56: 56 The Predator's Past (AVOT)

56 The Predator's Past (AVOT)

** Year 1361 **

Day 11 of his second week found him with little more than a stale piece of bread in his stomach. Any crumbs he'd managed to find had been left with his brother at home so he could survive while Rhain ventured out to search for a cure.

The question haunting his every step was, would he himself survive the journey?

He huddled outside a tavern, seeking the meager warmth seeping from its stone walls, but was promptly shoved away by the owner, claiming he was scaring away patrons. The wind howled in protest, its icy breath numbing his face until the tracks of his tears felt like frozen scars etched into his skin. As he shuffled through the relentless snowstorm, his feet became a numb weight, soon joined by the numbing frostbite crawling up his fingers. Anywhere he sought refuge from the bitter cold, he was scornfully chased away.

"Get lost, you stink, boy!"

The kindest soul he'd encountered had flung him a piece of warm bread, but he couldn't summon the energy to eat. His needs were torn between the crippling hunger and the urgent necessity for warmth. Perhaps his brother had been right. Perhaps it was easier to surrender to death than to struggle in this relentless torment.

"Rhain, promise me you'll take care of your brother," His mother's voice echoed in his mind.

It seemed pointless now. He was caught in a brutal fight against death, each breath an exhausting battle. Yet life felt like a torturous limbo, an endless cycle of hell. Maybe even hell would provide warmth, he mused bitterly. That is unless there was a version of hell where souls froze in eternal winter, but then, he was already living it on Earth.

His frostbitten fingers, crimson and rigid, clung to the bread with a desperate need. He'd promised his brother he would return with a cure.

"Unless your cure can make me walk again, I don't need it!" his brother had retorted.

The undead could revive the lifeless, surely they could restore his brother's mobility. That is, if he ever found them.

As the storm's frosty grip tightened, the cold bit into his very marrow, every gust of wind a dagger of ice. He knocked on doors, pleading for a moment's respite from the frigid night.

"Please, my Lady, I just need..." His plea fell on deaf ears as the door slammed shut in his face. He knocked again, only to be greeted by an irate man who shoved him so hard Rhain stumbled back into the biting snow. "Knock again, and I'll chop your arms off, boy!"

Rhain, teeth chattering violently, pushed himself to his feet. Door after door, he was either ignored or shunned. Eventually, he found himself at another tavern, sneaking in through the back door and into the slightly warmer kitchen. He discovered an unattended corner among the discarded trash bags, curled up and shivered, praying for invisibility. However, his luck quickly ran out.

"What are you doing here?" A burly man growled, looming over him like a storm cloud.

"I just...need...warmth..." Rhain managed to stutter, his teeth clattering in the cold.

"Out with you!" The man barked.

Rhain, huddled even tighter in his corner, pleaded, "I promise...I won't move...won't cause trouble...won't speak."

"How about you don't breathe?" The man retorted, grimacing at the sight of Rhain. He reached for him, hesitated as if repulsed, then grabbed hold of Rhain's tattered shirt.

"No, sir. Please," Rhain pleaded desperately, "I won't move. I will do anything. Just let me stay."

His pleas fell on deaf ears as the man continued to drag him towards the door. The entrance loomed ahead, the gusts of icy wind penetrating even from this distance, making his body shudder in anticipation of the inevitable cold. "Please, sir," Rhain held onto the man's leg, his last lifeline, "Please." He shook violently, "I will do anything."

"Get your filthy self off me!" The man tried to kick Rhain off, but he clung to the leg for dear life. 

In a fit of anger, the man began to beat him to loosen his grip. Rhain instinctively protected his face, taking the brunt of the blows elsewhere. Soon, other men joined in, prying Rhain off the man's leg, tossing him out into the merciless cold, and landing a few harsh kicks for good measure.

Pain. Cold. And then... darkness.

When Rhain regained consciousness, he found himself in a small room under the watchful gaze of a towering, red-haired man with a big beard. The man's blue eyes studied him with a curiosity that made Rhain uncomfortable.

