Seraph (Also for now, at least)

NECESSARY INFORMATION WHICH MUST BE COVERED IN ORDER TO SPEED ALONG THE PLOT AND GET THE NASTY DESCRIPTIVE BITS OUT OF THE WAY1

(Aristotle would approve)2

If I were to describe for you with some depth the conditions in which the girl—our girl, you will note—resided, it could easily be seen that they were, first and foremost, involuntary. Her caged existence (if you will indulge me in such a metaphor. There is no physical set of iron bars fixing her to one place) could not be adequately termed slavery, for this would imply that she labored to produce what was ultimately demanded of her. What was demanded was much more natural and infinitely more heinous than simple slavery. It is one thing to be a tool; it is an entirely different matter to be a meal. This shocking (hopefully mortifying—I trust you have not lost all feeling for your fellow being) assertion dose not imply that she was missing digits or (heaven help us) limbs. It more implies that the poor creature’s life was being slowly drained by some of mythology’s darkest and most unforgiving creations—for what can feed on the life blood of humanity but the already damned?3

Our girl is a special case (it is difficult to write a story based upon someone absolutely ordinary to whom nothing exceptional happens), especially when considering the assumption that such contemptible leeches are Demons in their own right. Humanity is yet another term which fails to accurately assess our dear child’s condition. In most forms she was the picture of radiance. Her face was one where the blush of youth meets the beauty of womanhood, where the serenity of the spirit manifests itself in absolute innocence. This, although exceptional in its own way—fleeting, priceless—was not what made our girl special, unique to the world around her. In order to place the term humanity in severe jeopardy, something spectacular must overshadow the base form. For our dear, where mankind places the scapula, she placed a pair of picturesque wings—the sort which reach almost to the floor, which could cover an entire figure in snowy white modesty and impose on the strongest man a sense of unimportance.4

Now, we reach forward with a cruel, uneducated guess at what our girl’s true form happens to be. (Such jumps from assertion to conclusion are part of our nature. They are forgivable when ignorance is the offending party) Most of you, indeed probably all of you, have said quietly to yourselves ‘She must be an angel’ for what else could a giant bird-woman be. To call her an angel is to make the same mistake as to call her a human. It is faulty, though not because her form resembles an angel (which it most certainly does not), but because the term is supported by a sea of Renaissance art (Winged babies and portly women wrapped in mysterious, floating fabric). The accurate, appropriate term—indeed the one used by her unfortunate captors—is Seraphim.5

Now that we have defined our girl—whom we may now refer to as Seraphim, as that (along with a few slight derivatives) is what she is called—we shall define her captors at greater length. (If you have not guessed what these creatures are by now, I am willing to bet that you scored poorly in tests involving the application of imagery) These beasts, demons (now you see the irony most clearly) if you will, are of course most notably evaluated, and with some accuracy, in Bram Stocker’s rather famous gothic novel. He created a being possessed by evil, driven by power, and capable of schemes, plots, and the greatest of manipulations. His image of our villainous counterparts stands most accurate to the beasts which you will come to know ever so well. Our diabolic captors—vampires (which, hopefully comes as no great shock to you now that we have played the ‘literary allusion’ card) of the highest order—kept Seraphim for the most obvious of reasons. First, she was a food source who could escape to nowhere terrestrial without becoming a sideshow in a traveling circus. Second, and more importantly, she shared something with the leeches which was both convenient and unfortunate (convenient for them, unfortunate for her)—immortality can be such a curse when you are forced to spend it as an entrée. The vampires had broken Seraphim soon after they captured her (a word to the wise, heavenly beings should not visit the dreams of those who suffer in Eastern Europe. It can end rather badly), a task which was not difficult, seeing as heavenly beings are not well suited for earthly existence—it weighs upon their consciousness. It did not hurt that they trimmed her flight feathers, grounding her, keeping her from rejoining the celestial chorus, and removed her sense of self-worth almost surgically through verbal abuse, physical torture, and the obvious—eating her slowly.6

Now, the contemptibles were not creatures without minds—here our dear Bram was ever so correct. Vampires are hunters of the highest order, and in order to keep such a prize as Seraphim, certain measures were put in place. No leech was allowed to pierce her flesh with teeth—claws, knives, any sharp object within arms reach were all permissible—in order to ensure that she maintained her heavenly state and did not succumb to the beastly symptoms (assimilation into a culture of death, if you will) which are often associated with such bites. There was a prescribed amount which each individual was allowed to draw from her silver veins, and a pecking order which determined when and how long one was allowed to drink. There were other, less important measures set up around her, to protect her (the same way a cat protects a shrew), and ensure that their eternal prize lasted until their insatiable lust for the wine of man was at last satisfied. This all, of course, surrounds our girl. The information you must glean from this discourse is as follows: the vampires are a group of intelligent, capable hunters with a system of government and law best suited to its community, and a sort of caste system, all of which create an elaborate society—one not associated with such animal lusts.7

And it is here that we enter into our dear’s world. It is here that we, for a moment, shed the mortal coil—our concept of time and the like, and give up our humanity, if only for a moment. (It is imperative that you understand those creatures with whom you will share the depths of your imagination before we begin our decent into their world) And so we begin our journey to the section of the world known as Eastern Europe—to the castle, and the site of our girl’s existence. (Can it be termed a life if the torture never ends?)8

