The Gift: Chapter Fifteen: Honey

The view from the top of Drevas’s home was a spectacular sight.  The Red Mountain could be seen belching its gases and ash despite being miles away and the ashlands themselves teemed with life.  Enormous mushroom trees grew and died while packs of guar and kagouti grazed on sparse tufts of grass.  The twin moons rippled on the surface of a quiet oasis while cliff racers glided over the tops of pointed hills and thorny trunks.

Vicente came to the roof often to marvel at the beauty of the ashlands- a loveliness he had grown to appreciate as a predator as integral to the ecosystem as any other.  
Tonight, however, he was not observing the diverse wildlife nor was he meditating on the intricacies of his life as a vampire.

He was thinking of home.

Of High Rock.

Of Marelle.

He held his pendent tightly in his pale hand, his thumb caressing the edge habitually.  He was so deep in his thoughts he didn’t even notice Drevas sit cross legged next to him, the milky eyes scanning the landscape before falling on his student.

“You, Sera, are about as cheerful as a dead guar.”  Drevas stated bluntly.  “Why so melancholy?”

Vicente didn’t answer immediately.  He knew Drevas would not understand his lingering sorrow.  The Dunmer had cut his ties with humanity long ago and had never looked back.  

Vicente, however, was afraid to let go.  

He had accepted his need to drink blood- he couldn’t very well ignore it since neglecting his thirst for too long had disastrous results.  He even stopped yearning for the sun- though this was only after he conducted a painful experiment that forced him to re-visualize the warm source of life as a source of burning, terrible death.  

But, he still longed for his old life.  He still wanted to return to High Rock, to his little farm outside of Wayrest…  To his wife.

Yet, he knew he couldn’t go back and that weighed his heart down all the more.  Vampirism tended to complicate many things…

“It’s been three years since I was meant to return home.”  Vicente informed Drevas without looking at him.  

“So it has.”  Drevas agreed after a short pause for some quick calculation.  “Time passes quickly for our kind.”  

“Indeed it does.  I was not aware it had been so long…  I realized it only after I looked through that adventurer’s journal.”

“You mean the Imperial we encountered a few nights ago?”  Drevas asked.
“A few weeks ago, Drevas.”  Vicente corrected.  

“What does it matter?”  Drevas said, waving the statement away like smoke.  “Time is not important to us.  What’s the difference between a day and a year when you have centuries to look forward to?”

Vicente did not respond.  He could not expect Drevas to understand why it mattered.  The Dunmer didn’t know that the mourning period for a widowed Breton was only a year and that the widow was then considered free for remarriage.

Three years was more than enough time for Marelle to have found a suitable husband and moved on.  

Vicente felt a gray hand on his shoulder, “Sera,” Drevas said, “What has you so depressed?  It doesn’t suit you.”

Vicente glanced over at Drevas, wondering if telling the Dunmer his woes would accomplish anything.

Well, he thought, I have no one else to tell.

“I’m thinking of Marelle.”  Vicente said plainly, waiting for the scathing reply he normally received when he mentioned any part of his “human” life.

It didn’t come.  “She’s moved on now, hasn’t she?”  Drevas asked quietly.

Vicente was shocked.  It almost sounded like the Dunmer was being empathetic.

“Most likely.”  Vicente replied.  “She is still young enough to remarry.  Her family would not want her to wait if another man can be found to provide for her.”

“Just her?”  Drevas said.  “No children?”

“No.  We were unable to conceive.”  Vicente said quietly.

A pause.

“I was married once, Sera.  Did you know that?”  Drevas said suddenly.

Vicente shook his head.

“I was, and happily so.  We had everything.  The nice house near the city, a garden, a small herd of children…”

Vicente listened.  Drevas had never before spoken about his past.  The two seemed surprisingly similar, almost eerily so.  He did feel slight pang of jealousy over the mention of children.  He could almost imagine a dozen or so Dunmer kids chasing each other around with broad smiles and happy squeals, but pushed the thought aside.  “What happened to them?”