"You're finally awake, young man. Let's get you cleaned up."

Rhain was momentarily stunned as the man offered him clothes, a bath, and even food. However, the man's eager eyes gave away an ulterior motive. Rhain couldn't pinpoint it, but he felt a shiver of apprehension.

"You're quite the looker," the man said, a troubling excitement creeping into his tone. Later, another man came in to appraise him, and Rhain caught snippets of their hushed conversation from the other side of the door. They plan to sell him.

A bitter chuckle escaped Rhain's chapped lips, earning him a quizzical look from Halvar, the red-haired man. Without waiting for a response, Halvar instructed Rhain to rise so the other man could examine him more closely.

"With proper food and care, he could earn us a fortune," the newcomer remarked, running an assessing gaze over Rhain's malnourished frame.

Rhain absorbed their exchange with disinterested detachment, listening as they debated his worth.

"And what's my share?" Rhain dared to ask.

Halvar shot him a bewildered look before bursting into laughter. "You'll get shelter and food, boy."

"Then I'm not interested," Rhain replied, despite knowing that his rejection would be brushed aside with amusement.

And sure enough, they laughed again. "You don't have a choice, boy. Would you rather freeze to death out there?"

"Do you want me to make this difficult for you?" Rhain retorted, a spark of defiance flickering in his eyes. "I've already made my peace with death. So, I might as well get something out of this."

Halvar seemed momentarily taken aback. "Alright," he finally shrugged. "It'll depend on how much you can bring in. Have you ever been with a woman?"

Rhain hesitated. In his struggle to merely survive, thoughts of intimacy had never had the chance to blossom. "See, you're inexperienced," Halvar said, giving Rhain another calculating look. "Your looks might compensate at first, but you'll need time to refine your...skills. We can arrange for some 'practice', of course."

Practice?

He quickly masked his expression and nodded. This wasn't the worst fate he'd faced, and, in truth, he'd expected nothing less from his fellow humans. "I'll require no share if you can arrange a meeting with Warlord Christoffer."

"Why do you want to meet him, boy?" Halvar asked, suspicious.

"I have an important message to deliver personally," Rhain responded, his thoughts turning to the rumors of Christoffer's supposed immortality.

"You're dreaming, boy! Those people are on a different plane!" Halvar scoffed. "We can only fantasize about gracing their presence."

"I thought you planned to sell me to the Elite," Rhain shot back, his tone edged with scorn.

Both men erupted into laughter. But then, abruptly, Halvar seized Rhain, pivoting him to face the mirror on the wall. "Look at yourself, boy, and stow those grand dreams. You're nothing but skin and bones." Ripping open Rhain's shirt, Halvar revealed a body that had been abused by the relentless cold and all the beating he had endured for many years. "Look at you. Blue and black. Marred. Do you think the Elite would want a damaged good like you?"

A tremor coursed through Rhain's frail body as he maintained his gaze upon his own reflection. The discoloured skin, the bruised flesh - these were the harsh reminders of the blows he'd taken in his desperate quest for sustenance over the years. 

"Listen, young man," Halvar began, his voice softening as he draped an arm around Rhain's bony shoulders. "You don't have to go through all this anymore. Do your part here and you'll survive."

The second man, his eyes narrowed in thought, watched Rhain with an odd interest. "Halvar, perhaps he's right. He has a certain allure... and he is a virgin. They might pay handsomely for."

Rhain clamped his eyes shut as they negotiated his future. Then his gaze drifted to the window, to the raging storm outside. The memory of hunger gnawing at his insides and the bone-deep cold shackled him to this grim reality. The thought of experiencing that unbearable pain again was enough to keep in place.

For the first time in years, he studied his face in the mirror. He was cleaner than he had been for the better part of a decade, and his appearance stirred an unfamiliar sense of self-awareness. He wondered what they saw in him. No one had ever paid him this much attention before.

