Post by Leandre August on Oct 1, 2014 13:13:22 GMT -8
The other immortals seemed to have adapted just fine over the years. Some ascended to godhood. Some became leaders of factions. Some, warlords or assassins. There were old names in high places nowadays. Yet, some were not so lucky.
Leandre had become an orphan. Year after year, century after century, Leandre Raphael August found himself running between foster homes and public orphanages. Eternally 9, he was easily apprehended by authorities after being consistently reported for living on the streets. It was difficult life, hopping in and out of the embrace of strangers, but he adapted to it to the best of his abilities. After a year or so with a family, he'd run away to a new city, lest he raise suspicion over the fact that he didn't age.
He fancied families with money - ones who sent him off to private school or trained him in the arts - those were his favorite. It gave him a creative outlet and the means to hone his skills, which were stellar. He played piano beautifully. It was the first and only instrument he'd ever expressed interest in, and he took to it like a natural. His deft hands were utilized in other ways as well. He could sculpt the likeness of another person or thing out of clay with ease. It was a therapeutic skill to have.
All of these were things Leandre did to express his gratitude for and embrace the memory of his mother. She was blind and beautiful. He had her face - round, childish, and freckled - as well as the shape of her eyes, even though the color in hers had been muted with blindness. Her hands, the hands that guided him from birth, had been far more deft than his ever would be. At a very young age he remembered thinking about her lack of sight, how graceful she was even without being able to see, and oh how he found her to be the most beautiful part of his life. To say that Anne August had been important to his development was an overwhelming understatement. It was only him and her. He knew of his father, and he vaguely remembered him from scant encounters - he was a vampire too, a Malkavian (which he knew to be unstable, but he also realized that the instability potentially coursed through his veins as well), and he'd kept his distance for the sake of mother and child. There was never any bitterness that Leandre harbored, no raw void in his chest from the lack of a paternal figure. Anne had been his mother and his father, the perfect parent, and silently they both understood that things were just better that way.
Anne died the same year Leandre stopped growing. The winter of 922 was a harsh one, an unforgivingly cold one, one that dropped an easy three feet of snow in a matter of two nights. The storm displaced a lot of people and killed even more, many of them having fallen victim to roofs collapsing under the weight of blankets of snow and ice. Anne made sure she and Leandre were kept warm and well-fed in their small home. Leandre would never forget that particular evening. She'd heard them before he ever did - chalk it up to a heightened sense of awareness or a mother's intuition - either way, he remembered her racing into his room, jolting him from slumber. "Hide," she whispered hastily, pulling him from bed. Not that he knew it then, but Anne had been a vampire hunter for an incredibly devout religious group called the Cross. When she met Raphael and became pregnant with Leandre, she withdrew from the organization without hesitation. But she'd found the wrong kind of love in the Malkavian, and together they had made something unforgivable. Ultimately, the Cross learned of Leandre's existence. There was a small cubby carved out beneath the floorboards of Leandre's bedroom, far too small for any adult, that Anne had put him in. In hindsight, Leandre realized that Anne never had any intentions of saving herself. . .she knew what would come - who would come - for her child. Anne faced her fate bravely, firmly denying the presence of Leandre in the house, insisting he'd been taken by his vampire father. The Cross were not so easily convinced, and Leandre watched from below as three men and a woman savagely beat his mother for answers. He'd never forget his final glimpse of her, of watching her crawl in agony on her hands and knees, of watching the life leave her blind eyes once they slit her throat. Leandre was nine years old.
__________________________________________________
"Ernest Heming Way," called a woman with a clipboard. She was in her mid-thirties, made to look older by a neat bun on the back of her head. Leandre stepped forward, and she scrutinized him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Ernesto. . ." She narrowed her eyes. "Ernest Hemingway? Really? Give me a break, kid, what's your real name?"
There was a row of children, all of them varying heights and ages, who shared the same enthusiasm to be at the orphanage: none at all. This matron of the house regarded them with the same enthusiasm one would give a cockroach. When Leandre failed to answer her question as to what his real name was, she scribbled down 'John Doe' and moved down the line with an echoing "NEXT!"
