Echoes of My Past.

[Durandal]

Young men with ill intent for anything strange or different circled him, yelling taunts, insults, and cruel jokes at his expense. Dust is kicked up into his face from the countryside. The men, acting like boys, push him back and forth, all the while yelling, and eventually, a hit lands. Fist strikes flesh, drawing blood from his lip to the accompaniment of more laughter. The floodgates open then, and blows rain in, taking him off his feet. He falls to the ground, being hit and kicked as he falls, knowing that this time, there will be no elders to chastise the young men into stopping. Knowing that his father and mother won't chase them off with a pitchfork or axe. Knowing that he has know hope of being saved this time.

His blood runs freely into the dirt at the top of the hill, not more than a twenty minute walk from his village. Old, warn leather, usually a comfort, now was a weapon sheathing feet as the owners stomped and kicked his head, stomach, groin, legs, arms, back; anything that wasn't covered.

Too much blood lost. His energy fades quickly and he can no longer defend himself. The blows persist as the world starts to go numb and dim around him. Thankfully, after a few more seconds, he can no longer see the rage and hate in the faces of his attackers. Nor can he feel the pain of their kicks, tho he knows they still are by the way his body jostles. A few more seconds and he can no longer feel his body jostling and he lets out a breath. His last. A few more seconds, and the boys playing at being men stop kicking him and run off....

[Durandal]

Blackness. Cold, sweet, friendly and all encompassing darkness. It cradles him. Holds him tight. Then, he feels the harsh, hateful sting of heat. Heat on his face, his body. After a small eternity, he sees the painful sting of brightness through his eyelids. A little longer, and he finally hears. There is weeping. Someone is crying..... and calling his name? His head spins, but through it all, he finally recognizes the voice of his mother. He feels a wetness on his shoulder, and streaks of cold on his warming face where her tears had fallen.

He inhales, and pain wracks his body, sending an involuntary shiver through his whole frame. The crying stops with a sharp intake of breath. The screeching of wood on wood fills his ears as his mother runs off, screaming for his father.

Moments pass for a small eternity. Finally, after mere moments, the patter of feet tells of three people frantically getting to him where he lay. He moans in pain as a pair of hands grope him, probing him, checking for vitals, and being less than gentle despite his voiced protest of pain.

He attempts to open his eyes, and is rewarded with a glimpse of a dim room, the main room of his home. There is firelight playing on the walls. The sun is going down, or coming up; he's not sure. His father is watching the doctor intently and watching him in wonder, pride, and concern. His mother clings to his father, fresh tears stain her face; her eyes red and swollen tell the tale of her suffering and worry for him.

The doctor delivers the good news: He will live. The doctor then apologizes for giving the couple a false positive on his death two days ago.

His mother bursts into tears of joy, and even his father tears up in relief that his son will live. The doctor warns that he may never walk again. That the damage is severe, and the chances of him being normal again are next to none. His parents wave off the doctor, give him their thanks, and rush the remaining distance to the bed to gently embrace and are for their son.

[Durandal]

The following months were agony. If the wrath of Hell could be put into one person, it may as well have been put in him for the constant pain he was in. In the first month, it hurt just to breath, much less to try and move. After two weeks, the swelling on his face and eyes had gone down enough that he could open his eyes wide enough to get a good view of everything within his field of vision. His mother hardly left his side the whole time, and, knowing his eating habits, as well as, fortunately, following the doctor's orders, fed him blood every day to help replenish his own loss of blood, as well as to deliver extra nutrition that would otherwise not get into an injured man's system without solid food.

More weeks passed, and he had healed enough that he could move his jaw enough to talk. He could wiggle his fingers and toes if he really wanted to, but it hurt too much to consider attempting any more than he did the first time. He began to move his head from side to side. Massive bruises still plagued his face, and he was sure they were all over his body, hidden by the blankets used to keep him warm.

Time passed slowly. One day he lifted an arm, to the accompaniment of shooting pain, and again decided against making another attempt.

His body mended slowly. Broken bones began to knit, swelling faded, bruises disappeared, and at some point, it no longer hurt to take even a deep breath, much less regular breathing.

One day, he slowly tested himself. Wiggled his fingers and toes, and only got the slight, dull pain of prolonged inactivity in response. Lifted an arm, then a leg, all with the same response.

Deciding that he'd had enough of lying on his back for as many months has he was, accompanied by his mother, he slowly sat up, and took his first steps in what felt like years. His muscles had atrophied a good bit while he recuperated, and it took most of his strength to move across the room, even while leaning quite heavily upon his mother.

