From: br1035@ix.netcom.com
Date: Wed, 8 Apr 1998 13:21:00 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: Adult: Alive, Undead


Disclaimer: The characters of Forever Knight were created by Parriott, et
al., and are owned by Sony/Tristar.

This story is being posted under the Adult: header for violent content.

For those of you who wanted to know about the state of Clare's health...this
story is concurrent with the sequels to 'Thankless Child' (This story is
available at the fkfanfic site or from me in two enormous text files),
'Survivors' and 'Bones Of Contention.' Yes, I am working on 'Survivors.' My
enormous thanks to everyone who has asked.

**************************************************************************
Alive, Undead
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     It is the fear that curses us. We are afraid of death, and that is what
makes us what we are: creatures skittering from shadow to shadow, never
giving in to that final unknown.

     For most of my mortal life, I was different. I lived in a world where
there was no greater feat than to die as a warrior, sword in hand, a rusty
haze of blood blurring your vision. That is how my life ended. I still
remember striking at my enemy, cursing him even as the knife sliced
mercilessly into my belly. My shouts melted away into a choked gasp as I
felt the cold thing tearing through my flesh. It was a strange sensation. I
had endured cuts from a blade before, but nothing that could compare to this
shocking invasion. It seemed that every nerve rebelled in outrage, the
synapses screaming with an intensity that took my breath away. When my enemy
withdrew the knife with a clumsy twist, however, I was dismayed to feel the
metal slip away. For a split-second, I was struck by a forlorn emptiness. It
was over, complete.

     Imagine an unbearable pain doubling. Can you do that? It struck me
until I felt almost blind. I had known pain before, the contortions that a
body could endure and survive - after all, I had given birth to three
children - but I was ill-prepared to experience this rending. There was no
thought, only the agony pulsing through my abdomen in an endless chain.

     I was thankful when the second blow came. It was a distraction, of
sorts, hardly better, but it was a change that snapped me free of my
paralysis. I remembered to breathe again and instantly regretted it. The
second stab wound had been between two of my ribs. The knife had punctured
one of my lungs. As I sucked in that last mortal breath, I felt the organ
spasm like a burst balloon. Blood filled my empty spaces, another strange
sensation, one that I never expected in that moment to experience again. My
chest flooded in pumps, as though another heart had blossomed there, only
this one pumped my life away.

     I heard Morrigan's screams then. I think that was the first moment my
confidence faltered, and the fear began to seep in. I had borne the knife
wounds to protect my child from harm, and the thought that the sacrifice was
for naught made me panic. I had already seen my sons wasted into cold,
silent dolls, propped among a forest of corpses. I had seen my uncles and
friends used as firewood for lack of the real thing. I could not bear the
thought of Morrigan suffering as well, sharing the torture that wracked my
body in that moment.

     That was when I saw Conchobhar. He surrounded me, sheltered me; he
seemed to be everywhere. I fell into his arms and sighed the softest words
imaginable, words of welcome. He seemed to glow with an unnatural light, and
I was dazzled. I know now that it was simply the glow of his eyes at the
scent of my blood, but at the time, all I could think of was that he was
with me again at last. I had two people dear to my heart, Morrigan and
Conchobhar, and I refused to let go of either.

     I suppose I could blame him. I could argue that he lured me into the
fear, or that I would have been better blessed had he allowed me to die. By
all means, our daughter might have escaped her wretched fate had he not
brought me across, and that would have made my death worthwhile.

     I have no one to blame but myself, though. I chose to linger on. I was
selfish; I am selfish, and any pain I have withstood for that flaw has been
earned threefold. Somewhere in my heart, I must have believed Conchobhar
dead before, though I had denied this thought steadfastly over the time my
husband had been missing. I would not speak of the matter, though my family
tried to force my hand. I refused to give up hope, because I loved him. The
world had no right to deprive me. See? I was selfish.

     To see him, to feel his kiss and feel the hard muscles of his arms
alive and real beneath my fingers was an answered prayer. At the same time,
it was the curse, for I was dying. The thought of losing him again
overwhelmed me. At once, I felt the grief I had stored in his absence, every
tear that I had smothered into stubborn silence, and it changed me.

     I became afraid to die.

