“The intricately designed book shelves that lined each wall were minimally filled with scrolls, so many of the compartments empty that, from a distance, the walls seemed to give a toothless grin. The floors were missing their tiles, ruining what must have been handsomely crafted mosaics. The carpets that laid across them were frayed and looked cheap. Yet the inner columns were still etched with hieroglyphs and several paintings of Egyptian gods were still faintly visible on the walls. Intrigued, I began to wander, until I reached the Roman style atrium, where the early morning light filtered through. And that is where I found him, seated right in the center of the room as if awaiting immolation, his face the same expressionless mask he had worn since our arrival. I could tell by the pallor of his skin that he had not fed, that he had most likely been sitting there for hours.
“Lucius,” I called out, tentatively. “It is nearly morning.”
He didn’t respond, which drew me closer.
“Lucius, where you sit, the sun’s rays will surely reach you,” I reiterated.
“This was once the grandest of libraries,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me, the low echo of his voice devoid of emotion. “A haven for edification, coming into fruition by Ptolemy II Philadelphus during his reign, centuries ago. He was a grandiose king by nature, bursting with ideals and aspirations for Egypt, fascinated by the pursuit of knowledge and scientific advancement. Alexandria became the capital for learning, a mecca of innovation and ideas, with its monumental library at its core. Caesar nearly burned it to the ground during the height of his civil war, threatening to swallow mankind’s records forever, yet through several donations, from myself included, she was restored to her former glory.
“And now look around you!” he cried out in a sudden burst of vehemence, throwing up his hands in indignation. “She lies in ruins! Humans do not care for the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment—all they care for is power! This new religion—this Christianity—is disputable! Look for yourself—less than half the ancient scrolls are gone! They are no better than animals,” he seethed.
“Now, now. We have conversed at length over these new religions. The Christ’s message was a sound one,” I reminded him.
“And look how they have twisted it,” he spat. “They have completely ignored his actual teachings and warped it to suit their own desires for advancement. They have become exactly who he rebelled against—the idiocy is astounding! They have defiled this entire building, a place where free thinking and philosophy once flourished. It is beyond pathetic.”
I could sense his growing distress. “You have said to me many times, Lucius, humans are merely a food source for us,” I attempted to appeal to him. “Do not take their actions to heart.”
“All I ever wanted was to live amongst them, to study their minds and bear witness to their evolution,” he continued his rant, undeterred by my words. “Yes, we feed from lesser creatures, but never once have I forgotten the fascinating complexities of their thoughts, the curious inner workings of their minds. But I now see how clearly I was mistaken.”
Suddenly, he flicked both of his wrists, and before I realized what he was doing, the remaining scrolls sequestered in their diagonal homes promptly caught ablaze.
I cried out for him to stop, leaping from shelf to shelf, attempting to grab what I could before they were consumed by the growing flames. From the corner of my eye, I caught a single scroll tucked away the highest of them all, which I snatched just before the shelving succumbed to the inferno.
I seized Lucius as well, pulling both of us to safety as the rooftops collapsed, taking the remains of the greatest library man has ever known along with it…
David blinked, remembering the ashes of a thousand scrolls fluttering down around them like snow. “He did not speak for a full week after,” he murmured. “I was glad I salvaged what I did, including the Greek Septuagint, which I’ve managed to keep in my possession for centuries.”
His companion appeared from behind him, her aroma of violets and illness prickling his nose. He could hear her strident lungs rebelling against her movement, her presence carrying him away from the memory. He welcomed her closer with his arm, directing her eyes to the contents of the parchment. “This is a map of Wallachia in the late 15th century, the place where we inevitably settled. You might have heard of the Kingdom of Romania?”
She turned to him, mystified. “I’ve only heard stories from sailors passing through town.”
He nodded. “Most Londoners know of the country through trade. I had never heard of such a place until we traveled there, another one of Lucius’s cherished territories that he insisted we return to. He visited it centuries prior, when it was known as the Kingdom of Dacia.”
He looked down at the map, meticulously traced by his own hand. While he hadn’t the heart to scribe his memoirs like Libraean, he found comfort in sketching the many lands where he’d lived. He ran his finger over the assiduous quill ink, remembering the musky aroma of his old study. He closed his eyes, the entire castle blossoming into a clear memory.
She coughed, interrupting his visions and provoking him to guide her back to the couch, regardful of her condition. “Please go on,” she urged him, when she was seated and could manage the air to create speech.
“After the burning of the Library of Alexandria in 423, Lucius succumbed to self-destruction, becoming more avaricious as each century passed, until nothing was left but a rapacious need for power. A millennium later, we found ourselves in Wallachia, one of three principalities that would one day become the Kingdom of Romania. Both Lucius and Morgana had been drawn to the war-torn land, the constant battles between the citizens of Wallachia, their neighboring territories, and the Ottoman Empire the perfect setting for them to indulge in their calamitous tendencies.
“In 1456, Lucius sought to usurp its prince, Vladislav, claiming to be the true son of Vlad Dracul, the assassinated prince who ruled prior. He succeeded, securing the throne and the vast land of Wallachia for the three of us.” He carefully rolled the weathered parchment back up, returning it to its place amongst the other hand drawn maps.
“And what of Morgana during this time?” she asked.
