The moon and the stars are my true loves, the night my only companion. Some may find this an unusual statement but then ‘some’ do not know me. Very few who continue to walk this earth know me. Many, however, know of me and not in what could be considered a good way. When it comes to me very little, in fact nothing at all, is good. It should be taken into consideration though that good and evil are merely illusions, names given to everything in a vain attempt to understand. To know that what you face is ‘evil’ makes you stronger. To know that what you face is ‘good’ gives a certain sense of security I am unable to understand. Nothing to me is good and evil, black and white. I am unable to see matters in this way, in the way that mortal beings do. Yes, it may be hard for you to comprehend that I speak of those you may consider to be my kin in such a way. Of course, you would be wrong. Once upon a time, such a long while ago, they were. Now they are little to do with my affairs. No, I tell a lie. They have everything to do with my affairs but little to do with my actual self. I have no concern for them, fleeting loves that they are. Interesting choice of word is it not? Love. Love has many meanings and many forms. My love of the mortals is as the Greek goddess Aphrodite described it. I love these mortals I watch and live among, as best as I can. I love their ignorance, their hate, their aggression and their passion. They are more like us than they would ever profess to. I love them for this and for their struggle against everything. I would never and did never have relationships of any kind with mortals, even when I was one. There is too much pain to be got if I became involved with those whose lives pass me by all too quickly. Many of my ‘friends’, however, have told me the phrase ‘fleeting pain, eternal gain’. I have an eternity to gain power, amongst other things. The pain of losing a mortal lover really would only be fleeting to me. The risk of taking one, however, would be rather great. My memories of the cruelty wrought by mortals are still fresh in my mind. You could call it fear but I would not recognize it. I smell fear, taste fear but I have long forgotten the feeling of true fear. I have never been ruled by fear in my memory and those few who know me would find it most shocking to hear of my suffering fear, even as a mortal. They recognize my superiority, my strength and my will all of which were enhanced by my- changed perspective on life as it could be called.
I am not the only to have changed though. Over the many, many years I have graced this earth I have been able to perfectly study the changes of the mortal world and the changes in mortal behaviour. The one aspect that has remained constant is mortal desire and fear. Desire to live and desire to be remembered. Fear of death and fear of eternal damnation for momentary sins as preordained by ‘God’. Some could say that my kin and I mock God but in truth, only I do. The others have developed the same mortal fear of the Almighty as they were indoctrinated with before they became as I am now. I have managed to escape this and so I frequently mock God and Religion to my great pleasure. I was never much of a Roman Catholic and my belief in religion and God was very slight, something I tried to hardest to hide. At the time, if the truth was revealed, I could very well have been tried for heresy and so my life would have ended, my torture in the flames of hell arriving a sight too earlier than I would have preferred. I tend not to wish remembrance of my earlier years, before I was given the mighty gift I now possess. For the curious few whom I deem worthy of my attentions I would expose the raw history behind the black shroud of night that are my roots and my mortal life. Circumstance, however, has demanded for me to temporarily abandon this ideal and, essentially, tell my tale as far back in my mortal life as I wish.
Eighteen years, that is the age my appearance gives. My actual age is four hundred and eighty three years to be precise. I am assured by now, especially with the information of vital importance that I recently supplied you with, that you will be able to tell what I am. If, however, you have not it will be entirely useless for you to continue to read this account I am about to attempt to give you. I implore you not to judge me for what I am but rather WHO I am. Judge me by my action in situations quite unusual to you, but by what I am. Child of Satan, Mirror of Darkness. Your blood shall sustain me and so, in return, I present to you my story in order to sustain your human fascination for what I am.
*********************************************************************
The world was oh so different from what it is now when I was living, something an intelligent mind could understand quite easily. The very landscape was different from what it is now. Grand, majestic citadels like beautiful blots on the canvas of a serene green landscape. The occasional horse riding through the fields and across the moors, men and women of power sitting straight-backed and proud upon the poor creatures. This was considered by the intellectuals of the time to be the age of choice and freedom. In truth, it was anything but. There was choice but not in the way they thought of it. Conform and live, disobey and die. This was the choice and in my mind it never has been and never will be a choice. To some people conformity could very well be considered death and I must say that I agree with this. I wholeheartedly agree with this.
