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- Joined
- Jan 8, 2020
Time.
Time moved in such a strange way. Most thought it was linear, time moves on and all that, but Christian knew better. Time travelled in an elaborate pattern that looped in on itself like a Celtic knot, flowing freely from one direction to the next so that it was unrecognisable for what it was. Moments in time repeated themselves often with only the background changing as the lines intersected, wars, major events, and sometimes...something smaller, more insignificant. He'd seen enough of it over his lifetime, over six centuries of observing the twists and turns and many, many loops that the passage of time created.
For him, it started in the town of York in England, where he had been born. His early life had little adventure or conflict, growing up with friends and relatively safe from the ravages of the war that never seemed to end. As he had grown older he had fallen more and more for one girl, a pretty young thing named Isidora whom he never strayed far from. She had her hobbies, she painted from the age of 15 onwards and he had posed for several portraits as she had developed her skills while he had been learning his trade as a blacksmith, shoeing horses mostly though he had made his own sword just to see what it would be like to wield one. They had fallen in love, promised their lives to each other and he had even been on the verge of proposing to her. They had been each other's firsts, and all he could see was a happy, blissful future with the love of his life ahead of him when the one thing they had feared the most had happened. The king's man had rode into town with his guards, men wearing mail and carrying halberds who stood menacingly as he had proclaimed he would be taking one able bodied man from each family to fight in the war. England needed soldiers, and Christian was the only man in his family besides his father who had lost a leg to infection years prior. Isidora had to watch as his family name was called and he was forced to step forward or run and die a deserter's death. "I'll come back...wait for me, I promise I won't die in this war..." Those had been his last words to her but they had both known it was unlikely he would be back any time soon. The war had already been going on for 50 years and showed no sign of ending. He wouldn't be back any time soon, if at all...inexperienced he wasn't expected to live very long, the only thing that would save him was the trade his father had been teaching him. They always needed good blacksmiths in the camps.
The first few years were a blur of training and learning to craft actual weapons, not like the clumsy, misshapen sword he had once created. Skirmishes happened, he saw his share of combat but the gods had blessed him; his first kill was sheer luck, his foe was just as green as he was and both had been clumsy, swinging wildly until an arrow had hit his opponent in the thigh. Christian might have frozen, unsure of what to do had he not already been mid swing, his sword burying itself in the man's flank. He hadn't slept well that night, seeing his eyes looking back at him as he realised what had happened, the last look of a dead man. Over time it got easier and with training Christian even became quite skilled, finding he was good with sword and shield and making modifications to his own equipment to suit him perfectly. Before he knew it a decade had passed. Every chance he got, every friendly town they stopped in he would write to Isidora, send it back with travellers willing to deliver a message for the right amount of coin and had always left their next destination in the letters. Sometimes he had a letter waiting for him though he was sure he missed many as they often changed direction or arrived earlier than anticipated only to leave the very next day. Another 5 years passed and by then Christian wasn't just another soldier, he was a seasoned veteran. He had his own command. He had scars, he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and still kept to his trade. He made his own armour, mail and plate, his sword, his crossbow, his shield. No longer a boy, he still wrote to her, even that final night before they pushed into that small French village. It was supposed to be easy, defenceless, though he had questioned why such a place hadn't been taken already; they knew English soldiers had passed through here before yet there were no signs of their occupation or even a battle, no sign of anything, in fact, and they had made camp. As night had fallen they had spotted her, a lone girl had been standing there. French, beautiful, her skin so pale that it was almost pure white, not a single blemish on it, the only colour being those ruby red lips. Her eyes had shimmered in the light of their torches, flickering from green to blue, there had been a sadness there, and something else...a hunger. Wearing nothing but the long, black gown that seemed so unfitting for the dirty, abandoned village there seemed to be no danger from her, no harm in inviting her to sit with them, eat with them, and well...it had been a long time since they had been in friendly territory, his men had needs. He had needs.
Approaching her he hadn't known the danger he was in until it was too late, she had thrown him aside and gone after his men. Hitting his head against the wall of one of the homes, the last thing he had heard had been the screams. When he woke, he was no longer a soldier...he was no longer human. Genevieve...that had been her name, the vampire that had turned him. His men hadn't been so 'fortunate', all dead, but he...he never did know what she had seen in him, he was with her for another decade, her companion as she liked to call him though he had felt more like her servant, and in those first few years he couldn't fight her, couldn't disobey a direct order until he had grown stronger himself, but still hadn't the strength to leave, to seek out Isisora, always on his mind. In Paris it had come to an end, they had gotten greedy, fed from too many and during the day the mansion they had occupied had been attacked by those they had drawn the attention of, vampire hunters and mercenaries alike. The last he had seen of Genevieve she had been cornered and he had taken the opportunity to leave. He'd loved her, in a way, ten years of his life had been devoted to her and it hadn't been all bad, she just wasn't the girl he always had in his mind, the girl he craved. He had fled France, making his way back towards York, avoiding conflict until finally he arrived home. Isidora still lived there, but in 25 years a lot had changed. She had grown older, she had married, she even had children, he had seen them as he watched from the shadows on the night he had planned to go and see her again. His heart felt like it had been pierced, tempted to stay and wait for the sun to turn him into ash in the street, or to rend her husband limb from limb in a bloody massacre...but he couldn't do that to her. He'd spent many more nights watching her before he had left one more letter for her, signed under a different name, saying he had been killed in combat and cremated in France. With the letter he left a small chest filled with the money he had accumulated over the last ten years, a small fortune after all he had stolen from his victims, and a single pendant set with a large emerald, the only thing he had remaining of Genevieve. Leaving, he had spent the next few hundred years staying out of the light, building his fortune and taking what he wanted. He had learned from his time with Genevieve how not to draw the kind of attention she had, to not be so greedy but to still take what he desired.
