Immortals

The smell of blood.

That metallic smell that impregnates the air, that particular fishy smell that nauseates anyone, yet I find fascinating when it reaches my nose; not because I'm some sort of freak addicted to blood, or I might as well be one since it's what keeps me alive.

Yes, I am a vampire.

A 600-years-old vampire. My name is Ibrahim Leander von Treyden, but people might know me as Trocar. Actually, the only person around me that knows I'm a vampire is my manager who has been changing throughout the years—the position previously known as my butler—and to whom my secret has been passed on. I'm a composer and song writer, that's how I make my living in this cold world where people just think about themselves.

Humans are selfish creatures. They think their lives belong to them; doing whatever they want with it. It seemed they are unaware of their own fragility, their weakness. As if they were immortals with their little power; weapons, in the case of those without Magic, and Magic itself in the case of Wizards and Witches. Nonetheless, they forget they are mortals. Just like this man in front of me.

That strong, sweet and appetizing smell of blood comes from him, precisely from his wrist. I don't know if I'm just lucky to be near his apartment to find him, or he’s unlucky enough to actually become my meal. I'm no murderer, that's for sure, but this opportunity to find someone who has given up on his life is one I won't let go.

I've been hungry for some time now due to my demanding job that forces me to slave away for weeks or even months to create songs, and the blood of animals is not as delicious as that of humans. His pulse grows weak as time passes by, and that crimson liquid keeps flowing. My eyes turn red and my fangs elongate before sinking them in the soft skin of his neck. His body reacts and flinches at the touch. As I feast on him, something makes me stop and separate from him.

The myth that vampires have powers, and those powers being the same for all of us is false.

Powers develop depending on the vampire. And mine is to envelope myself in the feelings of people through their blood. It was something I didn't want to give up when becoming a vampire: to feel. I cannot feel cold or hot but I don't mind that; feelings, thoughts, emotions, that inner part that makes one human is what I didn't want to lose.

But that's another story.

Let's go back to the man in front of me, there's something dark, darker than any Magic, that prevents him from dying. For all intents and purposes, he was an immortal, too.

Then, why did he do that? Why cut his wrists? The complexity of the human mind goes beyond my own understanding. And even if thousands of questions rise, neither can be answered.

As I turn to leave, a bit frustrated because I couldn't quench this thirst completely, a murmur makes me stop. I turn and see the man looking at me with vacant eyes. There's no fear in those eyes, and that is a bit strange. Even those with Magic think twice before facing my kind. Before death, anyone would be quaking in their pants; wailing pitifully to not be taken. But he doesn't fear. He extends his hand at me and speaks again.

"Please..." Is what comes out from his lips before losing consciousness. Or more like, he dies. I falter, then, with a quick movement, I disappear from there, the smell of blood still lingering in my nose, and that taste of addicting Dark Magic not leaving my mind.

…

It’s cold.

This is what people call the coldness of death. I am infinitely familiar with it. The stillness inside, the enveloping darkness, and the sudden pumping of the body when it reboots. Once again, I failed to die. Well, it wasn't a surprise since it wasn’t the first time I tried. My life has always been a miserable stack of happenings that would drive anyone—including me—to commit suicide.

From the moment my parents died, and I had enough age to form logical opinions, I have always blamed them for what happened to me for the next fifteen years spent at my relatives’ house. It had been fifteen years of constant suffering, constant harassment, of being denied, and just slaving away for a piece of stale bread and sips of water from the tap. If my parents knew about that prophecy, why didn’t they run away? Surely saving their own lives and the life of their son was more important.

Nobody would have blamed them for running.

At least, I wouldn’t have.

My head is heavy and throbbing, there is no strength left in my body that is still stiff from the cold grip of death. Soon, cramps make me spasm in pain as all muscle, nerves and organs start functioning again. It’s a normal procedure for when the body comes back from the shock of death.

Cold air blows, making me shiver.

At age eleven, when I thought things would get better at the prospect of a new world, things simply remained the same. My body had tired of years of physical abuse, the only thing I still had intact was my mind, and even that was showing signs of strain. It finally snapped at the Wizarding World. How could they? How could they throw a simple child who knew nothing into the lion’s den? If physical labor under inhuman circumstances cannot kill you, expectations can.

You must save this rock.

You must save this girl.

You must save this creature and man.

You must participate in this deadly tournament.