“I don’t know.  I had been fighting a war away from home before I became a vampire.  After my turning I didn’t go back.”

Vicente blinked.  The story was extremely anti-climactic.  
“Do you miss them?”  He asked.

“Once you get as old as I am, you stop worrying about the past.  I can’t even remember their names anymore.”  Drevas shrugged, “It’s a blessing really.  You can’t expect to move forward if you remain chained to the past.”

Vicente was quiet.  It was almost terrifying to think he might one day grow to forget Marelle, yet at the same time he longed for that day to come.  Then, at least, he wouldn’t feel so hopeless.  

Drevas’s hand went back to Vicente’s shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze.  “I know exactly what will take you mind off this, Sera.”

Vicente sighed inwardly.  Drevas’s idea of a good distraction was rarely in sync with his own.

“Come.”  Drevas commanded as he stood.  “It’s time to move to the next step in your training.”




They stood in the training room, Drevas holding his arms out wide to gesture to the myriad of weapons lining the circular walls.

“Pick one.”  Drevas said.  “Any weapon.”

“Why?”  Vicente asked, suddenly suspicious.  It wouldn’t be the first time Drevas used a “sink or swim” type training method.

When the Dunmer taught him basic hand-to-hand combat, he told Vicente to put up his fists then, without warning, unleashed a flurry of attacks.  It was only after Vicente was beaten into the ground- his arms over his head- that Drevas taught him how to defend himself.  The Dunmer claimed it was to assess the level of Vicente’s innate skill…  which was practically non-existent.

“Don’t trust me?”  Drevas said more than asked.  “Do not fear, Sera, this isn’t a test.”  He put his arms to his side.  “Eventually you will learn to wield all of these, but tonight let us start with finding a weapon that feels natural to you.  Give it a few test swings if you must, but pay attention to the balance and the weight.  When you connect with a weapon, you’ll know.”

Vicente was hesitant, but found himself standing in front of an elegantly molded mace after a short walk.  The blunt weapon was made of swirling gold and white metals that enchanted the eye.  

He carefully lifted it from its rack, his hands wrapped around the handle.  It was light, but awkwardly balanced.  The head being several times the weight of the end.  It felt like it would topple from his grip at any moment, despite its weightlessness.  He put it back, trying to ignore Drevas’s calculating observation.  The Dunmer was watching every move, every glance and touch like a hawk.

Vicente moved on, stopping to examine a wooden pole.  Staves were common weapons for Bretons- especially magically charged ones.  He held the supple wood level with his chest, examined it from end to end, then put it back as well.

This was the pattern with several weapons.  Clubs were too barbaric, axes were too top heavy, darts and throwing stars seemed odd in his palms, and crossbows took far too long to prepare.  It wasn’t until he reached the blades that he found weapons he could appreciate.

His first choice was a broad sword made of Nordic steel, but he found it too bulky for his tastes.  The longswords and daggers- though comfortable to hold- were… off.  They were too small, too lightweight for his arm.  He felt as though he were trying to compensate for his strength on every practice swing- like he had to try too hard to hold back.  

Vicente was starting to wonder if Drevas would simply have to appoint a starting weapon.  He was about to go back through the blades again to find one that would, at the very least, be suitable when he noticed a glint of light come off a blade on a floor stand, nearly hidden in the shadow of Drevas’s balcony office.
 
The blade was enormous.  Nearly six foot in length and pitch black, save for intricately scrolling lines of gold along the edges.  The hilt was molded for two hands and just as gilded as the blade attached.  It also pulsed with magic.  Being Breton, Vicente had a natural ability to “see” magicka- a skill enhanced by his vampirism.  The blades surface rippled like water as a powerful destruction spell hummed with a life and soul all its own.  