     It has often fascinated me to hear how others were brought across, to
catch hurried glimpses from their vampire blood of each last moment of
mortality. Sometimes I wonder which ones are luckiest: those who are taken
or those who are rescued. The larger number of my vampire offspring have
been seductions: they were in my thrall and dizzy with emotion before the
first drop of blood was shed. Only three, if that many, could be considered
rescues. Maeven and Seiji, undoubtedly their transformations were similar to
mine. Their injuries were violent, brutal, and I caught both souls in the
nick of time.

     Natalie was different. That makes sense, seeing as how she is the
youngest of all my fledglings. I had to be intrigued by the situation,
somehow. Otherwise, I was simply too jaded to bother with her circumstance.
Nicholas had drained her, then decided to let her go rather than bring her
across. I hadn't known this at the time, of course. I only saw a woman left
to death - a pleasurable, exotic death - but a death, nonetheless.

     Nicholas had annoyed me for some time, even before beginning a
questionable friendship with my offspring, Figaro, some two centuries
previously. I had known of him only through brief intimacies with LaCroix
until we met in Vienna, but that was enough to realize he was destined to
try my patience. I suppose I have never been as accommodating toward
Nicholas as I was capable, but I saw no reward in offering him polite words.
I wondered what Natalie would think of Nicholas leaving her to die, and, I
must admit, that was the main cause that spurred my actions. I wanted anger
and resentment. I wanted to see Nicholas in hot water and derive a shred of
amusement in the process, so I brought the dying stranger across.

     I didn't realize that I would like Natalie. That affection changed the
equation. I am the first to admit that I can be cruel and draconian in
temperament when the situation so moves me, but I am not without more tender
emotions. I've said already that I am a selfish person. I chose to live
because I could not give up my husband or daughter. Yes, that was a piece of
self-interest, but it was also an act of love.

     Isn't that what love is? It is a belief that a particular relationship
matters more than others. Love is a notion of singularity in a sea of
clones. I am not immune. I have people whom I consider dear, more worthy of
protection and attention above all else, so it is not a far-fetched notion
that I would alter my plans for Natalie. I swallowed a portion  of my
disdain for Nicholas, because I cared for her happiness.

     It struck me later, when I first tasted her blood, that Natalie's death
was not unlike mine. Oh, she had little pain in the passion of the moment,
that wasn't the same at all, but she wasn't afraid to die. Not in that fatal
moment. She had a faith that something worthwhile would come from her death,
and so she faced it willingly. It was only when my blood began to creep
through her veins that she doubted. There was confusion, there was wonder,
and there was the sudden doubt, the fear that her life might end without
Nicholas by her side. That is where I see the similarity between us. Natalie
became selfish, like me. She reacted out of love, and she became a vampire.

     I wonder how long she will survive, living by that fear. It makes the
killing easier, I must say, that and the innate pleasure of the act. I have
existed a score of centuries off of striking out at anyone who propelled
that fear within me. I have committed murder out of lust, and I have enjoyed
it. Perhaps that makes me a monster. Perhaps it only perpetuates the
survival of the fittest, for I have survived and lived well.

     In fact, I had survived long enough for that fear to become a numb
tumor within me. I had begun to question the worth of my existence. I had
become jaded, and longed for that hunger, the desperation to consume
everything that life had to offer, anew. For a time, I truly felt immortal,
untouchable, and that planted a new worry within me: fear of survival. It is
one thing to burn brightly, to indulge and savor the years for their fresh
experiences. It is quite another to become an ember: quiet, demanding
little, giving insufficient light, and slowly fading away. I have smoldered
for some time, the weight of my years and my experience making me tired,
blanketing me and threatening to extinguish my spirit. I needed something or
someone to jar me, to fuel me and feed me air so that I would spring awake
again.

     I needed Lucius.