I was in the perfect position to observe all of this, in a comfortable place of power. I was not yet old enough to wield this power though, something that annoyed me to a certain degree. Even if this was not the case, I knew in my heart of hearts that the heavy tediousness in me would not dissipate. Something about the world I lived in greatly disinterested me, bored me, killed me. I knew that I did not belong there, my ideals and personality, everything about me was too advanced or too primitive for the time we were living in. This was the time of every other but me. Or so I thought, until Fate delayed my return home from my Uncle’s. Now there are a few pieces of information about my Uncle that have some vague relevance but there is only one that was vitally important. My uncle kept unusual company. He said that they were of France, Italy and Spain but very few believed this. There was something almost haunting about them and their skin. Oh their skin! No Italian or Spaniard had skin like theirs, smooth as rose petals, white as snow with an almost glittering quality. I had never met them before but this was all to change on that night, the night of 21st October 1524.
The weather was truly dreadful, rain lashing against the windows with such ferocity I feared the glass would shatter under impact. The wind howled mournfully and vengefully, stirring the very darkest creatures from the securest of slumbers. I had been preparing to leave but under the circumstances it was agreed that it would be unadvisable. So it was that I found myself lounging casually at the table by the window on the eve of my Uncles visit from his unusual company. Of course, I had no idea of this until they glided gracefully into the room, taking their places at the table with me. I barely managed to hide my shock and fear at their arrival but there was just some form, some presence about them that made me suspect they knew. My Uncle, Arthur, had disappeared to some obscure place in this mighty house he resided in, leaving me at the mercy of his guests. The two men ignored me entirely but the woman, whom Uncle Arthur had spoken to before leaving, was sitting closest to me and examining me carefully with her eyes, black as night with the glitter of stars in them. To say I felt uneasy was an understatement. I had heard many things about these three people, all of which I could safely say was true. Rumours had, for once, come through as the truth. They were no Spaniards or Italians and their dress was extravagant. The woman’s black gown seemed to shimmer as she moved, drawing attention to her wonderful yet terrifying visage. I wanted to speak to them, ask them questions, adore them but I could not speak. The words on my tongue just could not be voiced. I knew not why and this disturbed me.
So, we sat in silence. All three of them and myself waiting for the link that was Uncle Arthur. Eventually said link arrived with a large bottle of what looked like red wine and three goblets of shining glass. The two men straightened up and held their hands out for the goblets. Uncle Arthur gave them each a goblet then gave the last to the woman in the way that he would receive Mass. The woman graciously accepted the gesture and then the ‘red wine’ was poured from the bottle. I was mystified as to what it was, I knew with great certainty that it was not wine as soon as it was poured. I would have to rely on Uncle Arthur telling me but, it seemed, he would not.
“Were your endeavours this past week successful?” uncle Arthur asked as he took position beside the woman who continued to look at me, a slight smile on her pale, full lips.
“Relatively Arthur. May I ask who this young man, an intruder in our inclusive group, is?” The woman’s voice was soft and had a highly alluring quality to the deeply sensual French accent that broke through instantly transforming her in my eyes. I had always felt a strong pull towards the exotic French, something that uncle Arthur had approved of. He had always had a soft spot for the French ladies.
“This is my nephew Godfrey. He was visiting and due to the weather will be staying with us this night.” Arthur said stiffly, narrowing his eyes at the look the woman was giving me. It was innocent curiosity and predatory lust combined. If I was not so fascinated by their being here, all of them, I would have noticed and so mentioned it.
“A pleasure to meet you Godfrey. I am Isabella and these are my companions, Marco and Diablo.” Isabella. Isa bella. Such a beautiful name. A beautiful name to match a beautiful woman, if she could even b called such. Isabella seemed to posses an ethereal beauty, long hair of a curly style and smooth texture, gold in colour. Hands delicate and soft as she gently stroked my right cheek, her dark eyes searching mine.
“You are a beautiful one.” Her smile became more pronounced but still not full the way every others was. It was amazing that I could have been terrified of such a beautiful being. She seemed an angel to me, purity in form and voice. Gods’ gift for our good deeds. Uncle Arthur was engaged in quite conversation with the two men, Marco and Diablo, completely oblivious to what was happening with Isabella and myself. I had no clear idea myself as to what was happening, except that I had never felt this way before. The closest words I could find to describe what I was feeling would be calm and contented. Peace. It was peace. I could sit facing Isabella, watching her for so long. She continued to stroke my cheek gently, irregularly, her smooth fingernails occasionally scraping across my skin sharply, leaving a few deep, red marks. I did not care. All I cared for was to never lose Isabella’s attention. It was at this point that Uncle Arthur finally noticed what was happening between Isabella and me, as did Marco and Diablo. All three of them looked worried and Marco was about to intervene but Uncle Arthur beat him to it, in his careless and discontented fashion.