Leandre had become an orphan. Year after year, century after century, Leandre Raphael August found himself running between foster homes and public orphanages. Eternally 9, he was easily apprehended by authorities after being consistently reported for living on the streets. It was difficult life, hopping in and out of the embrace of strangers, but he adapted to it to the best of his abilities. After a year or so with a family, he'd run away to a new city, lest he raise suspicion over the fact that he didn't age.
He fancied families with money - ones who sent him off to private school or trained him in the arts - those were his favorite. It gave him a creative outlet and the means to hone his skills, which were stellar. He played piano beautifully. It was the first and only instrument he'd ever expressed interest in, and he took to it like a natural. His deft hands were utilized in other ways as well. He could sculpt the likeness of another person or thing out of clay with ease. It was a therapeutic skill to have.
All of these were things Leandre did to express his gratitude for and embrace the memory of his mother. She was blind and beautiful. He had her face - round, childish, and freckled - as well as the shape of her eyes, even though the color in hers had been muted with blindness. Her hands, the hands that guided him from birth, had been far more deft than his ever would be. At a very young age he remembered thinking about her lack of sight, how graceful she was even without being able to see, and oh how he found her to be the most beautiful part of his life. To say that Anne August had been important to his development was an overwhelming understatement. It was only him and her. He knew of his father, and he vaguely remembered him from scant encounters - he was a vampire too, a Malkavian (which he knew to be unstable, but he also realized that the instability potentially coursed through his veins as well), and he'd kept his distance for the sake of mother and child. There was never any bitterness that Leandre harbored, no raw void in his chest from the lack of a paternal figure. Anne had been his mother and his father, the perfect parent, and silently they both understood that things were just better that way.
Anne died the same year Leandre stopped growing. The winter of 922 was a harsh one, an unforgivingly cold one, one that dropped an easy three feet of snow in a matter of two nights. The storm displaced a lot of people and killed even more, many of them having fallen victim to roofs collapsing under the weight of blankets of snow and ice. Anne made sure she and Leandre were kept warm and well-fed in their small home. Leandre would never forget that particular evening. She'd heard them before he ever did - chalk it up to a heightened sense of awareness or a mother's intuition - either way, he remembered her racing into his room, jolting him from slumber. "Hide," she whispered hastily, pulling him from bed. Not that he knew it then, but Anne had been a vampire hunter for an incredibly devout religious group called the Cross. When she met Raphael and became pregnant with Leandre, she withdrew from the organization without hesitation. But she'd found the wrong kind of love in the Malkavian, and together they had made something unforgivable. Ultimately, the Cross learned of Leandre's existence. There was a small cubby carved out beneath the floorboards of Leandre's bedroom, far too small for any adult, that Anne had put him in. In hindsight, Leandre realized that Anne never had any intentions of saving herself. . .she knew what would come - who would come - for her child. Anne faced her fate bravely, firmly denying the presence of Leandre in the house, insisting he'd been taken by his vampire father. The Cross were not so easily convinced, and Leandre watched from below as three men and a woman savagely beat his mother for answers. He'd never forget his final glimpse of her, of watching her crawl in agony on her hands and knees, of watching the life leave her blind eyes once they slit her throat. Leandre was nine years old.
__________________________________________________
"Ernest Heming Way," called a woman with a clipboard. She was in her mid-thirties, made to look older by a neat bun on the back of her head. Leandre stepped forward, and she scrutinized him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Ernesto. . ." She narrowed her eyes. "Ernest Hemingway? Really? Give me a break, kid, what's your real name?"
There was a row of children, all of them varying heights and ages, who shared the same enthusiasm to be at the orphanage: none at all. This matron of the house regarded them with the same enthusiasm one would give a cockroach. When Leandre failed to answer her question as to what his real name was, she scribbled down 'John Doe' and moved down the line with an echoing "NEXT!"
