Constantinople, Late Fall, 1148
He had heard a noise in the upper chambers where the master scribe often worked late into the night. There was no scream but the scent of moist iron raised goosebumps on his skin which was very unnatural in the warm night air. The apprentice picked up his quill sharpening knife, which was ridiculously unsuited to self defense, but better then a pointed feather, which was his other option. Swallowing his impulse to flee, he took to the round flight of stairs, silently climbing the stone flights in soft stocking covered feet.
The door was open on the room above, the moonlight and faint candle glow spilling onto the landing. He paused just outside of it, listening for the sound of a thief, or at least his master's scribbling in lieu of cursing over spilled ink. Instead his ears picked up the faintest rustle of fabric, as though someone was standing at the window, unmoving and looking out it. The moment extended with but a breath, before a raspy whisper said, “I have been expecting you to charge up here, sir. Or flee for the black of night.”
Lowering his knife, the apprentice squared his shoulders, and mustering bravery he did not feel, he stepped into the doorway, “But good Sir, entering through a window into a master's tower is hardly a way to a kind greeting.” As he spoke the scene in the room registered to him that this was not a normal situation at all. A dark skinned figure of a form stood by the window, backlit by the moon and shadowed by the flickering glow of a dying candle. A foreigner, surely, garbed in clothes that marked a warrior of nearly half a century before. His arms supported the body of the elder scribe, head drooped to the side, a red stain turning brown across the pale linen tunic it was dressed in. Shaken, the younger scribe found himself struggling to swallow. He finally whispered, “What is it you want?”
“Deliver my tale, and you might yet live,” the figure raspped out. The apprentice gave a nod. “I'll tell you- you write it. Then take it far from here, outside the reach of the Church. Hide it well.” And with that the process began, nightly for many a moon the words flowed from the lips of the undead form, where he would say what he thought was the truth. The scribe wrote, blindly, every word, not reading his own work. One night when the book was near its end, the dark figure simply said “It is done. Flee now, as fast as you can, lest the Church catch wind of your deeds and drag you through town for consorting with the devil.” Then he was gone.
The Arian Countryside, 1558
The book made its way through many a journey, being copied several times by different scribes who were tasked with preserving it. The Knights Templar saw to it as much. One such copy ended up in the north of Europe, in the hands of Brother Ozsvar. Being a young man, and one with great curiosity, he read this book, under the guise of coping it. Unsure if it were real or not, he reserved judgment on the players, knowing that God would handle that. This morn would mark a day for gathering from the bounty around the monastery. He placed the secret tome back and turned to ready himself for the day.
With the predawn he and the other Brothers set off on their pilgrimage. They would gather what they could, and take a circular route through the valley. It was on the way back that his life would change course. Not in a bad way, for his faith allowed him to do good regardless of the situation. So when the travelers came across a man in the hills the second day out who appeared to be dying, his instinct won out and he covered the fellow, enlisting the aid of his brethren to carry the form back to the monastery. The Brothers believed that the body would be set to burial, and took it where he bid, down to the cellars proper where no sun would threaten. Here he prepared a small room out of a storage area, and set about tending to the unique needs of the new inhabitant.
It would take time, weeks even, for his acts of kindness to get the fellow to regain some guise of humanity. Brother Ozsvar did not let this bother him. He knew what it was he had found, thanks to the secret works he had read. He knew that to sate the hunger of this newly turned creature meant saving the blood from the slaughtered animals – an thankfully the brethren believed he was making blood sausage with it. In time the creature would gain slow acceptance within the society of the monastery, particularly as he helped with tasks in the darkness that others could not do.
As time passed the man, as he would be accepted as a man, learned from the priests to read and write. He was granted the name Alonzo and brought into the common life of the brethren. They turned a blind eye to how he fed, instead seeing his presence as a blessing upon them. His remembrance of this time is as follows:
“Early sixteenth century is my best guess. Somewhere in the Arian countryside. I had outlived my family and friends. I was old by the standards of the time, old and tired. I left the village for the first time in my life to find a quiet place to die. Walking 3 days took me up above the tree line but not above the grass. Finding a grassy knoll, I laid down to sleep….
I do not know the dates of my birth or death. Time was not measured that way for country folk.
I do not know the land of my birth or death. My village was my world.
Upon finding my near lifeless body, Brother Ozsvar, a strong young man about a third my age, carried me down to the monastery. The monks spoke of the death of the Christ 1550 years earlier. That is how I figure my age.
I was told my clothes and manner of speech was from the region influenced by canton of Appenzell. That is how I place the land of my first birth.
I stayed in that monastery for 57 years, learning to read, write, to broaden my world of thought. No one mentioned my strength, my age or the scars that never faded.”
How strange that it was, an old man who never changed would stay for fifty seven years in the monastery perfectly content to take what nourishment he was offered. But that was the way of things then. He had found a new group to be family and friends, but like all things, time did not stop. One day he would be summoned to the side of the friend who had dared to save him. The tale goes on:
“Speaking to me from his deathbed, a very old Brother Ozsvar told me it was time to leave and explore the world. Brother Ozsvar was young when he carried the frail old man down from that grassy hilltop. He was a very old man when I carried him down to the crypts. The next day I left the monastery with the lessons they taught and the name of my teacher. The year was 1615.
I have roamed ever since, not staying long in any one place. Exploring many lands and many cultures at various times in history. Meeting people who became figures of importance and people who faded into the annuls of time. Every one of them left their mark on me. I have made a point of never getting close to any one person. It is not the look of death that drives me away. It is the loss of friends.
I never knew my sire. Probably a hapless traveler who stumbled upon a dying man no one would miss. Unconsciously I look for that beast, either to thank it or to kill it.”
But soon the pull of his sire's actions would lead him to One that would become his enduring companion....
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