In the following days, his "training" began. Rhain was exposed to the grueling underbelly of this business. Since his body was still marred with the reminders of past beatings, he was spared active participation. 

Yet, he was forced to watch as men and women engaged in acts that ranged from passionate to brutal. Sometimes hidden in a closet, he would observe how the brothel's workers serviced their clients in private. The brutality some endured made his stomach churn.

"And I'm expected to accept beatings too?" Rhain asked, his voice flat. "And you plan to sell me to men as well?"

Halvar shrugged. "They won't leave any marks unless they pay a pretty sum."

"I didn't realize there was a market for beatings," Rhain mused dryly. "If that were the case, I should be a wealthy man by now."

"He's a funny one," Halvar chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away.

Despite everything, Rhain stayed. The prospect of returning to the cold, the hunger, was far more unbearable. And a glimmer of hope clung stubbornly to his heart. Among the Elite, he might just find the undead he sought.

The next morning, Halvar tossed him a pile of fine clothing. "Your face is nearly healed," he noted. "I want to test your worth today. Dress up."

Rhain wasn't sure what Halvar meant, but the words filled his gut with a familiar sense of dread. His gaze flitted to the window, contemplating the biting cold and gnawing hunger outside. If he ran now, he might never find shelter again. He would die before he returned home. 

But his body decided for him already, too well-versed in the agonies of starvation and cold to risk it. As for taking a beating, he had weathered that storm before without pay so he might as well get paid for brutality.

Dressed in fine clothing, Rhain was led onto a ship. Halvar, too, was dressed like a gentleman, and he paid a considerable sum to secure their place among the upper class on the ship. 

Rhain had never seen such opulence before—people draped in finery, food that melted in his mouth—it was surreal. Throughout the journey, Halvar seemed smug, content with himself. When they disembarked, Halvar clapped him on the back.

"I believe you attracted the attention of a few," he commented.

Rhain remained silent, unsure of whether to recoil or take it as a compliment. 

"Excuse me," a deep, hypnotic voice suddenly interrupted them. As they turned around, Rhain was certain he was face-to-face with his first undead.

"How much are you selling him for?" the man inquired, his face impassive.

Halvar faltered, taken aback. "Excuse me…"

"I know you are selling him." The man cut him off, his eyes flickering with an uncanny knowledge.

Reluctantly, Halvar acquiesced. "For how long do you need him?"

"I have no intention of returning him," the stranger declared.

Halvar's eyes sparkled with greed at these words. This man's offer confirmed the potential profit in Rhain, but he wasn't ready to relinquish his asset completely.

"I only rent him out for periods," Halvar retorted.

The undead man stepped closer, a threatening aura enveloping him despite the smile that played on his lips. The electrifying energy he exuded made Rhain's skin prickle.

"I am taking him regardless," the man stated, his voice firm. "So while I'm offering to pay, name your price."

Halvar gulped, the danger that this man represented was evidently beyond his understanding. Struggling to find his voice, he remained mute. The undead man gestured to his subordinate, who promptly handed Halvar two pouches.

Upon opening them, Halvar's eyes bulged in disbelief.

"Is that satisfactory?" the undead inquired, his voice as smooth as velvet.

Greed, Rhain thought, was a bottomless pit.

"One more should suffice," Halvar bargained.

With another dismissive wave of his hand, the undead man signaled his for him to get another pouch. And just like that, Rhain was sold. His first time being sold, yet he felt nothing—except, perhaps, a tickle of hope. He was finally in the company of the undead.

"You know what I am." The man asked as they were whisked away in a carriage.

"Yes."

A smile played at the corners of the man's mouth. "You don't seem afraid."

"I am not," Rhain replied.

"Do you know why I bought you?"

His head spun at the question. "Blood?" he ventured.

The man chuckled—a sound that sent shivers down his spine. "Primarily, but I have high hopes for you."

Rhain remained silent, studying the man who continued to scrutinize him. "But you are seeking immortality," the man stated, his voice a whisper but carrying a weight that hinted at a deeper understanding.