Entranced, Vicente reached for the hilt, pulling it free from its plain stand with one hand.  It had to weigh sixty pounds at the very least, but the weight pulled on his arm and shoulder with a comforting tug.  Its length was beyond any blade he had ever seen outside of books and tapestries but it was perfectly balanced and straight.  The pulse of the blade’s enchantment warmed his icy fingers and ran up his arm, making the right side of his neck and chest tingle pleasantly.

Vicente stroked the black blade, holding it like a long lost friend.
 
“Interesting choice, Sera.”  Drevas said, jolting Vicente from his admiration of the weapon.  The Dunmer gestured for him to hand it over.  Vicente did so reluctantly.
Drevas had to grasp the blade firmly with both hands before he could hold it upright, “Solid Ebony Claymore.”  Drevas explained.  “Enchanted with a vampiric drain spell that will suck the life from your enemies just as eagerly as you do.”  Drevas examined the blade reminiscently.  “I won this blade from a Dremora while exploring the ruins of an ancient deadric temple nearly sixty years ago.  The battle was long and hard, but ownership of this claymore was worth the fight.”

Drevas offered the blade to Vicente.  “An ownership I now pass to you.  Consider it a gift to commemorate the completion of the first half of training and to guide you into your future.”

Vicente took the blade back with his right hand with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Vicente said, almost speechless, “It is truly a fine weapon.  I will cherish it.”

Drevas laughed, “The best way to appreciate a blade, Sera, is to use it.  Come, let’s do a few practice swings.”




Drevas sat in his room, his journal closed before him and his chin resting on the backs of his fingers.  

He couldn’t have hoped for a more successful night.
 
He had taken the first steps in forging the chains of “friendship” and “understanding” that would tie Vicente to him like a hound to a post.  His little lie about having had a family had worked wonders on his pet.  He could almost see the unconscious level of trust rising.  

And the sword?  If Vicente had had a tail, it would have been wagging- not high like a house dog, but low like a grateful wolf in the presence of its alpha.

The old adage about trapping more flies with honey rather than vinegar was certainly true, but even more so when that honey was applied to the broken fly after years of soaking in a vinegar bath.

But, it had to be done carefully.  He had to create a bond of trust and loyalty while still maintaining control.  He did not want an equal.  He wanted a second in command.
And once he had that, he could work on building his army.

Just a little more time and a few more drops of honey.




Vicente rested his back against the head board of his bed frame- it couldn’t really be called an actual bed since he had removed the mattress and pillows- the ebony claymore resting in his lap.  His practice session had gone uncannily well.  The hilt seemed molded for his hand while the blade sang through the air as he slashed through pretend foes.  Had there been a real target, the flawless edges would have cut through it effortlessly.  

The blade was indeed a generous gift.

And Vicente had noticed that about his mentor lately; a newfound generosity and understanding.

For over three years Drevas had been a ruthless teacher uninterested in anything save progress.  Why now the sudden friendship?  Had something changed in the Dunmer or had something changed within himself?

He was unsure, but he didn’t want to question it.
 
If Drevas had opted to be kinder, why would he object?

But that raised the nagging question of why.

Why the sudden change in demeanor?

Vicente was not one to accept anything at face value.  Alchemy had taught him that looks were terribly deceiving.  Poisons looked like healing herbs and healing herbs could kill a man if not identified properly.

So which was Drevas?

A poison posing as a healing herb or a healing herb mislabeled as a poison?

He rubbed his pendent thoughtfully as the questions and doubts buzzed though his mind.

Finally, after nearly an hour of silent contemplation, he let the questions go.  He was no closer to answering them now than he had been before and he had discovered that sometimes, questions would answer themselves if left alone.  So, he took his beautiful new claymore to its stand, which now rested against the wall of his room, and carefully put it away.  Then he strolled over to his bookshelf- full of novels rescued from his past meals- and pulled his newest novel from the company of its kin.
 
The book was brand new- fresh off the press, as the saying would have it- having been published less than a few months ago.  The cover was royal blue and the silver words emblazoned across its surface read: Immortal Blood.

Vicente settled back onto his bedframe and opened the book to a page with the corner folded over.

“I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware…"