“Miss Isabella. I would wish speak with you of a highly important matter.” Uncle Arthur gestured for Isabella to come to him as he sprang to his feet. There was a painful edge to his voice that he knew would be the only way Isabella would answer him or comply with his wishes. A slightly annoyed look flitted across Isabella’s perfectly sculpted features, unbidden. She gracefully and slowly rose to her feet and followed Uncle Arthur who led her outside, her long shimmering black gown swishing behind her. Before she left the room she pivoted and just looked at me for a few heartbeats, the candles lining the room revealing a monstrous shadow on her face, then she was gone and her spell over me was broken. I looked down at my hands, flat on the table, in a dazed manner, unable to recall exactly what had happened. It took me a few moments to collect myself in which Marco had risen and approached me. When I looked up he was standing next to me, slightly bent, hand outstretched. I hesitated for a few moments before cautiously taking his hand and shaking it once, recoiling slightly at the coldness of his skin.
“I am Marco and this is my close associate Diablo. We noticed your encounter with Isabella and warn you. When she returns with Arthur, you MUST keep your wits.” Marco’s voice was strong and confident, his pronunciation flawless and his words caught in a slight Italian accent, weak enough for some to miss it. As his deep brown eyes met mine, he seemed almost transformed. As I looked upon him in his entirety all I could really see was sensitivity and unyielding love. Love for life? Love for another? Love for existence in the companionship of influence? I could not tell and the possibility of my being told was slim.
“We know how persuasive she can be Mr Godfrey and so urge you to avoid her as best as you can here and elsewhere. Sit with us if you wish, wander Arthur’s home if you must. Whatever you desire so long as you refuse Isabella and her charms.” Diablo had silently moved from his seat to stand beside Marco, harshness to his Spanish words and voice and a fearful anger to his childlike features. Marco gently rubbed Diablo’s arm and whispered some words in his ear, words which instantly relaxed him, both physically and emotionally. His tense and handsome body became loose and as he extended his hand like Marco had done his movements were more fluid than they had been before. I took his hand and shook it in the same way I had Marco’s, letting go immediately. I had a strong sense to keep physical contact between us to a minimum though I desired the opposite. The effect they had on me was more subtle than Isabella’s yet just as strong. I nodded briefly and found myself following them as they swiftly moved back to their seats. When they sat down I drew out a chair beside Marco and sat in it, near enough as tense as Diablo had previously been. They both looked at me, silent as the saints that were situated in the church near my home. If anyone were to start conversation, it would have to be me.
“How do you both know Uncle Arthur?” I asked as casually as I could, despite my nervousness at being so close to them, all the more frightening to me than they had been before they had approached me.
“Through Isabella.” Marco replied simply, reaching for his glass goblet and carefully sipping it’s contents, still unknown to me.
“Do you visit often?” I asked, realizing by the slight frown on Diablo’s otherwise impassive face that I might possibly be annoying them. Marco instantly banished this idea, seemingly quite happy to answer the question I had just asked and any other I could care to throw at him.
“Once every week or so. Sometimes are visits are long, other times they are not.” Marco paused, quickly glancing at the empty doorway before looking meaningfully at Diablo who growled softly before speaking to me, his doe like brown eyes narrowed in what would be best described as severe distaste.
“Do you visit Arthur often?” Diablo asked his voice strained with overbearing politeness.
“Once a month. There are times when I spend a few days with him and times when I spend a few hours.” I murmured quietly, feeling the need to either stop speaking or speak quietly. Diablo was leaning forward in his chair; his posture rigid and a concentrated look on his frightening features. He almost looked as though he were calculating the various factors that would be able to assist him in sinister operations.
“The weather has kept you here if I heard Arthur correct?” Marco questioned, pulling Diablo back and hissing something to him in Spanish, a language I was unable to speak or understand. Diablo folded his arms and sat back in his chair, moodily examining the shadowed room, dominated by the table we were all seated at.
“Indeed it has. I have a long way to travel, something which could not be done in these conditions.” I waved a hand at the window in a blasé manner before rising to my feet and beginning to pace the length of the room. Marco looked at me questioningly and Diablo just watched me, his eyes moving in perfect time and rhythm with my pacing. This disturbed me slightly but I chose to ignore it as best as I could which was no easy task.
“Why the pacing Godfrey?” Marco asked me in his soft and almost sensual voice. My reply was quiet and simplistically sharp, something that neither Marco nor Diablo seemed to have taken offence to.
