Throughout the centuries he had roamed. Over the course of time he was known by a great many names. He had known a great many people over the span of the centuries. He was confined to darkness. The moon and the stars were his constant companions as he roamed though the countless centuries of his existence. The beasts that were also confined to the night, the cat, the bat, and others, were his brothers, on the hunt like he. He was witness to countless human activities which took place in his night; love, hate, passion, birth, and death. Some met their death by his hands, but there were many more that met their deaths by the hands of their human brothers.
He was human once, although he barely remembered it. He ate, slept, loved, hated, and felt as the humans do; once upon a time. A woman introduced him to the dark; lovely women with gypsy like features. She offered him a gift; her gift was darkness and he readily drank of it. Times were different then, he thought himself a man of the world, and to her he was just a mere infant. He was an artist in his prime, his works were well known to the people of Paris, he had painted the likenesses of kings; he painted churches and rolling meadows. His career was at its zenith and he was at the height of Parisian society. When he was approached to travel to a little known part of Eastern Europe to paint the portrait of an aristocrat, he readily accepted the commission.
The journey was a long and difficult one, the days were short, the nights cold, they rode day and night, but the journey still took more than a fortnight to complete. Their destination was a rural palatial home at the base of a great river, almost as if it were guarding it. The chateau rivaled those of the members of the Parisian court; the outer wall was made of gray stone, bits of ivy scaled the towering wall, wild flowers sporadically took root along the base of the wall. Once inside the gait, the dwelling towered above him, the windows stared at him like eyes, the spires loomed heavenward like arms, the great oak doors were flung open bidding him entrance. The coachman carried his bags through the threshold dropping them with a resounding thud, which echoed throughout the great hall. The sun was setting low in the western sky, its light barely permeating the great hall, making shadows dance along the walls.
A maidservant motioned for him to remove his coat and pointed up a towering oak stairway. He tried to ask her a question, but she replied in a foreign tongue, which he couldn’t understand. He followed her up the stairs without another word. The rough, dark wool of her peasant dress made ruffling sounds as it brushed against the granite floor of the hall. Candles dimly lighted the hallway, they passed door after door until she finally stopped, pushing one of the heavy oak doors open, and she pushed him inside.
The room was lavishly decorated with thick, colorful rugs and wall tapestries. The bed was dressed with fine silks and linens, the bed curtains tied back to tall walnut spindles. A fire danced happily in the fireplace, the warmth chased the chill of the rest of the house away. His bags had already been deposited in the room and had been unpacked, his suit coats hung neatly in an armoire. The maid poured some steaming water from a pitcher into a basin and pointed to a pile of fine linen towels; nodding to him she shut the door behind her.
He inspected his new quarters finding them adequate, all of his belongings had been neatly put away in drawers or in the armoire. He gratefully bathed in the steaming water, thankful to wash away the grime of the road. He shaved and applied talc, dressing in his finest suit; he waited for one of the servants to fetch him for supper. He pulled the heavy draperies away from the window; the glass was tinted from years of neglect. He noted the sun had set and darkness surrounded the land. A rap on the door roused him, it was time for dinner. The servant led him through the labyrinth of the house and sat him at a table laden with food. Hungrily he waited for his hostess to arrive.
“Ah, my Cherie, you must be hungry, please eat.” A woman’s voice said from behind him. He heard the rustling of skirts, smelled the fragrant bouquet of a woman’s perfume, it peaked his senses. She approached him taking a seat next to him. Her hair was dark as a raven’s; it hung framing her face and shoulders in long dark waves. Her dark eyes reflected a golden hue from the fire. Her cheekbones were high; her lips were full and ruby red, her dark skin golden brown and flawless. Her dress reflected her nationality, it was low cut, revealing an arousing amount of cleavage, and the bright colored silks of the dress reflected the firelight, catching it in their sheen. He was stunned; she spoke his language as if it were her native tongue. “My dear, I speak many languages. Now please eat.” She replied as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. He greedily obliged, devouring the roast chicken and wine, which had been prepared for him.
“I am surprised that you have heard of my art all of the way in these remote parts.” He said in between mouthfuls of wine. “How did you become familiar with my work?” he asked as he wiped his mouth on a finely embroidered linen napkin. The fire behind him hissed and popped sending sparks wafting up the chimney.
She smiled graciously as she replied. “ I have traveled to many parts of the world, love.” She took the napkin from his fingers and dabbed at a speck of food, which had gotten tangled in his cravat. “I found your artistic flavor especially enticing, I knew I had to have you for myself.” She placed the napkin back into his hand, the intimacy of her gesture made him uncomfortable.
