C2 Rage

"Come with me…"

Hunger in the vampire's voice. Half-stooped, he fled across the room, beckoning for them to follow down a long, voluminous hallway. Pillars flanking the opening with a pair of stone angels peering at them from above. The ceiling was curved, the stone floor marginally sloped. The old murals faded with the faces of holy men and women peeling away with time.

Arms behind his back, Beryn strode after the vampire, keeping him in sight, the shadow of the dark werewolf following behind him, the pillars becoming cover, the angels useful for crushing enemies. The warped stone foundations were collapsible, and degraded murals could be broken through. A part of him wanted to look upon the angels a moment longer.

Only a moment...

He passed beneath them without breaking his stride. He had no time for their piety. The righteous guardianship they held over this abbey. Unlike the frescoed architecture behind, the walls here were not so impressive. Empty rooms on either side suggesting that once, the abbey had been occupied by many. Benches within every alcove and more books piled underneath and above. Cobwebs and dust betrayed the years since these rooms had been inhabited. The years since anyone had last swept the floors.

At the end of the hall, Silas halted, his rigid shoulders stooping even further, his scent growing in leaps and bounds. Agitation and fear. The expression on his face was a muddle of frustration and cunning, his greenish-yellow eyes darting along a small door as if considering the best method for turning the handle. A few feet away, Beryn only had eyes for the lock. Rusty along the edges, it had not been there the last time he visited the abbey. Never one to hold back from his own inquisitiveness, he stepped around the vampire and tried the handle.

Locked.

He looked at Silas.

"Open it."

The vampire nodded, reaching a quivering hand into his robes and drawing out a set of mangled, iron keys. Twice, they slipped, but twice, he snatched them before they could hit the ground. This was the product of exile, when even the dusty floor became a thief lurking in the dark. For the sake of commerce and very little else, Beryn took a step back, giving the man some space. Killing aside, he was aware that one had to show a measure of tolerance when trading. Tolerance which did not extend to the other trader's life. Or his eyes.

Perhaps his thoughts showed upon his face…

For Silas, looking up, suddenly backed against the door as though he had just seen new reason to turning tail and making a run for it. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Swallowing, he turned around, splaying the keys across his palm, searching for the right one. Searching. There were only five keys on the ring, yet he examined each one thoroughly, rattling it long and well in the lock before moving on. When they came to the last, he hesitated, licking his lips. Slow, he held the key up in the shadows and then even slower, placed it in the rusty lock.

Beryn remained silent, waiting for the man to turn the key. He was almost intrigued by this impressive display of dawdling. Not many people could take an age to open a door. There was something awfully personal behind it. Something Silas desperately did not want him to see. Again, the vampire turned, opening his mouth to speak. A small growl from the dark werewolf caused him re-evaluate his actions. If one thing could be said of the werewolf-master, he had an eye for punctuality. Their train would be leaving with dawn, and the two hours until sunrise said that if Silas did not open the door momentarily, the dark werewolf would be breaking it down.

The vampire had no choice. He bent towards to the door. Taking a deep breath, he turned the key, and slowly pushed the door open…

…and without waiting, dashed into the room, his legs gunning for the wall that faced them.

Beryn reacted, his nails sinking into Silas' shoulder, forcing the vampire to halt. It was the sound of a creeping whimper, the touch of grasping fingers. He was aware of these things, yet he ignored everything else, his eyes snared by the facing wall…by what hung on its face. He knew he had stopped breathing. Making no sound, he took a step forward, the vampire's shoulder coming with him. In the corner of his eye, the dark werewolf fell back, keeping his head down. Perhaps sensing the change. Perhaps recalling what had happened the last time he saw that.

It was the hidden entrance to the catacombs.

He knew that well enough, yet the last time they had been here, the entrance had been obscured by a bookshelf. An ungainly thing fashioned of oak and iron. A millennia later, the shelf had been shoved to the left. Chopped into bits and pieces for the sake of firewood, its successor wavering from the rafters, covering the entrance with mere cloth. Captivating his eyes even as he wanted to burn it. He had assumed Silas had burned it. An old moth-eaten tapestry, ten feet high and six feet across, the fabric sweeping the floor. It was as if the world had stilled. Silence through the abbey, the angels in the hallway pleading for the creeping vampire in their midst to meet his end.

Feeling defensive, Beryn tore his gaze away. No wonder Silas dawdled. In all his cunning stratagems, he never dreamed he would be trading anything from the tombs… Restless, his eyes darted around the room, growing evermore reluctant to look back upon the tapestry. There was a cradle to the right, wooden slats with no bedding. A broken chair and a secretaire covered in dust. A few books on the floor. The air was musty, a rank smell…a faint draft of cold air wafting in from the entrance. He wanted to rip out the vampire's throat, but he forced himself into a state of calm. He would have to look at it sometime. His talons withdrew, the vampire falling to a heap on the ground, a shallow cry followed by an attempt to retreat. The sound of blood dripping from his fingers.

What is done is done.

"Find a torch," he ordered, his second instinct to be alone. The vampire swallowed air and scuttled back towards the outer hall. The dark werewolf followed, the sound of the door closing behind them. His scent was one of absolute deference. There was a faint clatter followed by a whining bleat before that too fell into silence.

Dangerously calm, Beryn closed his eyes for a moment…and then focused upon the old tapestry, the faded threads trailing from corner to corner. His gaze wove its way into the centre. Stepping closer, he breathed in the dust, searching for the rage that gripped him the last time he stood in front of it. Almost fifty years ago, in all his confidence, Silas had made the mistake of trying to sell it to him. He still remembered the shock of seeing it in the dining hall. All business ending between them. Perhaps he had been rash. Knowing what he would find, he looked up from the centre. At the very top, a line of faded Latin described the imagery: Coronation of Elena— …the rest of the words obscured by grime…

…but his memory could fill in the rest.

Coronation of Elena...

…flanked by two ladies-in-waiting. 1226 Anno Mundi.

His gaze moved through the embellishments and forestry. The stone walls of a fortress. In its centre, an entourage of eight warriors bowed before three embroidered ladies. The first, a pale long-haired woman of the Orient, the second a dark and graceful empress garbed in silver. Of the third lady, there was no more. Only a tangle of thread, a hole where the tapestry had been razed by claws. His hand reached forward, perfectly still, almost lingering over the gaping tear. There was no rage. No regret. Only emptiness.

The tentative sound of a knock came from behind.

"Enter," he growled, the dull colours leaping into bright existence with the entrance of flame. Golden threads. Even with the dust of seven centuries, the golden threads shone as brightly as the sun. The rage returned. His nails sharpened into talons, a harsh, cracking sound, his bones lengthening in a split second. Silas' eyes widened, legs backing away only to collide with the solid rock that was the dark werewolf.