[Durandal]

It took years for him to be fully healed from the beating that those young boys playing at being men, who by now, were fully grown men, gave him. They saw him around the village, but thankfully, while he was recovering, even when walking around, he was never alone. Always accompanied by either his mother or father, or sometimes, both. The hate was still in those men's eyes, but now, there was also an element of fear. A look that said, "We killed you. I know we did. Why aren't you dead?".

Once fully recovered, life began as close to normal as his life ever was to begin with. He rebuilt the muscle that his body had lost, and was as fit as ever, tho now he almost exclusively drank blood, mainly from cows or chickens, and he did it in public. The doctor came to his defense, saying that, it happens sometimes, when someone was as severely injured as he was, and the need blood to recuperate, that the injured person can get hooked on the blood, and even need it to live.

The doctor was wonderfully in the dark about the fact that he had been drinking blood since before he was injured, but the doctor's reasoning gave him free reign to do it in public now.

Years passed, decently happily and without incident until at one point, one of the men that had beaten him nearly to death noticed something else odd about him. Since the day, years ago, that the doctor had pronounced him dead, he had not aged like everyone else. He still had his smooth, youthful face, dark, shiny hair, and young body, while everyone else in the village had indeed aged.

The man who pointed it out had lines of age creeping in on his forehead, at the corner of his eyes, little streaks of gray starting to show at his temples, and his hands and body both had callouses, and other signs of age, in stark contrast to how youthful Durandal was, despite the similarity of ages in the two men.

[Durandal]

Once pointed out, it was impossible for everyone in the village to not notice his insistent and perpetual youth and good health. It didn't take long for his village to rally around his old attackers, now accusers, and throw him from the village, on penalty of death for ever coming back.

His parents, who were so overjoyed the night, all those years ago, when they found out their son would live, now could not bear to even look at their son as he was driven from his home.

He walked for miles, hours, days, and crossed more country than he even knew existed. Forced to develop hunting skills in the wild, he starved to death, or would have, but despite being weakened from going for weeks without food or water, his body stubbornly refused to die, instead, holding on, giving him the time he needed to get better at setting traps for animals to wander into.

At first it was small animals, like squirrels and rabbits, but as he drank, he regained his strength. Not eager to repeat the weeks of waiting for traps to hopefully fill, he began to teach himself to hunt, all the while making his way forward, away from his old home. He became quite adept at hunting in the forest with a dagger or a sharpened stick, acting as a spear.

Through his travels, Durandal would come upon other people, other villages, and would stay for a few months, sometimes years, learning the language, dialect, customs, and lore of whatever people he was staying with, and of course, stealing the occasional chicken, or piercing the neck of a cow for some much needed food for himself.

Whenever anyone became suspicious of him, he would pack up and keep moving. And someone always became suspicious of him. He could see a flicker of fear and hate in their eyes, and knew that as soon as he saw it, it was time to leave.

[Durandal]

Upon his travels, he encountered many people, many cultures, and many languages. One winter was particularly harsher than anything he'd been through before, and for a solid month, he couldn't find any wild life to hunt so he could feed himself. Struggling onward, he eventually came to a remote cabin. That night, under a rare, light snow, he let himself in to get out of the cold. So weakened by hunger was he, that as he shut the door, his nostrils flared at the smell of people. Someone was there.

He couldn't fight his hunger any longer, and there were no animals around right now to feed on anyway. Desperate, and without waiting to see who could be in the bed, he grabbed a thick blanket that was on a chair, crept into the dark bedroom, and promptly smothered whoever was laying there.

A quick slash of his knife to the victim's neck got a nice flow of blood, and so starving was he that Durandal, not wanting to wait and find a cup or bowl, latched on to the open wound with his teeth and drank.

As he drank, he felt the hunger subside to be replaced with the feeling of being dirty, being a creeping murderer. After a moment, that feeling faded too. His eyes dilated, his nostrils flared, and he felt....strong. Stronger than he had ever felt after feeding from a woodland animal. He could see just a little bit better than normal, felt like he could wrestle a bear to the ground with his own hands and felt light enough that he might could fly.

He glanced down at the body before him. The face was one he'd never seen before, and as drunk as he was on this new feeling, Durandal didn't care to commit the face to memory.

The blood of his victim had stopped flowing and what was left was staining the bed and puddled around the floor, threatening to stain Druandal's pants where he knelt if he didn't move. In a quick, fluid movement, he stood. Lightly, he jumped in place, savoring how ALIVE he felt. He turned to leave, not sure where he'd go now, and glanced back at the corpse.