     I have always been drawn to him, even when my husband was alive. There
was an attraction, a passion, there, but I never acted on it until long
after Conchobhar's destruction. This may seem an odd circumstance, for both
my husband and I certainly enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh elsewhere
during our centuries together. Sensuality goes with the nature of the
vampire like hand in glove. I had seduced thousands of mortals, why not
Lucius? Why did the prospect of that union strike me as infidelity, where
none other had? Because the others didn't matter. They were disposable, and
I knew it. Lucius, on the other hand, intrigued me. I had a fascinating
compulsion to dive into his soul, to understand his thoughts, and wrap
myself in him intimately. I realized that, if I gave into the temptation,
part of me would be lost. Until then, my heart had been devoted to
Conchobhar, and I found that I simply couldn't make the choice to tarnish
that devotion.
Therefore, I resisted temptation. Most of the time, I distanced myself from
Lucius quite effectively. I had known him for almost seven centuries, and my
husband had been turned to dust long before we made love. Mortals just don't
know the meaning of real foreplay.

     The idea to come to Toronto did not spring from a desire to see Lucius
again initially. I had felt something from Vachon, something distant and
troubling from halfway around the world. I hadn't known that Javier had been
buried alive at that point. I heard that Divia had destroyed him, and
somehow I couldn't believe it. I saved him out of respect for a familial
bond that I had never cared to acknowledge before, and I ensconced myself in
town.

     I would hear Lucius' name, knowing that I would eventually seek him out
again, but I played ostrich for a while. I tested the waters, I occupied
myself with everyone else before finally giving into the urge to see him. I
was still resisting, you see, a little maudlin about my existence and my age
to accede to loving him yet. Eventually, I stopped fighting the emotion, and
that is what refreshed the fear of death in my soul.

     I remained a cocky immortal for a while. I felt impregnable and divine,
until Ivy staked me. It was an accident, I realize that. She was acting out
of the fear, striking a blow against her sire, Thomas, not me. The action
was not unlike something that I had done in the past, erasing any threat
that stood in my way, protecting myself at the price of another's life. For
a moment, I imagined forgiving her, but then she turned away from me at
Janette's behest. One attack I could excuse, two, and I was enraged.

     I had been staked before, but never in the heart. I didn't realize that
I could feel such weakness. The shock debilitated me more than anything
else, the shock and the terror: what if I could die? What if I was
destroyed, and Lucius was lost? What if Natalie and Vachon, Feliks and
Domino were taken from me? Again, I could not bear it, and the fear swelled.
I did not want to die.

     I suppose in a sense, I should also be thankful toward Janette, because
she struck the blow that reaffirmed that selfishness in me. The wound to my
heart awakened it. What was mine I intended to keep, so my mind raged, even
as my body drifted into paralysis. I was unable to move, a fire beginning to
rage in the room about me, and a shard of wood gouged at my core. I believe
I was at the end of my existence, and my thoughts wept.

      When Janette removed the stake that pierced both myself and Thomas so
she could stake me again, she actually saved my unlife. Was it ironic? I
think so. Thomas feared his death, also, so the licking of the flames
against heels roused him to his feet and gave him the strength to escape. He
lifted me over his shoulder and carried me along. Why?

     Why, to torture me, of course.

     I had interfered with his plans and allowed Ivy to escape him. He
couldn't let that go unpunished. He wanted to see me suffer. Thomas left the
stake in place for some time, watching as my flesh slowly deteriorated. He
grew bored with waiting, so he inflicted smaller wounds. He would cut off
fingers and toes, or take a scalpel to my skin, prying the cuts open and
clamping them so that they wouldn't heal. Eventually, I reached a point
where I felt nothing. I was empty. I dreamed of lost faces, wondering where
they were and what they were doing while my body gradually faded. Thomas saw
this, and he was not satisfied that I had endured enough. That was when he
removed the stake for the first time. I remember how he carried me, dumping
my body somewhere in the woods. I lay there in a heap as the sounds of
digging bathed my ears. Dread filled me, for as much as I sympathized with
Vachon's plight before I rescued him, I really had no concept of what it
meant to be buried alive and helpless. That thought tormented me as Thomas
pushed my body into the grave. The horror made me react.

     I managed to lift my head and flail one arm limply through sheer force
of will. Thomas noticed the movement, and it annoyed him. He wanted me
immobile, comatose, so he cracked my skull with a tree branch, then staked
me once more for a brief period in the abdomen before burying me in the
dirt.

