Sometime between 1810 and 1812


The newborn woke that night, his sire studying him.

"We need to go. You cannot see her or maintain contact with her now. She must not know what we are."

"I want to see her. Just one more time."

The newborn and his sire go to the house, and silently creep up to the French doors, and look in. Inside, in an opulent chair, sits a man whom is as beautiful as an angel, coldly perfect. On his lap sits a girl, almost a woman, crying, her face buried in his shoulder, as he holds her. He senses the visitors, and looks out, meeting the newborn's eyes. His former vassal.

The newborn looks at the sight, his gifts telling him that his daughter is racked with grief, the pace of her heart, uneven, and the angel; not an angel at all. Now he is kindred, he knows how big a monster his child is in the arms of, but as surely as he knows that, his beast scents her, and his gums part, fangs sliding down, in anticipation of the hot rich blood that flows within her. The arousal both frightens and horrifies him, looking at his child, as though she were food.

He looks at the elder with his arms cradling her, the hands that stroke her hair, and those cold lizard eyes holding his own, observing his battle and smirking at his discomfort.

"We must go. He will look after her." His sire ushers him away, as they disappear, he looks back one last time, and sees Vittorio stand, cradling Gwynefar in his arms, to carry her to her room. Something in the image makes him shudder slightly both repelled and aroused at the sight of such a young innocent life in the grip of ancient death.

But it is no longer his problem, and he is now unable to direct her path.



March 2009

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