Over six centuries later and Christian hadn't fallen in love again. Oh, he had his fair share of women, he had developed the same kinds of inclinations that Genevieve had shown towards him, he liked power, being in control...but he hadn't kept a single girl for more than a couple of weeks before he had moved on, always looking for that next thrill. Beyond that he had become a collector of sorts, medieval weapons, armour, artifacts and of course art, which was why he found himself in his Nuremburg home, eagerly awaiting the opening of another new gallery. Art, he had found, was best appreciated when you found the artist early in their career, nothing beat discovering a brand new artist and their work and being the first to own a piece of history in the making. He had done it so many times over the years, buying up some of the earlier works of artists such as Giorgione, Da Vinci, Rembrandt and Monet. Always seeking the next, he often found himself walking through galleries, buying up any that caught his eye. He was doing no less in the Kunsthalle and the new exhibition. That's when he saw it...he'd frozen in place, just staring at the painting for over thirty minutes, taking in every detail, his memory pulling him backwards through time towards his youth when he had seen her last, his Isidora. There was no mistaking it...there was no chance that this was some mistake, it was too perfect, it was her, but how? Had she too become a vampire, had she somehow found another way through time, or was it possible that somebody had somehow recreated her image exactly how it had been down to the very last detail? Eventually he managed to pull his eyes away long enough for them to fall on the plaque beneath the painting and the single name on it. Ava Gardiner. He'd sought out the woman responsible for organising the exhibition, he had told her money was no cost but more than that, he had to meet the artist, he had to know who had created this, how they had gotten her likeness so perfect. A hundred thousand euros, that was what he offered, that and a meal at an expensive restaurant, all paid for by him. The only catch, of course, would be that they had to meet at night, nine pm.
Days later he was still thinking about the painting and the artist when had gotten the message that she had accepted his offer.
Time moved in such a strange way. Most thought it was linear, time moves on and all that, but Christian knew better. Time travelled in an elaborate pattern that looped in on itself like a Celtic knot, flowing freely from one direction to the next so that it was unrecognisable for what it was. Moments in time repeated themselves often with only the background changing as the lines intersected, wars, major events, and sometimes...something smaller, more insignificant. He'd seen enough of it over his lifetime, over six centuries of observing the twists and turns and many, many loops that the passage of time created.
For him, it started in the town of York in England, where he had been born. His early life had little adventure or conflict, growing up with friends and relatively safe from the ravages of the war that never seemed to end. As he had grown older he had fallen more and more for one girl, a pretty young thing named Isidora whom he never strayed far from. She had her hobbies, she painted from the age of 15 onwards and he had posed for several portraits as she had developed her skills while he had been learning his trade as a blacksmith, shoeing horses mostly though he had made his own sword just to see what it would be like to wield one. They had fallen in love, promised their lives to each other and he had even been on the verge of proposing to her. They had been each other's firsts, and all he could see was a happy, blissful future with the love of his life ahead of him when the one thing they had feared the most had happened. The king's man had rode into town with his guards, men wearing mail and carrying halberds who stood menacingly as he had proclaimed he would be taking one able bodied man from each family to fight in the war. England needed soldiers, and Christian was the only man in his family besides his father who had lost a leg to infection years prior. Isidora had to watch as his family name was called and he was forced to step forward or run and die a deserter's death. "I'll come back...wait for me, I promise I won't die in this war..." Those had been his last words to her but they had both known it was unlikely he would be back any time soon. The war had already been going on for 50 years and showed no sign of ending. He wouldn't be back any time soon, if at all...inexperienced he wasn't expected to live very long, the only thing that would save him was the trade his father had been teaching him. They always needed good blacksmiths in the camps.
