Prima Materia

Prima Materia - Part 1

She looked out at the waves of the sea and inhaled the salty air. Given the melancholy state she was in, she could have jumped into the ocean at that moment. Yet there wouldn't have been a point, since she wouldn't have died. The frigid waters and the tumultuous waves wouldn't have killed her, and her body temperature wouldn't have dropped because she was already dead. Her body had been dead for over three hundred years. Her heart--well, she didn't know. Did vampires suffer from heartbreak even though their hearts don't beat?

As much as she would have loved to ask these questions of anyone, she had no one. She'd walked this immortal curse alone. She didn't know what was right, what was wrong--she just knew she didn't die when she was supposed to, and he was to blame. He should have let her die. Being burned at the stake for being a brown-skinned, long-haired wild woman from Senegal would have been much better than living a life hidden away, no longer able to dance in the sun, and forced to drink the life force of human beings. At least I would have had finality. This waiting around for whatever is as obnoxious as it is boring. She turned away from the railing of the pier in disgust.

As quickly as he had rescued her, he'd disappeared--her sire abandoned her without a word. One evening when she'd awakened from her day slumber, she'd been alone. The sun had been setting in La Gomera, casting shadows through the hills of the volcanic island, the locals were settling down for the night, and she'd woken alone. Well, he should have just left her to die! He'd created her, showed her what he was, saved her life by converting her, and after five years, Pero vanished. Did he think she would stay on that suffocating island for all eternity?

She sighed. It wasn't that she wasn't thankful. Accepting the fact she wouldn't die wasn't the hard part. Accepting the loneliness was the hard part. It wasn't that she hadn't met other vampyre, quite the opposite. The Canary Islands housed at least a few hundred vampyre, lycans, witches and others. No, what she had experienced with Pero Franco was much more than his part in her death and life. She remembered very vividly how the imposing warrior had flown up on the wooden dais, baring his pointed incisors at her lunatic captors, causing them to flee and scatter just as the flames from the pyre started to touch her feet and legs. She could still feel the pain of the fire touching her skin. The smoke she'd inhaled had already made her delirious. The memory of the throbbing thuds and ringing in her head from the rocks being hurled at her still played in her mind and she still flinched involuntarily as if she could still feel pain. The only pain she could actually feel was the one in her heart. That pain was the only thing Pero had left in his place.

It wouldn't have been as painful if he'd just rescued her from the fire, healed her wounds and left her alone. No, Pero had come to her over and over again, before they would sleep the sleep of the dead, and would touch her intimately, lovingly. Enclosed in those heavy velvet blankets, they would huddle under the covers, his hands roaming freely, showing her she was a woman. His pale skin in contrast to her dark tone always made her caress his jawline, marveling at the strength she could feel lying underneath seemingly porcelain skin. His eerily blue eyes were at odds with his Spanish heritage. He told her his eyes were the only thing that made him remember his European father, who had lain with his mother during an expedition. He'd been an outcast just like her. Then why did you leave me an outcast, Pero? She always thought that thought, but no one was ever around to answer it.

She'd tried to dull her pain. Years she spent traveling the Canary Islands, obtaining wisdom from the otherworldly creatures that secretly inhabited the island. Her own deep African heritage made her listen to the movements of nature, gathering what she could from the wisdom all around her. Her own maman had told her once that "the heart is not a knee that can be bent." Her heart was in love with Pero and no matter what she did, she couldn't forget him. When she'd looked up from her studies of the earth, life and knowledge, seventy-five years had passed, and still no sign of Pero.

Then, she found a mission. A proverb in her village stated, "If a centipede loses a leg, it does not prevent him from walking." She chose to walk, damn Pero. She knew the Canary Islands was a docking station before the massive ships sailed out to the Atlantic Ocean. From talking with the locals, she'd heard the ships had been transporting her brethren from Africa to the new colonies. She'd taken up clandestine missions, freeing some captives at night or damaging ships to the point of being unsalvageable. Her biggest accomplishment had been helping facilitate the uprising on La Amistad. She'd snuck aboard the larger vessel Tecora and brought with her the rusty file to help free the captives below. She'd spoken with the African chief and assured him she was not a demon god. She knew her glowing eyes scared most of the men, but she was able to convince them to fight for their freedom. She was on the ship when it was captured in Long Island, New York. When that ship had docked, and she made her escape at night, she'd thought she'd seen Pero in the crowded streets, watching her.

She had his blood running through her; she knew he lived. Why would he purposely stay away? When she saw the state of the uncivilized colonies in America, she could see why she and Pero could never have been seen together and why he'd kept her hidden. This new world treated her brethren like workhorses. It angered her, and her rage fueled her for the next two hundred years. She'd been taught that a night spent in anger was better than a night spent in repentance. There was no repentance for the monster she'd become, so she thrived in the blood-curdling anger. The anger that surrounded her led her on freedom missions and sometimes outright blood baths in the deep South. There were legends about her, the fire-eyed Fatima and her ruthlessness. She was sure that had gotten back to Pero. The other vampyre stayed away from her, as she had no coven. She'd learned about her vampyric abilities through trial and error--she'd gone too far, killed too many and she still felt empty. She heard the other talk about her.

The unholy terror she'd unleashed on those who bullied the weak was whispered about but no one touched her. She became a champion for the weak and destitute. Rapists, murderers, those that walked free who should have been imprisoned--she either scared them straight or sent them to meet the guardian of hell. She had needed a purpose after Pero left her, and being immortal left her with a lot of time to kill.

Rolling her eyes at her own unintended pun, Fatima took one last look over her shoulder at the raging ocean. No, she'd accepted her fate as an immortal--now she just needed to accept her fate of being alone.

"You've never been far from me, bonita." She didn't need to turn around to know he was here.