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Not a fanfiction, or a poem.. but an original story. It's an extract, (a very small one), from the opening chapter of my book.
Any criticism, and the like, is welcome. ^^;;
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Thin fingers gathered the yellowing parchment from the small, mahogany box, that lay settled on a delicate rosewood table... glassy nails tracing along the Renaissance style script, which flowed over reel, upon reel of paper.
It had been a letter of love; at one time… a letter that brought about a rush of excitement, every single time, that Dorian Mith had laid eyes on it. Now, all it seemed to hold was memories, and they were bitter ones, at that.
Written, back when the thought of Nerine De’Laquore, had filled him with a sense of burning pride, that he was engaged. That he was a man, in his own right.
Exhaling sharply, the man rose from his seat, which lay enclosed nearest to the window; looking out over the wide moors, and stormy, grey sky... why he was here, was a mystery to him. It had been over thirty years, since Dorian had been in England, let alone since he had come to a place, bearing such a horrid memory… so, what was the difference, now?
Outside, the sky was drawing in… leaving a soft, drizzling mist in the November air; Britain seemed so very different, from the places he was so very used to spending time in. France had become his adopted home; it had become a place where his every waking moment had been spent. England had become a lost nightmare, it had become a thing, of which Dorian refused to think, anymore… besides, the vampiric beings lingered beneath the ground, in their rich, lustrous catacombs... the chilling stone walls, being the only tangible thing, that gave any sense of home.
The Aristocracy, had become something more than a coven, in the past few years…
It had become a way of life.
Chestnut shaded eyes, drifted about the small room; the four-poster bed thrown into despair… losing any style, that it had once held, and now seeming merely decrepit. The luxurious crimson carpets, were in tatters, too; moth-eaten, and threadbare, a thing which added only to the musty smell, that perverted preternatural nostrils.
A sound caused Dorian to start; dragged from his lingering dreams of past times,
and cast back into the present.
He was being selfish; spending so much time up here… he was being greedy of time, for he wasn’t the only one who had come back to England.
Taking a few firm steps across the room, the dark haired vampire hastily pushed the letters inside the deep pockets, of the obsidian velvet frock coat, a small scowl of reproach tugging his mouth, as he made his way out of the door.
It was time to leave his past behind…
Could he?
Quickly, he stalked along the long landing; his hand grasping the oaken banister to steady himself, as he set foot on the stair… not that he needed to regain his balance, of course… Dorian Mith was one of the ‘blessed’, who no longer had any need of such time-wasting things. Yet, he couldn’t help but adore the feeling of something beneath his hands, the feeling of some steady support, which would stop his mind from reeling, when his senses began to give way.
Hurriedly, he made his way down the hall, and into the dining room; a frown creasing thin brows, at the sight before him.
A blonde man stood in the very centre of the room; standing at rather a girlish height, he barely measured up against Dorian’s ravishing six-foot.
In dainty hands, the golden haired one held a small locket; his gaze given to this object, and this object entirely… apparently lost in a little daze. His weight was leaned against the old table, that ran the length of the room; one foot propped up on a chair, while his free hand carefully balanced himself, in a position that would have been precarious, for any other being.
“For God’s sake, Julien; stop staring at the cursed thing!” Dorian snapped quietly, and snatched the locket from the smaller man’s hands; his expression one of gentle chastisement.
Julien lifted his gaze; fixing him with a sullen pout, before he slipped from the table, and began to drift away, stopping only to glance back over his shoulder, and offer Dorian a cool stare of mockery, from vivid azure optics.
“You’re one to talk… it’s only a necklace, Dorian… it’s not a key to the past,” a vicious smile flickered over creamy-white lips, as the smaller man sauntered towards the door; passing swiftly through the dilapidated, and rotten interiors, soon followed after by Dorian.
“Besides, our time here is limited… and you told me that you only wanted to look around…” turning at the exit, Julien stood framed by the towering, arching doorway, that released any inhabitants of the manor house, into the massive grounds.
“I know that. It’s all finished now, I suppose… I just wanted to see it,” Dorian answered, reproachfully.
