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Tuesday, August 12th, 2003
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7:42 am - 1.4
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(Disclaimer: This journal is an ongoing work of fiction, nothing more than a creative outlet for an ardent and imaginative mind. Constructive criticisms welcomed.)
I awoke with no perception of the passage of time, yet it was dark beyond my window, evidence that the world had not stopped when I had.
I was alone.
This fact came as no great revelation - he would not have been the first to spend but a night in my bed, nor the last - that I was not in my own bedchamber did. Visage of the man, elegant, refined, unlike anything I had ever seen before. Sightless, the room bespoke the name, Conall MacAonghais.
Dream-like, I arose from the bed, examinate as the ardent nature of my hunger grew. Lingering beneath the intrigue of my surroundings were so many questions, to which, only he held the answers. How boundless my naïveté was.
"Do you relish it?" His voice, warm and inviting, brushed over my flesh but a breath away, startled me so, that I nearly dropped the trinket contained within my hands.
It was quite beautiful, I assured him, my voice trembling with desire, every cell in my body screaming for him. I felt his cheek tug into a smile as he drew it along my jaw, a smile I would later grow to detest, the one that he wore when I had answered the wrong question.
"Quite beautiful." His lips caressed my neck, teasing the flesh along the line of my hair with the whisper of his voice. Lithe fingers wrapped around my shoulders, drawing me back against his lean form, erasing instantly any thought other than him.
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| Sunday, August 10th, 2003
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6:09 am - 1.3
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(Disclaimer: This journal is an ongoing work of fiction, nothing more than a creative outlet for an ardent and imaginative mind. Constructive criticisms welcomed.)
No birth comes without pain, and mine was no exception.
I can still see the twilight of what I was, lying still as death in the quiet strength of his lean sinewy arms. Crimson locks lay around me, a mockery of my own blood while recherché fingers washed over alabaster skin, mimicking the sense of peace washing over me.
I knew almost instantly, I did not belong there.
Too long, yet but a moment, before vitae was offered unto my pale lips as an apple had been a lifetime ago, feeding my hunger, rescuing me from that holy state.
White hot pain ripped through my flesh, coursed through my veins, a rapacious fire that could never be satiated.
Oh, but how I tried.
As hungry as I had been for his lips, I was now for him. I wanted to consume every ounce of him, draw forever inside me everything that he was. I devoured ravenously all that was offered and more, taking without fear of remorse or redemption, until at last our energies were spent.
In that quiet time before the dawn, I rested in his arms, breathing his breath, my heart beating as his, one inside the other.
It was a complacent time, an all too brief pause in the steady footsteps of my journey. A sojourn I would spend an eternity trying to recapture.
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| Friday, August 8th, 2003
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11:07 am - 1.2
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(Disclaimer: This journal is an ongoing work of fiction, nothing more than a creative outlet for an ardent and imaginative mind. Constructive criticisms welcomed.)
His voice was like music to one who had been deaf, a rare, precious gift that left you hanging on the edge of your seat, praying for more.
And more he gave me; literature, philosophy, poetry, there was no challenge he could not rise to meet. Oh, and how I longed to know what he knew, experience what he had, possess the power that flowed from him as gently as his breath.
"Twilight succumbs to dawn."
In my naked innocence, I thought this commentary on the late hour. Celebrants had dispersed, retired long past for the evening to their beds. I invited him to my own.
Elegant fingertips brushed over my cheek, sparks lighting in their wake. His voice flittered along my thoughts like the wings of butterflies, creating a hurricane of emotions, feelings, desires. My lips found his, hungry to taste him, feel him, experience him.
In the moments that followed, I was stripped bare, left teetering on the razor's edge between life and death. I don't know how long it lasted, only that in those moments, my perceptions exploded and I was reborn.
It seems to me now, the fangs that should have been my death, became my salvation.
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| Thursday, August 7th, 2003
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10:33 am - 1.1
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(Disclaimer: This journal is an ongoing work of fiction, nothing more than a creative outlet for an ardent and imaginative mind. Constructive criticisms welcomed.)
When we can no longer move forward, we are forced to look back.
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The year was 1296. It was autumn, the air was rich and crisp, demanding no more than it promised.
My twin sister, Lyanna, and I had left our beautiful homeland of Ireland in the weeks before and headed north, across the channel to Glasgow to join her future husband there.
Uilleam was a young, handsome enough fellow, strong and stout as an ox, hair as bright as a midday sun in summer, eyes as blue and stormy as the oceans in spring time - more to my sister's tastes than my own. He wore a constant, infectious smile, despite the troubles, clan and country, surrounding him.
We were all so young then. My sister and I, barely 18, Uilleam perhaps a year older, all of us ready to take on the world, and all of us equally unable to do so.
Perhaps what was to follow was inevitable.
It was the eve of their union, by no coincidence, Oíche Shamhna, when first my eyes fell upon Conall MacAonghais. He was tall and svelte, predatory power loosely veiled beneath elegant grace. His hair was thick and lush, long and black as the night, and there, burned in the recesses of my memories, linger his eyes. They were dark and ominous, indecorous as they were exquisite. I was drawn to him as surely as I was drawn to my next breath and with as little conscious awareness.
I can not say, for sure, what drew him to me. At the time, I believed it was simply that I was available and my sister was not.
She and I were mirror images, polar opposites. Many a man had vied for her attentions, passing through me on their way to her. And why wouldn't they? She was quiet, demure, as polite as she was eloquent. Everything a man of the time dreamed of possessing. I felt no shame in my body, my strength, my voice, my abilities. I was as ambitious as I was audacious. I was everything she wished she could be, everything she'd been afraid to become, no man, or woman's, to possess.
Knowing what I know now, I believe it was precisely for that reason he chose me.
As I approached him, he sliced the apple within those willowy fingers, lifted the piece to my own lips as I opened them to speak. Some ancient, racial memory sparked within me, whispered in the most fleeting of thoughts, the dangers lurking beyond. The forbidden fruit, offered, sealed within my lips, along with my fate.
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