The first few years were a blur of training and learning to craft actual weapons, not like the clumsy, misshapen sword he had once created. Skirmishes happened, he saw his share of combat but the gods had blessed him; his first kill was sheer luck, his foe was just as green as he was and both had been clumsy, swinging wildly until an arrow had hit his opponent in the thigh. Christian might have frozen, unsure of what to do had he not already been mid swing, his sword burying itself in the man's flank. He hadn't slept well that night, seeing his eyes looking back at him as he realised what had happened, the last look of a dead man. Over time it got easier and with training Christian even became quite skilled, finding he was good with sword and shield and making modifications to his own equipment to suit him perfectly. Before he knew it a decade had passed. Every chance he got, every friendly town they stopped in he would write to Isidora, send it back with travellers willing to deliver a message for the right amount of coin and had always left their next destination in the letters. Sometimes he had a letter waiting for him though he was sure he missed many as they often changed direction or arrived earlier than anticipated only to leave the very next day. Another 5 years passed and by then Christian wasn't just another soldier, he was a seasoned veteran. He had his own command. He had scars, he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and still kept to his trade. He made his own armour, mail and plate, his sword, his crossbow, his shield. No longer a boy, he still wrote to her, even that final night before they pushed into that small French village. It was supposed to be easy, defenceless, though he had questioned why such a place hadn't been taken already; they knew English soldiers had passed through here before yet there were no signs of their occupation or even a battle, no sign of anything, in fact, and they had made camp. As night had fallen they had spotted her, a lone girl had been standing there. French, beautiful, her skin so pale that it was almost pure white, not a single blemish on it, the only colour being those ruby red lips. Her eyes had shimmered in the light of their torches, flickering from green to blue, there had been a sadness there, and something else...a hunger. Wearing nothing but the long, black gown that seemed so unfitting for the dirty, abandoned village there seemed to be no danger from her, no harm in inviting her to sit with them, eat with them, and well...it had been a long time since they had been in friendly territory, his men had needs. He had needs.
Approaching her he hadn't known the danger he was in until it was too late, she had thrown him aside and gone after his men. Hitting his head against the wall of one of the homes, the last thing he had heard had been the screams. When he woke, he was no longer a soldier...he was no longer human. Genevieve...that had been her name, the vampire that had turned him. His men hadn't been so 'fortunate', all dead, but he...he never did know what she had seen in him, he was with her for another decade, her companion as she liked to call him though he had felt more like her servant, and in those first few years he couldn't fight her, couldn't disobey a direct order until he had grown stronger himself, but still hadn't the strength to leave, to seek out Isisora, always on his mind. In Paris it had come to an end, they had gotten greedy, fed from too many and during the day the mansion they had occupied had been attacked by those they had drawn the attention of, vampire hunters and mercenaries alike. The last he had seen of Genevieve she had been cornered and he had taken the opportunity to leave. He'd loved her, in a way, ten years of his life had been devoted to her and it hadn't been all bad, she just wasn't the girl he always had in his mind, the girl he craved. He had fled France, making his way back towards York, avoiding conflict until finally he arrived home. Isidora still lived there, but in 25 years a lot had changed. She had grown older, she had married, she even had children, he had seen them as he watched from the shadows on the night he had planned to go and see her again. His heart felt like it had been pierced, tempted to stay and wait for the sun to turn him into ash in the street, or to rend her husband limb from limb in a bloody massacre...but he couldn't do that to her. He'd spent many more nights watching her before he had left one more letter for her, signed under a different name, saying he had been killed in combat and cremated in France. With the letter he left a small chest filled with the money he had accumulated over the last ten years, a small fortune after all he had stolen from his victims, and a single pendant set with a large emerald, the only thing he had remaining of Genevieve. Leaving, he had spent the next few hundred years staying out of the light, building his fortune and taking what he wanted. He had learned from his time with Genevieve how not to draw the kind of attention she had, to not be so greedy but to still take what he desired.
Over six centuries later and Christian hadn't fallen in love again. Oh, he had his fair share of women, he had developed the same kinds of inclinations that Genevieve had shown towards him, he liked power, being in control...but he hadn't kept a single girl for more than a couple of weeks before he had moved on, always looking for that next thrill. Beyond that he had become a collector of sorts, medieval weapons, armour, artifacts and of course art, which was why he found himself in his Nuremburg home, eagerly awaiting the opening of another new gallery. Art, he had found, was best appreciated when you found the artist early in their career, nothing beat discovering a brand new artist and their work and being the first to own a piece of history in the making. He had done it so many times over the years, buying up some of the earlier works of artists such as Giorgione, Da Vinci, Rembrandt and Monet. Always seeking the next, he often found himself walking through galleries, buying up any that caught his eye. He was doing no less in the Kunsthalle and the new exhibition. That's when he saw it...he'd frozen in place, just staring at the painting for over thirty minutes, taking in every detail, his memory pulling him backwards through time towards his youth when he had seen her last, his Isidora. There was no mistaking it...there was no chance that this was some mistake, it was too perfect, it was her, but how? Had she too become a vampire, had she somehow found another way through time, or was it possible that somebody had somehow recreated her image exactly how it had been down to the very last detail? Eventually he managed to pull his eyes away long enough for them to fall on the plaque beneath the painting and the single name on it. Ava Gardiner. He'd sought out the woman responsible for organising the exhibition, he had told her money was no cost but more than that, he had to meet the artist, he had to know who had created this, how they had gotten her likeness so perfect. A hundred thousand euros, that was what he offered, that and a meal at an expensive restaurant, all paid for by him. The only catch, of course, would be that they had to meet at night, nine pm.
Days later he was still thinking about the painting and the artist when had gotten the message that she had accepted his offer.