I.9

Vampires, for all their faults (which are, as most will agree, many), are creatures of taste. This is, of course to be expected—anyone who survives more than a century begins to have an appreciation for the finer things in whatever semblance of a life they choose to lead. It is for this reason which most Leech stories are set in castle laden Eastern Europe—though a few such tales bleed one direction or another, but always towards the architecture of nobility. Castles are strong, stable, classical buildings rarely invaded by the outside world—normal humanity has this strange, completely unexplainable fear of giant structures filled with large rodents, spiders, and who knows what else. Large carnivores rarely make the list of expected fears, which is rather ironic, since most of the abandoned stone structures are inhabited by such creatures. Our Leeches (and yes, for all intensive purposes, they are ours. We must be content in our lot—I do not ask you to love all of your emotional possessions, merely to acknowledge your ownership) fall into this mold. They nestled themselves somewhere on the great peninsula of former Yugoslavia. (I would be more specific, but as the geography in that region is constantly in question, there’s not really a point. All you need to know is it’s not Greece, but near Greece.)10

Seraphim could not have wished for a better cage. Virtually empty fields dotted with the occasional hamlet or flock of sheep swept form horizon to horizon. Gentle, rolling hills, green in one season, white in the next, played across her vision as she stood on her balcony. You will recall that I told you her cage was more so a mental box than any shackles around her feet. It stands to reason that any winged creature who can stand on a balcony and feel the kiss of the wind in her hair but stay firmly planted on the ground is truly broken. It would not require much extrapolation to imagine a rather burly Leech throwing a bound Seraphim from the balcony to the ground. Is there anything more tragic than a bird with a fear of heights? (I tell you outright—no. No, there is not.)11

The door to her chamber creaked, then clicked. As the sound resonated through the stone walls, she dropped her arm from the railing, letting it hang completely limp at her side.12

“No, Seraph,” the voice—a deep, colorless voice—spoke over her shoulder, “I am not hungry.” A hand, much larger and a different shade of pail than her skin, took hers and set it back on its resting place.13

“Than why have you come?” Seraphim lowered her eyes to the floor. The submission which seized her whole frame did not suit her noble build, “Am I required somewhere else?”14

“In a few moments,” he stepped forward, next to her, but not in an act of friendship, love, or even sheer camaraderie. His every movement—the direction of his eyes, the positioning of his torso—seemed to hint at the relationship which I have already attempted to make evident. She was a meal, she was less than a slave. (If you have ever heard of a farmer naming a lamb Dinner so as not to become attached, that farmer had more sympathy and tenderness towards the lamb than any Leech towards our Seraphim)15

“Then why have you come?” Seraphim repeated again. A certain acidity entered her tone, though not her face. For all her submission, all her brokenness, a territorial instinct manifested itself alongside her timidity. “Samuel, why do you interrupt my brief rest?”16

“I enjoy your company.” This simple statement was not intended as a gesture of friendship. It was merely a tactless observation. The Leech (who we will henceforth refer to as Samuel, since his name will bear some weight in our story and also because we cannot call an entire horde by the same name) turned towards her, “Tell me of the sheep.”17

“There six flocks that graze beneath my window, but I have only seen two today. The patched ewe has a new lamb since she last crossed the grounds.” She pointed softly from dot to another with the utmost tenderness.18

“You do not name them?” Samuel said. His assessment of her character seemed jarred ever so slightly. Such a tender creature should have undoubtedly christened her only companions.19

“One does not name transient things over which one has no influence.”20

“Do you name the hills and the buildings than.”21

“You, your kind, should understand why I am reluctant to form attachments with those whom I never desire to know more intimately than I do now. Thatch-roofed house is enough.” She had overstepped some invisible line with her final comment. Before she had a chance to brace herself, his somehow jaundiced hand was against her snowy wrist, clamping down with some ferocity. A whimper kissed her lips, but only the air from the suppressed sound managed to escape, almost inaudibly.22

“Enough,” Samuel’s face showed no sign of anger. His eyes cut through her slender frame, but his jaw, his brow all remained unchanged. “You are required at the banquet tonight.”23

“Who, if I may ask, will I be serving tonight?”24

“Mother and Father,” Samuel looked her over once coldly, “Magdelina has made you a new dress for the occasion.”25

“This is an occasion?” Seraphim turned and looked up at him, her eyes stopping just south of his jaw.26

“A new daughter.”27

“Are you turning the mortals again?” She suddenly felt a wave of concern sweep up her spine and catch in her ribs.28

“Just the one. It’s all rather political, but none of the details are of any concern to you,” Samuel’s brief speech had a rather manic characteristic. Whether or not his truthfulness was intentional, he was honest with Seraphim.29

“I shall try to hold my tongue on the topic from this moment on. I am simply not fond of the youth’s first meals. They have no moderation.” Samuel reached to slap her, but stopped when he saw that the remark was not meant to offend, it was simply an observation marked by some pain and fear. He could not deny the youth were a touch overeager. Still, he could not take back his initial reaction and followed the aggressive gesture with a deep, throaty snarl.30

“Go to Magdelina, Seraph,” he growled.31

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. Head buried, wings folded she moved from the room to the dank, lightless corridor.32