David frowned. “Morgana proved to be the consummate blood drinker, relishing in Lucius’s newfound vainglory. She soared over the battlefields in her raven form, swooping down to attack our enemies with skillful precision. They carried on in that fashion for decades, feeding off each other’s lust for victory while I stayed back, content with my solitude.” David suddenly drifted off, choked by an unwelcome wave of regret from memories long forgotten. His eyes caught the outline of a keepsake box, another memento kept high atop the bookcase, one that hadn’t been touched for years.
“Until…?” His companion pressed him.
David sighed. “She eventually went mad, unable to reconcile two souls sharing one body. She had an immortal’s thirst for blood, a war goddess’s thirst for battle, and a madwoman’s thirst to inflict pain. It created a frightening culmination that would have rendered her fiercely indomitable had the advancing instability of her mind ceased.”
His companion murmured a sympathetic sound of understanding as she waited for him to continue. ROMANIA, 1462
The corpses of a hundred souls surrounded the castle, impaled upon iron spikes set in such perfect symmetry, they created a gruesome barricade that repelled all who crept near. The sky above them remained perpetually blackened by avian scavengers, circling their plentiful bounty as they besmirched the air with their shrill cries.
Even without its grim frontage, the castle itself was ominous and severe. Set high in the mountainous region of Wallachia, near the Great Arges River, its angular construct and pitched towers presented a formidable facade as it loomed down from atop its vast pedestal of highland. The colossal height of a castle perched atop a mountain rendered the town below it forever blanketed by shadow, the townspeople knowing nothing but the faintest glimmer of sunlight at the peak of high summer.
Besides living in eternal darkness, so much death surrounded the castle that it kept the villagers in a constant state of fear. They dared not speak ill of the voivode who inhabited the castle, nor his subjects, lest they be doomed to share the same fate as the poor souls picked apart each morning by raptorial birds. There was no worry of invasion under the protection of their prince, but that did little to quell their overall apprehension, as whispers circulated about the village that their baron was far from human.
Deep within the hollows of the castle, David was perched at the window, watching as a group hoisted up yet another addition to the stockade of unfortunate souls. A fat vulture sat patiently nearby, eager to fight the circling ravens for the prized meal of freshly expired meat. He sighed, wondering what the man had done to the prince to deserve such a fate.
He had shed the name Davius long ago, for he was no longer the bright-eyed Roman boy who fell so deeply in love that he was willing to take on the world in her honor. That boy was dead, his body stolen by a vile creature rendered impotent by a human’s conscience that sought to painstakingly devour him whole.
Near the turn of the century, on one of his frequent ventures to Italy, he happened upon a young artist who moved him, reminding him of that lost boy—one who believed that art would be his salvation. He had taken advantage of a cloudy day in Florence, exploring the streets, when he noticed the unveiling of an artist’s work at the Palazzo della Signoria. The artist, who called himself Michelangelo, stood humbly near his creation, a magnificent sculpture depicting the revered David who, according to Biblical texts, defeated a giant named Goliath to the delight of the Israelites. The sculpture, its story, and its artist touched him so deeply, that from the moment he left Italy, he was David.
“Master David,” a voice interrupted him.
He looked up to see a meager servant standing at the doorway. “His Majesty wishes to speak with you in the dining hall,” he stammered.
“Thank you,” David dismissed him, watching the malnourished creature struggle to walk away.
He sighed once more. Never again was Lucius able to create an immortal in the truest sense, but it hadn’t stopped him from trying, his court filled with creatures closer to revenants than their demigod sire. These nemorti were able to think independently and feed on their own, but their strength and prowess posed no threat to their predecessors. Lucius was pleased by the discovery, realizing that submissive minions served his purpose far better than equals. He kept them comfortably imprisoned, forbidding any departure from the castle, feeding them as one might domesticated hounds, either the prisoners from the dungeons he kept overstocked or the unsuspecting villagers who he sent Hunters out to capture. It served as another method of control, keeping his court slightly underfed to ensure that no one would have the strength to rise up against him.
The nemorti lived blissfully unaware of his tactics, content to live out their immortal lives under the dominion of their voivode, fighting his wars for him in fervent obedience. The only outlier was David, who spent his hours in the solitary confinement his study provided, reading the endless manuscripts man had penned over the centuries or by sketching intricate maps of the worlds they’d traveled. Cartography was the last surviving piece of Davius, the artist in him buried beneath centuries of sorrows.
The sounds of hammering spikes shook David from his musings, and he realized his shoulders were knotted from lack of movement. He stretched his arms as he stood, wistfully leaving behind his books and drawings to head down the long corridor into the main hall. The vaulted ceilings caused his footsteps to echo as he strode briskly, eager for the conversation to be had and through with.
Lucius’s affinity for extravagance served him well in his latest charade, playing the part of royalty in exemplary fashion. Vivid sanguine tapestries baring Lucius’s insignia cluttered the walls in boisterous profligacy. It was a nod to Vlad Dracul’s membership in the Order of the Dragon, depicting a black dragon as an ouroboros, its tail wrapped around its neck, and a thin black cross in the background. Crimson rugs interrupted the stone floors, the oak tables that lined the halls painted black to match the onyx candle holders and sculptures Lucius had kept over the centuries. Various weaponry hung on the walls, creating an intimidating pattern with Lucius’s prized collection of skulls, the species ranging from elk, to human, to the few unlucky nemorti who had dared to cross him. The entire palace kept the macabre color scheme, down to its baron, who turned to greet him with a swish of his carmine robes. His gold jewelry glittered in the torch light, bringing out the manic glint of his amber eyes.
“David,” he greeted him, with a forced warmth that only David could detect.
