining victory, their fear of death, and their exhilaration for the upcoming fight into their screams. Their power was like a self-feeding beast, building in intensity and power until finally hitting a crescendo, and then quickly fading down into silence. Many panted as they sat down.
Next Safiria herself walked to the front of those gathered on the stage. She surveyed the crowd all around her, and then the surviving captains, all of whom nodded silently. When she spoke again, her voice was full of determination.
"As Matriarch of the vampires, I pledge our service to this war. We will fight along with the werewolves once more, and with all others who will join us. Now is not the time for ancient..." She paused, and for some reason, Demenn thought that she was thinking of E. "grudges and prejudices to hold us back. We must unite, and we will kill as many of those beasts as we can."
As Demenn and all of the other vampires cheered—not nearly as loud as the werewolves had, but loud enough to make their determination known—the thought suddenly struck him that Safira had never really been the leader of the vampires before this moment. She had always seemed very far away, spoke rarely, and commanded even less often. She had always let Vladimir, or some other Patriarch, do all of the hard work, but now he was no more, and for once, she was the sole leader of the vampires. And, maybe for the first time in her life, she seemed like she actually wanted it tonight.
As she stepped back, Brand and the Paladin Commander stepped forward, and Brand spoke for both of them. His voice was steady, and even though Demenn could tell that he felt strange speaking for the vampire slayers, he could tell that Brand knew there were none left besides him to speak for his faction.
"I, Brand Kyrcerin, temporary leader of the vampire slayers, and in tandem with the paladins, pledge both of out armies to this final battle."
At first, there was no response, and Demenn could feel the tension. All of the vampire slayers, and also the paladins, knew that Brand was a werewolf, which was what they had sworn to kill. How could they be expected to serve under a beast? The silence stretched on for many painful moments, until finally he heard a clap far off in the back of the tent. Like a crack in a dam, once that one person clapped, all of the other vampire slayers, and the paladins as well, turned into a roar, as they slammed their hands together and stood from their seats. The cacophony continued for several minutes before it finally died down, and when it did Demenn smiled. They had accepted Brand as their leader.
When they had finished, and Brand and the Paladin Commander stepped back, and grave smile on Brand's face, a large Chiroptera flew down into the center of the crowd and looked around. It waited a moment for complete silence, and then spoke.
"We are sorry, my friends, but the Chiroptera cannot join in this battle. Too many of our race have died already, and we must save ourselves."
Safiria smiled compassionately. "That is acceptable. I hold your side of our agreement fulfilled, and I promise that our side will be as well. Go in peace, sister."
The Chiroptera flew out of the tent, followed by the other nine that remained alive. Demenn felt something strange in the back of his throat when he thought of N'colto, who had given his life not only that his people could live, but that Demenn could as well. He had done what he did on just the barest possibility that his people could forever be saved from being hunted, and Demenn could only hope that it had been enough. Sophella walked forward, and her appearance was at first a shock to Demenn, until he remembered that her brother had been killed in battle, and that now she was the last remaining of her line. She was the ruler of the necromancers: The Lich Queen.
She stood, and there was no joy in her eyes, or even life, it seemed. There was only a cold, empty feeling. He recognized it from seeing it in her brother's eyes, and in Safiria's not long before. It was the look of those who had to care not only for themselves, but for every single being under their command. It was the look of a ruler, and none envied it. When she spoke, her voice was amplified by a spell, and Demenn had a feeling that it was also sent directly to all of the necromancers via a mind-link.
"I, Sophella the Lich Queen, say that the necromancers will devote all of our people to fighting this war. However, we are a people, and not an army. I command none to stay, and any who wishes to may leave. If you have a family that depends upon you, if you have a spouse, or if you were wounded in the last battle, then please escape. However, know that if you leave when you have none of these problems, you will never be accepted back into our society. Out of all of the armies that are fighting here, we have the most to lose, and yet will face the least physical danger in the battle. Do this for our people, do this for your children, and their children. Show those who consider themselves immortals, and those who consider themselves to be light and justice incarnate that we, those they have shunned and hunted, are a people of honor, valor, and virtue!"
The necromancers, a society built on individualism, greed, and a strict social system, had actually began to clap and shout, when suddenly all present felt a dark energy at the entrance to the tent. All heads spun to the large opening, and standing there, clapping with the others, was a being n
one had seen. It was a cloaked figure, with a long, black hooded robe that tattered at the bottom and at the sleeves. From under the tattered ends of the bottom, no legs were visible. It seemed that it was floating in the air without them, and many would have doubted that anybody was inside the robe at all, for the hood of the cloak was pulled over the face, obscuring any vision at all, if not for the two gloved hands that clacked together unnaturally.
A dark aura surrounded the figure, and all instinctively reached for their weapons, except for two. When Sophella saw the specter, her eyes widened, and then she ran sprinting towards it. Niethel, after seeing Sophella run, also ran to the other with all of his strength. As it was, he reached about as fast as she, and when she did, she stopped and looked at it with narrowed eyes. The figure watched her as well, for a moment, but then it laughed a single, unearthly shriek, and threw back its cowl. When it did, all of the necromancers gasped, some screamed, and Sophella gazed in amazement.