"Yes."

The man chuckled again, the sound eerie in the confined space of the carriage. "Who, then, is going to turn you?" He grinned, his eyes gleaming like obsidian in the dim light. "You are the perfect prey, human."

So, it was possible to turn?

"It's not for me. It's for my brother."

"Ah…" The man tilted his head slightly, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Only for your brother?"

Rhain paused—he hadn't considered himself. "For now, he needs it."

"Do you wish to curse your brother with eternal darkness?" the man asked.

"Darkness is everywhere. Sometimes it is even the better choice." 

The man cocked his head to one side, intrigued. "Poor young man. What have you endured?"

"Will you turn my brother?" Rhain asked. 

"There are rules. I can't just turn people. Only a few hold the power to do so without permission."

"Who?" Rhain's heart pounded in his chest.

The man smirked, an almost cruel twist to his lips. "You wouldn't want to meet them, human."

Despite the warning, hope flickered in Rhain's heart. He had come too far to abandon his quest now. The man, who introduced himself as Ivan, intended to sell him again. Rhain clung to the hope that whatever they saw in him would aid him in reaching those Ivan had hinted at—those he was determined to find.

The first customer was a woman, a vampiress named Renata. She was a stunning creature, her beauty transcendent, making Rhain wonder why she would want anything to do with a beaten-up mortal like him, especially when her desires extended beyond his blood. 

Renata possessed the peculiar ability to plant knowledge directly into one's mind. With her touch, Rhain was suddenly imbued with a wealth of understanding regarding a woman's body, her desires, and how to cater to them. In a matter of seconds, he became an adept lover, capable of providing Renata with the satisfaction she sought.

"I will have your blood once you are nourished," she said in a voice as soft as a lullaby, her fangs gleaming in the dim light. "I wonder how you will taste?"

But he soon learned that Renata was the type who liked to prolong her hunger, in the same way she preferred to be kept on the edge of pleasure for an extended period before reaching the peak. 

Yet, the comfort Renata offered didn't serve Rhain's purpose. He was driven by a singular mission—to save his brother—and Renata couldn't assist him in that. Before she could give in to her hunger and pierce his flesh for the first time, he escaped her clutches, particularly when he overheard her plans to sell him further to satisfy her friends' whims.

Rhain would have paid that price if her friends could help him, but he knew they held the same status as Renata. His escape, however, led him from the gentlewomen who wanted pleasure as they chattered about how handsome he'd look as a vampire if he was already so good-looking, to ferocious creatures that were unable to control their thirst. He'd been warned not to venture out, for young, uncontrolled vampires roamed the streets, and now, he found himself face-to-face with them.

Understanding the futility of running against their supernatural speed and realizing that they would find pleasure in the chase, Rhain did the one thing they hated most—he stood still. If they were going to kill him, atleast he would make it as boring as he could. 

That night, Rhain felt the searing pain of fangs piercing his flesh for the first time, yet he didn't resist. His gaze remained fixed on the night sky, watching as the first snowflakes began to fall. He thought, perhaps it was better to die this way than to freeze to death. 

His body surrendered to the chilling darkness that night, sprawled out on the stained and cold canvas of blood-splattered snow. The last image branded into his fading consciousness was the sight of monstrous fangs, unnaturally long, terrifyingly sharp – longer than any he had seen, and eyes golden as they looked down upon him. 

Who… was he? Before he could wonder further darkness enveloped him. 

Rhain woke to a different world, a realm he could only describe as a paradise of sorts. Servants were everywhere, attending to his every need without the need for him to utter a single word. Yet the question gnawed at him: Where was he?

Ah, the man with golden eyes!

Oddly, the servants seemed sworn to silence when he inquired about his whereabouts. His questions were met with a strange, taciturn reverence. As he roamed the mansion, his jaw only seemed to drop further, the chambers and halls never coming to an end. 