In reply, Julien merely stalked straight past him, and out into the cold evening air; slim arms rising above his head, in an elegant arch; thin fingertips connecting in the middle, as he spun about on one heel. This was all very natural, it seemed, because Dorian was barely taking any notice of it; merely making his way through the frosted grass, and standing back at some length, as to admire the house.
A massive mansion, it had once been… the most highly respected, in all of England; a place of beauty, and wild, yet ever polite, congregation.
Now, it was in ruins… ivy had overtaken its walls, and left them as a foreign jungle, while the stain-glass of the windows, was dimmed with cobwebs, and dust.
A sense of pity, rising from the very pit of his stomach, and then into his throat; rolled off Dorian’s tongue, in a mere sigh.
“Stop crying.”
The voice cut through the air, like a dagger; causing Dorian to shoot a slight glare of reproach to Julien, who had set himself against the mossy wall of the house, and crossed both arms over his chest. Long nails, painted with jet, drummed against emerald velvet sleeves, impatiently, as the blonde watched Dorian.
“I wasn’t, I was just thinking…” Shaking his head, Dorian gave a brief wave of a slender hand; stark-white fingers flashing in the wintry air, as he turned away, his feet clicking, and crunching along the gravel carriage path.
A leering grin touched Julien’s mouth, and he followed along after his fledgling; quickly encircling the taller man’s waist with his arm, as he steered him in the direction of their waiting carriage. Four tall horses stood at the front; all ebony, and all clad with reigns of polished silver, and jet leather… the carriage they drew, was just as regal, and imposing… shining in the evening air, the buffed up charcoal wood, was the finest in all of France; so obviously belonging to Julien…
“Come along, my sweet… don’t forget what we have to do, if you want this all to go away,” the blonde’s voice remained melodic; shrill, yet softened with the pleasant tones of France… so romantic, in comparison to Dorian’s sharp, British accent, that fell from his tongue, rather too precisely.
“I’m not watching it. You’ll have to do it yourself.”
Pushing past Julien, the chocolate eyed vampire wrenched open the door of the carriage, and flung himself into the back seat; a slim leg crossing over its brother, as he turned his face to the window; a thin hand pulling the dark drapes across, and shutting out any form of light.
Cursed petulance.
Laughter played in the air, and Dorian could hear only this, and the dancing footsteps, that promenaded back up the path… how could he let Julien do this? How could he ever, ever live, knowing that he had done this to his former home? Did he want to even think about it?
Presently, there was a sound at the front of the carriage, and Julien D`Lorve swung himself up, and into the front seat; soft giggles emitting from ivory lips, as he clucked to the horses, from behind his teeth.
A frown teased Dorian’s brows, and he lowered his face; long fingers shadowing his forehead, and massaging his temples, slowly… why Julien made a mockery of everything, he wouldn’t understand… ever.
“It’s all done, darling Dorian…” laughing under his breath, Julien twitched the reigns of the horses, and they set off at a brisk pace; golden curls fanning back from the small vampire’s face, as he settled himself, languidly, in the driver’s seat.
Dorian remained silent. He couldn’t even try to process what was happening, and Julien’s attitude towards it all, didn’t make things any easier…
Dark eyes fluttered, and glanced to the back of the blonde’s head, which was just visible, between the gap of the carriage, and the seat.
He wouldn’t look….
He wouldn’t.
Fragile fingers tugged against the velvet drapes, as to draw them back, only a little; the miserable gaze of the dark haired man, falling with horror on the sight of the house, in its present state.
Fire raged at its base; furling upwards, and licking at the white washed walls; the dried ivy acting as kindling, as it splintered away in the blaze; losing itself in the furnace, all brought on by merely a single match-stick.
The fine windows burst out; glass smashing, and sending its shards flying through the air, like tiny daggers; launching the ground with its dangerous little spikes.
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Those who find ugly meanings, in beautiful things, are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. -Oscar Wilde-
Last edited by Seral on November 30th, 2006, 6:39 am, edited 1 time in total.
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