The Hunger (or "How Avella Became Avella")

[Avella Netha Isilian]

Friday Sept 23 (sunset)

Word reached me late in the week that the Countess Bretane of Ashencrosse is sequestered in the Lycaeum of Moonglow.
I wonder. What diagnosis will the scholars find for her when their definitions are so limited?
How will the monks bring her spiritual redemption when they themselves fall victim to worldly pleasures?

They fail to understand that she is beyond worldly concerns.
Beyond the reach of any monk or scholar who would pry open their books and search their indexes for explanations as to why … why one would act with such pure irrationality.

As the moon rises over my estate I too rise from my rest and book passage on the first ship leaving Britain.
As I wait to board, I pen a letter to this Father Lawrence requesting an audience with the Countess.
Not that I need his permission, least of all his blessing. But in the name of prudence and polite discretion, I ask.

Dearest Countess.
When next you see the moon arc through the window of your ivory prison, look down to the courtyard and see one who understands
One who has the power to grant you
absolution.

[Avella Netha Isilian]

October 19th (six hours after sunset)


Rage.

Rage of the blood
Failure of the will.
HIS voice rings in these halls once more.
A desert of time has rolled under my feet
While the blood of fallen angels’ pulses through my veins.

Mark me.
Mark me as fallen too.
Mark me as one disloyal.
As one removed from my own volition.

The shadows are not deep enough.
No cave dark enough.
No night cold enough to change
What cannot be changed.

Nine times nine I weep.
Nine times nine I cut my flesh.
Nine times nine I find my soul has fled.

The moon stands as silent witness to the error of my blood.

Cold moon!
Will you show me the way?
Will you draw from me what is left of my emotion?
Draw from me the last vestige of my humanity?

Sour is the blood this night.
No mortal or undead is safe this night.
None best walk the earth this night for I hunt again
Seeking to bury my rage deeper still.

[Avella Netha Isilian]

November 4th (sunrise)


I move through the world with the knowledge that Life is Death and only in Death do we find true Life.

Rise from the Crypt my lover.
Rise from the wound that stabs this heart and, if this heart could beat, tear it from my chest and cast it down among the Dammed to lie forever in misery and loss.
For I am a wanton woman and I have no desire but one;
To rule those who would cast me out and to bring them to their knees.

I will drain their blood, touch their faces with my gentle fingers and call them sister, brother, child.
I will walk naked in my rage and stand before thee as slave.
Slave to your voice,
Your touch,
Your endless days.

Mark me.
Mark me here upon my chest and call me daughter, lover, wife.
Feel these hands upon you.
My breath sours with the blood of citizens.
Thou art tepid in thy love, yet firm in your desire.
Spill me out like a broken vial.
Open me to the possibility of redemption then leave me wanting.

Foul wings of my brothers.
Wicked smiles of my sisters.
Rectus grins of my children.
How you dance upon your strings.
How you wail at my passing yet weep for none.
My tears of blood fall unheeded upon this page only to dry like the crust that forms around my empty heart.

Bend me.
Open me.
Send me back to the grave

… forever.

[Avella Netha Isilian]

November 5th (four hours before dawn)

Voices echo through the Crypt while the marble statues of the Elders and Ancient Ones watch in frigid silence. A flash of firelight along the blade as the dagger is raised. A pause at the top and then the plunge. Like a swimmer into a pool of dark water the blade strikes deep, splitting flesh, muscle and bone. Slicing open the artery. A gasp of shock and burning pain as the eyes widen, not in surprise or condemnation, but in resolved acceptance.

Marcus Draven, Lord of this House stands over my kneeling body. He removes the dagger and flings it across the room where it clatters against the stone. His ice blue eyes watch without compassion as blood explodes from the wound in my neck. Like a stream of dark velvet it flows across my shoulder, matting my hair and seeping into my gown. He holds my hair tight in his fist, keeping my head high and back as he watches me bleed. A moment later he releases me. My dark eyes gleam in a kind of wild communion as I slump to the floor where the blood of angel’s expands in an ever widening pool.

“Destroy me,” I had begged. “For I can no longer bear my betrayal of your love, your kindness, your rule.”

I lay upon the cold stone floor awaiting the final gasp.
He will remove my head and burn the remains and I will be free, redeemed of my sins.
I spoke the truth to him, detailed my betrayal and in his rage he struck.
So fitting in so many ways.

He stands over me now, watching as the blood of my sin stains this holy place. The flames of braziers send shadows dancing across the ceiling. They spring from alcoves to spin and tumble across the floor like jesters only to vanish against the outer walls.

In moments it will all be over.

Mother? Father?
How long has it been?
How long since that dark night in Britain when His eyes first held me in sway?
An eternity of violence.
An ocean of blood.
The unforgiving rage of my passion.

Marcus watches unflinching as I lift my hand toward him like a drowning person toward the living shore. His eyes soften; become once more the dark adjuring wells into which I plunged my soul so long ago. He kneels, this Lord of the Kindred, and lifts my head gently in his arm. A gash he cuts in his own and lets his blood seep onto my lips. His eyes flash. His voice a whispered growl.

“I claim thee once more and take thee back from He who has betrayed me. He who had poisoned your blood and turned you against me. He who attempted to turn others of our House as he turned you. Hear me child; thou art kindred to this House and shall remain so forever. Rise now and take your rightful place among the Nobles, but do not forget the nature of my wrath for I shall wield it freely against all who stand against me.”

His blood redeems me.
His eyes reclaim me.
His voice commands me.

I stand alone in the silence of the Crypt weeping bitter tears of blood.