Laying there like that, the body reminded him exactly of how the animals he'd killed had looked after he drained them of blood.

He stopped by the main room long enough to find a couple of flasks, dumped out the water in them, tucked them away, and took off.

[Durandal]

Many years had gone by. Durandal had walked to almost every country in the European world, feeding on anyone he could find. After his first kill, he had tried going back to animals, but nothing could match the rush of feeding on a human.

Rumors had been circulating in the areas around Durandal, and villages had become increasingly wary of strange travelers.

Finally, in the early 1800's, Durandal was finally caught in the act of feeding on a whore in a dark, back ally. He ran, but the damage was done. He'd been caught feeding, and a cry went up very quickly. The enraged villagers chased him and tracked him. Eventually, he came upon a graveyard, a ways outside of the village. He hadn't finished feeding from the woman, and had basically managed a light snack of her, and all the running had worn him out.

He stopped to hide and rest in the graveyard, thinking he'd be safe. Before he was sure of what was happeneing, people were all around him. He ran into an open tomb, thinking to at least face them one on one, and pulled his knife. Frantic, he forgot his hunting skills and frantically slashed at the first person who came through the tomb door.

Without waiting for anyone, the figre in the door stabbed out with a sharpened stick, similar to what Durandal had used to hunt animals, and stabbed Durandal stright in the heart.

Pain blossomed in his chest. Durandal stumbled backwards and tripped over the lip of an open, and empty, casket placed in the middle of the room, and fell into it. Gasping for breath in the bottom of the casket, Durandal bled and after a few seconds, stopped breathing.

Content that their job was done, the villagers deicded to leave the mystery murderer where he was. They put the lid on the casket, and shut the tomb doors.

[Durandal]

Three years later: Darkness. Cold, sweet, all encompassing, and oddly familiar seemed to caress Durandal's face. He gasped for air as his eyes shot open wide to let him see....nothing. Darkness. He broke out into a cold sweat, and moved to lift his hand in front of his face to test if he was just blind. His hand hit the top of the casket before it could make it to his face, and the night he was stabbed in the heard played back in his head.

Understanding where he was, and what must have happened, he began pushing on the lid. It was nailed down poorly, probably out of disrespect for him, but even so, it still took Durandal almost half an hour to pop the lid off enough to get himself out.

Sunlight filtered through a crack in the tomb door. Carefully, he walked over to it and placed his eye up to the crack to take a look outside. He didn't see anybody and relaxed. Suddenly, he jerked back from the door as burning pain spread out in a straight line down his face, over his right eye. Wondering if there was something on the door, he placed his hand where his face was, and after a moment, his hand started hurting.

Quickly, he pulled his hand back to see a red streak on his palm where the sunlight had struck. Quietly, he shrank back away from the shaft of sunlight and waited for night to come.

Not sure what the cause was, but not wanting to burn himself more, Durandal crept out of the tomb at night. He still had all his old cloths, even if they were a bit rumpled and dusty.

He was hungry, and he knew of a village nearby with an active night life. It would be fitting for payback for killing him. And this time, he'd be more careful.

Durandal shook the dust and cobwebs out of his hair, dusted himself off, did his best to ignore the growling of his stomach, and waltzed into town like a road wary traveler looking for a good time. And it would indeed be a good time.... to feast.

[Durandal]

Durandal sat in a dusty room, late at night. The remnants of his last meal still cooling as he got nostalgic about his past. Times were so much simpler then, when horse and buggy and farmer working the field was about as complicated as it got. Not like now. With metal monstrocity's calle cars roaming the streets, buildings stretching up into the sky, and the cloths.... he idly fingered the stiff material of his shoes. He missed the old cured leather that shoes were made of. The shirt and pants tho, they felt many times better than the old woolen cloths he rememberd.

Durandal smirked at the woman on the bed, as she gazed at the ceiling with glassed over eyes. THEY on the other hand, never changed. A pretty face, a flip of well maintained hair, a flashy smile full of white teeth in a youthful face, and within seconds, any woman was eating out of the palm of his hand, waiting to take him back to their place, or to go to his, or go to an random dark corner.

Durandal idly pulled the gloves off his hands and made sure the knife the woman had in her purse was secure in her death grip. It was so much better when they brought the weapon for him. So much less of a hastle when someone came looking.

Tucking his gloves into his pants, he stood and walked over to the door and flipped the light switch off. Turning, he bowed to his meal before backing out the door. "Thank you my sweet, for the lovely time. I hope you ejoyed yourself as much as I did."

The ladies loved his accent.