     When I awoke, the darkness of the earth enclosed me. Though I was
surrounded by pain, the grainy, damp texture of the soil caressed my lips. I
lay there interminably, my mind howling in revulsion as the grubs came and
burrowed into my flesh. I was simply another dead thing to them. The
workings of my mind meant nothing, nor did my silent screams. As I felt them
multiply, growing in colonies throughout my muscles, I gave up my shred of
awareness once more. Nothingness was my savior. It retained a modicum of my
sanity in a prison designed for madness.

     Months must have passed. Every now and then I would feel someone
thinking of me, usually one of my family or Lucius. Sometimes, I even felt
Ivy. Her shame and self-loathing flooded her. That hatred would feed me from
time to time over the distance, then I would sink into the black quiet
again. Each time the darkness swept over me, I wondered if it would be the
last time. I began to suspect that I was reaching the point where I would
not wake up, that I had finally reached the bridge where death becomes a
reality. The next time I awoke, however, I was no longer buried. I was
locked in a cell, another version of a dark prison. Thomas had a new
amusement planned for me.

     He began to inject me with blood. I learned that Cecilia had been the
one to steal Natalie's research at Thomas' insistence, not long before I
killed her. In a fit of boredom, he had examined the work and decided to
test it. I was to be the subject. It was an infinitely more amusing prospect
to transform me as he had countless other victims, than to simply destroy
me.

     Thomas took one of the homeless off the street to be the blood donor.
He treated the man well, only requiring him to take infusions of Thomas'
vampire blood. After a while, Thomas withdrew a sample via hypodermic to
inject into me. The principle was simple: based upon Natalie's research,
Thomas believed that the mortal would form antibodies to the small dose of
the vampire element introduced to his immune system. By introducing these
antibodies to my bloodstream, Thomas thought he would destroy the vampire in
me.

     He was wrong.

     The homeless man had HIV, for a start. I'm not certain if that made the
critical difference, but it certainly handicapped his system's ability to
fight the vampire. I could taste in his blood how the beast was slowly
taking over, and how he wisely hid this knowledge from Thomas. He could
sense that such a development could only spell his death as far as Thomas
was concerned, and the man acted out of caution. I did the same. I could not
control how the decay of my body healed, but, fortunately, Thomas had not
expected the treatments to have immediate results. He assumed my recovery
came as a natural reaction to the small quantities of blood he gave me, and
, in fact, welcomed it. He wanted a whole mortal to play with when he was
done, not a decayed husk.

     While my body mended, I gave no indication in my demeanor of my
returning strength. I huddled and flinched, priding myself on acting
completely defenseless. I wanted Thomas to believe that the treatments were
working, and I was becoming mortal. His false sense of security would be my
saving grace.

     The time came for him to test the success of his project. As he bound
me with barbed wire, one of his favorite tools, I wept my great suffering,
then hung limply like a rag toy. Thomas thrived on my performance and let
down his guard. He turned his back on me, resting his eyes on his surgical
equipment with delight. I took in a deep breath, then struck, ripping my
body away from its moorings in an instant. The wire dug red trenches into my
hands and feet, but I paid the injuries no heed. My focus was Thomas: I had
to disable him while I had the benefit of surprise. I launched myself at his
back, then snaked one hand over the clamps and blades, quickly finding a
scalpel that would suit my needs.

     Thomas reached up to grab at the creature clutching madly at him from
behind. My first attack was to slash at his wrists and start him bleeding.
The loss would weaken him, but only a fraction. He shouted at the injury,
turning his head slightly so that he could see my movements, and I seized
this opportunity to gore his right eye. Leaving the blade embedded in his
flesh, I flicked my wrist, turning at a ninety degree angle, then slashed
downward in a line perpendicular to his mouth. I changed the direction of my
cut again, this time slicing towards his ear. The metal ripped open his
jugular and carotid, and I finally allowed myself to laugh in joyous welcome
at the scent of blood below my nostrils.