You must lose your last family member.

You must prepare for war.

You must be ready to die for us.

I have been ready to die long ago. The sad thing is that the sick game of Fate led me to obtain the only thing I dreaded the most: immortality.

Far away, I can hear the ticking of a clock.

It’s weird to hear that sound as I made sure I could not keep the notion of time by having clocks or calendars nearby; thing my best friends always question. They don’t understand. They think it nice that nothing can kill me after everything I went through. A reward, they called it. To me, it is a curse. I frequented their homes less and less with the passing of time. The last time I visited them, their children were starting Hogwarts. And that seemed like ages ago.

There is the sound of a door opening and closing, then, steps that grow louder as they get closer to me. Voices whispering. A cold hand touching my forehead.

For a moment, I really thought Death has taken pity on me and is taking me to his realm. I let my tired body shut down again.

A strong buzzing vibration resounds in my ears. My body trembles too, making it tingle.

What's this?

I slowly open my eyes to a dark ceiling and the touch of a bed sheet caressing my body.

I turn to my left to notice there is a table with a lamp glowing with a dim light and a glass sliding door that leads to a small terrace. Then, to my right, there's the view of a bare garden with leaves on the ground and a tree where the leaves come from. In front of me there is a plain white wall but in the right side, there is a corridor. I slowly incorporate and without thinking, I walk out of the room.

I encounter a living room with white and black furniture, the same white walls, but there are also floor-to-ceiling glass panels showing a little bamboo forest. It looks as if it is growing in the middle of the house. Further away, there is the dining room and around the corner is the kitchen. The place is warm, and the scenery is plain, but in a way, relaxing. That makes me wonder, where am I?

I once again feel the same vibration I felt before, and the sound of music coming from above, from the second floor. I stealthily go back to the living room and find the stairs that head up, but a voice stops my advance.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." I turn around to see a man standing by the entrance door. He looks way too thin and a somewhat sick to the point of looking ready to keel it at any time. He's wearing black pants, a white shirt and a black cardigan. His clothes don't help with his weak look.

"Sorry," I step down and hesitate a bit before asking. "Where am I? Is this your house? Who are you?" The man gently smiles to the randomly formed questions. I'm still a bit hazy from coming back from the dead and cannot think straight.

"My name is Ned Tyler, and I'm not the owner of this house. Don't be afraid, you are safe here, for the most part." He whispers that last part but I am able to hear it. What's the meaning of that? "I'm not sure why he brought you here but hey, I'm no one to judge his actions. Are you ok now?"

What's he talking about? Who brought me here? And if it was not safe, I could just Apparate. And of course I’m not ok, I just died. As I rant inside my head, he seemed to guess some of my thoughts because he points to his wrist. I look down at his wrist, then at mine and see it was expertly bandaged. Ah, it's this. I snort. The wound should be healed by now, so the bandage was unnecessary.

"If only it worked this time." I murmur.

"Well, since you are here, want to eat something?" He ignores my murmurs and lifts the bags he's holding in his hand as he walks towards the kitchen. I follow him since there is nothing else for me to do. I'm not even sure where I am, so I might as well just stick to this man for the time being.

What’s the worst that can happen to me by staying at a stranger’s house? Die?

I am hoping for that!

After cooking and eating, he leaves me washing the dishes; thing I offered to do as a token of gratitude for the food. I am suicidal, yes, but not rude or an ingrate as my uncle tended to call me. Oh, how I hate that walrus. The food wasn't all that delicious, to be honest, but I was starving, so I didn't care about the taste and ate everything he cooked. Ned then went up the stairs he previously forbade me to climb and disappeared for hours.

I head back to the room I woke up at, and inspect it. On the other side of the room is the bathroom; everything's white and the ceiling is pretty high with more panels above, letting moonlight enter. As it's perfectly illuminated by the moon, I decide to take a bath. I'm not going to stay in the house, but I should at least leave clean. And Ned did tell me to get comfortable while eating.

After the bath, that took more than I expected, I put back the fleece pants and cotton shirt I woke up with and lay down on the bed. What happened to my clothes and my shoes? There is not even a closet in this room. The endless, dark courtyard gives an engulfing feeling, and with nothing to do, I decide to take a stroll.

After some time walking barefooted on the gravel of the courtyard, I hear steps behind me. I immediately turn around and encounter another man.