Coveted [New/Revised Version]

LAYING OUT THE CARDS

Inspirational song (when writing Zairian's past): pain by THREE DAYS GRACE

Zairian stared at the crackling flames in the fireplace of his chambers, loosening his tie and taking a swig straight out of his bottle of Scotch. He thought back to the times in his younger years when he'd been foolish enough to believe fire could end the cruelty of his existence. Thrice he'd attempted to burn himself alive. The first time he did it, a deep depression had befallen him, and he hurled himself into a bonfire. He couldn't withstand the intensity of the flames as it melted and burned his flesh.

The second, though the flames disintegrated his skin, they simply couldn't burn the hardened muscle beneath. His third and final attempt was a test of endurance. He stood in the inferno for hours. Because of his countless experimentation with fire since, it no longer caused him a great deal of pain. He simply disliked the discomfort of his regenerating hair and skin.

So many times Zairian tried to off himself. But, always, he survived. Limbs would come back into place, main arteries quickly healed, and as for decapitation... Over and over he'd been beheaded in his one thousand years of existence. It became second nature. Only a moment's pressure then his head would find its way back to his body and vice versa. Now that he was wiser, he simply stopped his vain essays of self-slaughter.

Self-torture was an entirely different matter.

A knocking at his door broke him from his semi-intoxicated reveries. Even in this state, he sensed Galilea's ever-eminent presence. He supposed if he were a full vampire, not "tainted" by immortality as his uncle Maelstrom would crudely point out, his mind reading capabilities might not have been limited to only current thoughts running through the mind. Zairian didn't care much. He was, in his not-so-humble opinion, every bit of vampire as he needed to be.

His arm felt heavy setting down the now half-empty bottle of liquor on the small table beside him. Zairian forced himself to his feet to stand closer to the fireplace. He preferred to be, more or less, on equal grounds with whomever he was speaking. "You may come in."

"My lord," Galilea greeted him when she stood in front of Zairian.

"What is it, my dear?"

"Sir, I need to speak to you."

"No one is imposing you."

"That's just it." She said slowly. "I'm afraid what I am about to tell you isn't the best news."

"Then, quickly, get on with it."

"Last night after you ordered Rodney to take the Chancellor witch, there was a complication."

"What sort of complication?"

"You see, the girl was alone when you left so we never anticipated... them." Galilea began rambling, as Zairian knew she often did whenever she feared she failed him. Liquor muddled his ability to see everything via her thoughts but the image of two vampires overcoming Rodney was discernable. "It's quite odd, you see, because it's never really happened before. Naturally, both parties are opposed to such an alliance. It caught us off—"