In one grandiose drawing room, he discovered a familiar face. A man of exquisite elegance sat comfortably in an armchair, a book nestled in his hands. When those piercing golden eyes lifted from the pages and locked onto Rhain, recognition ignited within him.

"You are finally awake." The man's voice danced through the room.

Rhain paused at the entrance, caught in the mesmerizing allure of the stranger. He had seen vampires of undeniable beauty, but this man – he was breathtaking.

"Come in," he invited, his voice a soft command.

Stepping cautiously into the room, Rhain gathered his courage. "Who are you?"

"I am Lysander."1

"I'm not interested in your name," Rhain countered quickly. "If you seek blood or pleasure, I am not willing to provide either."

Lysander, unfazed by the brisk retort, gently closed his book. "Then what do you want?"

It was the first time anyone had asked. "I… I want to cure my brother."

"Is that all?"

Caught off guard, Rhain stammered, "I mean… I want to turn him."

Nodding in understanding, Lysander asked, "What ails your brother?"

"He's sick."

Lysander gestured to the vacant chair across from him, prompting Rhain to sit. "What about you," he probed. "Do you desire immortality?"

Rhain hadn't contemplated it. His brother was his world, his priority. "I haven't thought about it. At the moment, my brother is more important."

"You came this far for your brother," Lysander's voice bore a hint of disbelief, as though Rhain's actions were baffling.

"Yes."

Lysander studied Rhain, his gaze unfaltering. After a moment, he finally spoke. "You are the guilty child," he stated, as if he had uncovered a profound truth about Rhain.

Rhain was taken aback by the label.

"I'm not sure what you're implying?"

Lysander offered a soft chuckle in response, an indulgent smile playing on his lips. "It's simple, really. When someone you hold dear suffers while you're in the clear, it breeds a certain kind of guilt. You find yourself wishing you could exchange places, take their pain as your own. You're in a place where your own happiness feels... undeserved until they find relief."

The words struck a chord, making anger and pain simmer under his skin."Are you a mentalist?" He asked bitterly. 

His amusement grew, sparking a light laugh from the vampire. "No, no. Just observant. I have my ways of understanding people."

Rhain ignored his remark not wanting to talk about his feelings. "So, will you assist my brother or not?"

"And what price are you willing to pay?" Lysander questioned, his golden eyes gleaming with an unreadable expression.

Rhain scanned Lysander's face. Strangely he didn't look at him like the others had. "What do you desire in return?" he ventured.

"You. I want you to be my prey."

Prey?

Rhain barely hesitated, "Alright," he agreed, surprising even himself.

"Wouldn't you want to know what that entails?" Lysander asked, a slight tilt to his head.

Rhain shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter."

Lysander chuckled again, clearly intrigued by Rhain's bold acceptance. "Very well. Any other requests, then?"

"Other requests?" Rhain echoed, taken aback.

Lysander's gaze travelled over him, a certain sympathy marking his features. "You've been through a great deal," he noted, carefully setting his book aside on the table to his left. "Is there any torment you'd like to repay?"

"No," Rhain responded, his voice resigned. His personal grievances were irrelevant; his brother's well-being was all that mattered.

But Lysander's proposal was odd. Rhain found himself studying the vampire once again, contemplating his intentions.

"Is there anyone you'd like me to leave out in the cold?" Lysander asked, his tone light yet serious.

"Why would you bother with that?" Rhain countered.

"It's for you, dear one," Lysander replied, as if that simple statement held all the answers. "I've seen your scars. Aren't you in pain?"

"The scars ache," Rhain confessed, "But it's the cold... and the hunger. Those are worse."

"Hmm," Lysander mused. "I haven't felt cold in centuries, so I can't fully understand. And hunger, it's... different for me."

"You don't feel the cold?" Rhain found himself echoing, his mind latching onto the concept.

"Not at all," Lysander confirmed.

For Rhain, that revelation was a wistful dream. Not only a cure for his brother, but comes with other benefits as well. Curses too, but they were already cursed. 

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