Blood of the Ancient

The fire is my only companion. It licks the skin from my bones, a never-ending cycle of agony that has defined my existence for two centuries. In the small, rotting corner of my mind that still remembers how to be strong, I know the truth: this fire is mine. I have fed it with my own decaying flesh and my fractured sanity since the day the Vampire Horde dragged me into the bowels of Paris. I am Lachlain MacRieve, a King in chains. Pinned to a cold stone by silver and hate, I face the mouth of hell itself. Every day, the flames rise. Every day, I burn to ash. And every day, my cursed immortality sews me back together just so I can suffer again. Retribution. It was the only word that kept me alive. I nursed my rage like a starving babe at the breast, waiting for a day that would never come. Until her. Through the stone and the soot, through the layers of earth and the filth of the city above, I smell it. Her. My mate. The one woman created for my soul alone. I searched for her for a thousand years, a nomad across a dozen lifetimes, only to find her now, while I am a monster rotting in the dark. The fire ebbs. She is close. Somewhere in the streets above, her scent lingers like a promise of heaven in this hole of death. Mine. The word roars through my blood, stronger than silver, deeper than pain. I throw my weight forward. The metal collars bite into my wrists, tearing through muscle and sinew. Blood, thick, ancient, and boiling, pours over the rock. I don't feel the pain. I only feel the need. With a guttural snarl that shatters the silence of the catacombs, I rip the first two bonds free. My skin hangs in ribbons, but I am moving. I am coming for her. I reach for the pin driven through my neck. I remember the hammer blows that put it there. I remember the laughter of the leeches. With a final, desperate surge of strength, I wrench it from the stone. The recoil sends me crashing back, but I am already clawing at my legs. One ankle free. One thigh released. Then… nothing. I yank again, desperation clawing at my throat. The last bond won’t budge. My strength is failing, and her scent, that sweet, ethereal trail, is beginning to fade. "No," I wheeze, my voice a broken rasp. "Not again." I look at my trapped leg with cold, pitiless eyes. If I stay, the fire will return. If I stay, the vampires will find me. If I stay, I lose her forever. I would rather be a monster than a prisoner. I reach down with shaking hands and grip my own bone. I envision her face, a face I haven't even seen yet, and I snap the femur. The agony is a white-hot explosion that turns my world black. My claws slice through my own meat, severing the nerves that scream in protest. I am the beast now. I abandon what is left of my limb to the chains and crawl. I drag my mangled body through the bones of the dead, following the invisible thread of her soul. I am a nightmare draped in shadows, leaking life onto the dank floor of the catacombs. I know she will feel this. Our bond is so deep that my horror will become hers. I hate that I must hurt her before I even hold her, but I have no choice. I crawl until the air changes. I crawl until I reach the surface, dragging myself into a rain-slicked alleyway. I collapse against a brick wall, my breath coming in jagged, wet rattles. Where are you? Come to me. Let me bury myself in you… I tilt my head back, searching the wind. Nothing. The scent is gone. The trail is cold. A sob wracks my scarred chest, and then, a roar of pure, unadulterated anguish rips from my throat. It is a sound that makes the very foundations of Paris tremble. Fate gave her to me when I was at my weakest. Now, may God help this city, because I will burn it to the ground to find her again.