“I pace to think.” As I paced and thought Marco started to follow my movements in much the same way Diablo was. For some reason my meeting Marco, Diablo and Isabella had begun a string of thought that I could not stop. True, all three of them frightened me yet thrilled me at the same moment. They seemed different to me, somehow. Different to everyone else, be they English, Scottish, Spanish or French. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I wished to know more about them, be with the, be them. It was such an overwhelming desire, a desire I could find no comparison for. How had Uncle Arthur met them, such strange beings as they were? Did he fall under their spell the way I had? Did he share part of their lives? Why had he never let me meet them before? The phrase ‘speak of the Devil’ was not yet in use but if it had been it would have been an appropriate thing to say as Uncle Arthur entered the room with the now wraith like Isabella moodily storming in behind him. I stopped pacing and stood, stiff as a figure frozen in marble and silent as a mute. Isabella passed by me, her shoes gently clicking against the stone of the floor. She brushed her fingers against my arm and smiled slightly at me, once more, her eyes swiftly examining me in an almost possessive manner. Uncle Arthur busied himself pouring a glass goblet of real red wine before roughly shoving it into my hand and sitting in the place I had spent the vast amount of the night in. Marco and Diablo almost seemed to be calling to me, for me as they both examined the large tapestry depicting a scene from the Bible behind me. Isabella sharply turned her head to glare at the, furiously, curls swinging then settling in their previous position, piled on her head as she majestically settled in the chair beside Uncle Arthur. I watched this encounter with mild interest, happy to at last have wine in my hand. I moved toward Marco and Diablo, settling next to Marco once more. I felt so much more comfortable next to Marco than I would next to Diablo. Marco nodded once in an almost approving way before leaning to the side, towards Diablo. Uncle Arthur was alternating his gaze from Isabella to Marco, Diablo and myself. The atmosphere in the room was visibly strained and tense, Isabella’s grip on her glass goblet so strong that I was highly surprised the glass had not shattered. As I looked to Marco and Diablo however, the atmosphere seemed to change entirely. There was love between them, which led me to believe they were brothers. It was, at the time, the natural conclusion. Diablo’s’ lips twitched into what could be called a smile. It almost seemed that he could read my thoughts, but that was childish superstition. At least, I HOPED it was childish superstition. I was starting to doubt it though, doubting myself and doubting all appearances around me.
“I was examining The Illiad yesterday.” I waited for them to reply, any of them, despite the only available reply being a poor one. Isabella looked at me haughtily then modestly and mercifully lowered her gaze to the natural patterns on the wooden table, her long tapered fingers tracing them. Uncle Arthur said nothing, continuing to examine everyone in the room in turn. Marco nodded once and Diablo, shockingly, was the one to answer me, something which took me by surprise and therefore delayed my reply.
“A very well written piece of art. Have you ever read Medea?” Diablo seemed to be warming to the subject, something I was grateful for despite my doubts that he was unable of feeling anything other than contempt for any topic of conversation that I summoned.
“No, unfortunately. I have been unable to find a copy.” Diablo shook his head disapprovingly and tutted, which provoked a small laugh from Isabella.
“A pity. Marco has a copy I believe.” Diablo looked to Marco for conformation, which was quickly given.
“If you are not here when we visit next I shall leave it with Arthur.” Marco said quietly in such a way that filled me with that foreign emotion, sorrow. Diablo whispered something to Marco who sat up straight then rose to his feet at the same moment as both Isabella and Uncle Arthur.
“I believe it is time we leave you and your nephew Arthur. It has been a pleasure as always.” Isabella took Uncle Arthur’s hands in hers and drew him closer to her, muttering some sentence or two to him. Marco, meanwhile, had pulled Diablo to his feet. I stood myself, feeling that it was the best way for me to bade them farewell.
“We hope to see you again Godfrey.” Marco whispered so quietly that I had to strain myself to hear his dulcet voice. Diablo remained silent and still, watching me. Isabella then moved over to them and, as one, they swooped out of the room leaving Uncle Arthur and I once again on our own. We both stood watching them until their shadows had disappeared from view then Uncle Arthur turned to me.
“How did you find them?” He asked, his voice unusually harsh and cold.
“Exotic. They were highly interesting company.” My words seemed to be unable to do justice to what I had just experienced, to what all three of them were, to the question. Uncle Arthur sighed and shook his head, his voice filled with sadness as he whispered six words that held so much meaning and prophecy to them.
“I was afraid you would say that.”