     I had an understandable advantage over Thomas at this point. After all,
I was desperate, and he was startled by the sudden influx of pain from my
attack. Pain meant nothing to me anymore. I had endured the constant
violations of my body for too long for any such cuts to be significant.
Thomas has no such strength of will. He gasped in shock as blood seeped a
path over his shoulder. The smell consumed me. It was all I thought about,
that and a dream of freedom. I sank my fangs into him and drank as though my
life depended on speed, which, in retrospect, it probably did. I drank
deeply, cringing as I tasted the contents of his twisted soul pour into me.
In inspiration, I hacked repeatedly at his chest with the scalpel as Thomas'
blood filled my stomach. I made the blade swish over him, leaving whip-like
streaks of scarlet in my wake. His discomfort danced on my tongue like
ambrosia. In triumph, I stabbed at his heart. The scalpel wasn't made for
such action, so the blade snapped away after piercing his flesh about a
centimeter. Through pure strength and momentum, I forced the handle the rest
of the way into his chest. I shrieked with delight as his blood howled. I
had weakened him for the time being.

     Knowing that I had to move quickly, I threw his body into one of the
walls and ran for the exit. The room was built out of stone, empty of all
furniture save a metal table, but the door was carved from solid maple. I
yanked it open, tearing the panel from its hinges, then slammed the wood
against the frame. It cracked in the middle, so I shifted my striking angle,
crashing the door again, then again, against the stone. I pulled two
fragments from the wreckage and turned my wrath toward Thomas once more. He
had crawled to his knees, and his body shook with disbelief at what I had
done. I kicked him in the chin, uncaring as I heard my toes fracture. Thomas
was knocked backward and landed face up. I thrust one of the makeshift
stakes into him, using the scalpel handle buried in his heart as my target.
I quickly grasped the second stake and plunged it into his chest just to the
left. I wanted to decimate his heart, to leave him as pathetic and limp as I
had been. The difference was, I wanted him destroyed, as soon as possible.

     I stepped back and saw that Thomas was not moving. I didn't trust the
stillness and vowed to myself that I could do better. I stalked over to the
table of medical instruments and pushed it to stand by his feet. There were
additional blades, clamps and forceps laid out in rows. I grabbed a handful,
then took a seat on the floor before beginning my work. I carved him into
pieces, whittling down to bone before I cracked his arms, legs and spine in
two. His head was my final target. I sawed sturdily through the ligaments
and tubes that constructed his throat, stopping when his neck resemble a
narrow column better suited for a marionette. I now felt secure enough to
release the tools. I picked them out of my lap, scattering the metal across
the floor as though I was casting bones. My final move was to seize Thomas'
head and wrench it, ripping it free of his torso. I stood and wiped my
bloody hands together in satisfaction.

     I wasn't done. I left that room, walking of my own accord for the first
time in months. My feet left a track of red prints that trailed after me
like profane breadcrumbs. I was naked, but I wasn't cold. I was aflame, my
rage flaring like a blowtorch. I was in the mood for a little bonfire.

     I found some flint stones above the fireplace in another room. I
carried them back to my former prison, then used the remains of the door as
my kindling. My fingers stroked them into friction easily, and, as the wood
began to emit a steady crackle of smoke, I leapt back out of caution. I
added Thomas' head to the flames first, then jumped at the sound of his left
eye popping.

     I left the room again to search for more wood. I located several
chairs, a desk, a couple of bookshelves and a small table that I could add
to my growing blaze. As the fire licked steadily in the air, I calmly tossed
the remaining segments of Thomas' body into the mix. The smoke became a
darker shade of grey, and I backed against the wall by the doorway at the
fumes. I loathed the scent of burning flesh. It made my skin crawl. The
smell held too many disturbing memories: the deaths of my children and my
husband had all been capped by fires and the odor of their bodies as they
blackened into ashes. My own recent horror had begun in the midst of a fire,
however, so it seemed fitting to end this chapter of my unlife in this
manner. I had dealt with Thomas, and the fire was burning, feeding with
sizzling hisses and sparks.

     Now I stand here, watching the flames dance. I am awed by their beauty,
yet cautious of their power over me. I think of Lucius and Natalie,
Nicholas, Vachon and Feliks, Janette and Ivy. I even spare a thought for the
Schankes, especially Jen, and I know this story is far from over. I still
have shares of vengeance to measure, territory to guard and spirits to love.
I have a will to survive, whatever the cost.

     I was born long ago to the title Cliodhna, but my true name is Clare -
a bright, burning angel of death. I am alive. I am undead.

     I am coming home.

     Wait for me.

     Be afraid.

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Fin

Send comments, questions, requests for the earlier Clare stories, and all
recycled pencils to: br1035@ix.netcom.com