The first night following that fateful battle, I remained in my improvised tomb. The thirst was harsh, but so was my burned body, and I was still blinded and suffering. I was bothered enough to remove the arrows from my carcass, but otherwise, the night passed. I knew I wouldn’t die of one night without sustenance. And I had drunk from the Old One. Perhaps I could last a week.

I lasted three nights. On the fourth, the thirst was simply too strong, and I had to rise. My eyes had not returned, not yet, but I could move something in my eye sockets, and I felt better. My skin was irritated, but no longer flaring with pain.

From the earth, I rose. The thirst had at this point quite consumed my mind, there was little space left for any reasoning, but yet enough self-discipline remained to not skewer the first mortal I came across. For that was a little girl, and her brother, who were walking beneath the trees to gather herbs. They never saw me, of course. I fled from them like a wind, and I found a woman who had put a baby into the woods, recently, I saw this in her mind, and it was enough for me. I essentially ate a chunk of her flesh along with her blood, so hard I bit, though I spat the flesh out again. Her mind went out like a small candle blown by the wind.

Before the night was over, I saw colours and shades, though everything was very blurry, and the next night, I saw properly. The exact count of nights was uncertain, but around a week had passed, I estimated. I was healed, but my attire remained torn and bloodied beyond repair, and for my next victim, I made sure to choose a man my size, corrupt and wealthy, to borrow his set of clothes and take his coin and jewellery. I had my carriage, of course, somewhere in the area, but I was done with this place.

How the battle had ended, I could only surmise, but I feared the archbishop had won and was hunting for me.

But of course, I was curious as to Fetinja’s fate, or Raymond’s. Perhaps even the Viscount’s. But I decided they didn’t matter to me. Even Fetinja’s, didn’t. We were done. She had not come with me because she wanted me, it was because she felt she owed it to our past love, because she couldn’t live with not doing it. She had never made any sign of wanting anything more from me. She had done it for herself, not for me. She was the past. I no longer felt anything but nostalgia and sorrow when I looked at her face, sorrow for what could have been but wasn’t.

And I didn’t fault her for fleeing the battle. I thought it was a very humane thing to do. It proved us Nightwalkers were in essence simply Immortal human minds…

As for Raymond… I liked him more now.

The Viscount could go to hell for all I cared, as the felon he was, if he was not already there.

I was free, and several times stronger than before. The Old One… I wondered how old exactly he had been. His skin had been pliable stone, only pierceable by our fangs, and his flesh even harder. Effortlessly, his fingers had cracked the coffin’s granite. His mind had been immense. Perhaps he had indeed been the First. But even he could not have survived that fire, emptied of blood as he was. Empty of will.

My destination was clear. Epernay called to me, my family called. Cost what it cost. I could protect them now, I was sure. In one single night, I went from Orléans to Reims, blowing through the landscape like a breeze. I knew the town like my back pocket, I knew who was rich, who would have fine clothes for me and coin to spare.

Fetinja’s house was empty and locked. I forced one of the upper windows and found refuge in the cellar. She wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have minded if she was, so I could tell her I held no grudge, but it was a relief that she wasn’t. Talks with her were always hard.

In the evening, as the very first thing, I turned up at my home. I walked down the main street like a human, wearing a long, blue cloak of finely woven wool. Beneath the lighter blue buttoned tunic, which was loose but girded at the waist, I wore a long-sleeved linen shirt, as was custom for underwear. In other words, I was very finely clothed. The tunic even had embroidery at the neck, the wrists and the hem. I had washed away all traveling’s dirt and dust, and I had fed as the first thing this evening, to give my skin warmth and a semblance of colour. I was ready. And my belly was one, tight and nervous knot.

At this hour, the mains street especially had many people on errands, walking home from the tavern or going there, performing the last chores to wrap up the day, talking leisurely with their neighbour, complaining, laughing, before they would do it all again tomorrow. I was glad to be free from their constraints, but I also saw the beauty in their life’s simplicity. They each fulfilled needs for each other, held their roles to make the town function, though some were admittingly more useful than others.

And carpentry, in my humble opinion, ought to be most admired. And there he stood. It was a mild, winter day, and he had been working outside and was now pulling furniture in. He wore three layers of wool, and linen, and he lifted his eyes up to look at the man who had stopped in the middle of the street to watch him.

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My hair had grown longer, the curls almost fell to the black eyes, and the beard was growing also.

His hand suddenly grew heavy on the chair he had meant to pick up, as he stared at me. “Son,” he breathed, I saw him swallow, his eyes water, and nodded to him. I did not read his mind, but I was not closed off either. Relief and happiness rolled off of him, as he gestured with his head for me to come inside. “Grab a chair,” he said, “let’s find your mother.”

With a gulp stuck in my throat, I acquiesced and followed him, a chair dangling on my fingers. I ducked my head to come in, though the doorway was precisely tall enough to welcome me. “Leave it here,” he told me, and we mounted the chairs to the first floor. “You look well,” he said, voice unsteady, “you must tell us everything. But first, your mum, and your brother.”

He was the first to enter the upper floor, where he stopped and addressed my mother, who I of course already knew was working the kitchen. “Elise,” he said quietly, “see who I have brought home.”

She heard it in his voice. I heard her gasp a sharp intake of breath. She held it as I mounted the last steps and showed myself, and laid eyes on her slender form, her greying hair, the two murky blue eyes which watered as she hurried forward, and I stepped forward to meet her. Tightly, she grabbed my shoulders, examined my face, my form, my traits, and her hands wandered. She remembered all the tiny scars, the blemishes, the small rash which had been ever-present but hidden beneath my right eyebrow, the small asymmetries… but they were gone, vanished, leaving skin like polished, polished, dull silver, soft yet firm to the touch, while the flesh beneath was hard. And my eyes had the splendour of Immortals. It had not been one year since my birth to the Night, but the eldest’s blood ran in my veins.

The fear that she would shake her head and push me away was aching my heart, but she smiled and pulled me against her tightly, pressing her face into my neck.

I was different. There was no fooling her, nor my father, but when I turned to him, he kissed my forehead tenderly and held my head in his hands as if to never let go.

“Where is Tristan?” I asked, referring to my brother, and my mother smiled through the tears.

“He is out, will be back soon,” she said, her voice breaking, “oh, my eldest, he is back. Johan, our eldest is back!”

“We must sit, you must tell us.” He said, and we moved to the table, while my mother rushed to the kitchen’s fire.

“I will boil water,” she breathed joyously, excitedly, “you must be thirsty.”

“Yes,” my father’s eyes twinkled, “and we should have wine, we are due for celebration! One of the bottles you sent, the one from Bourgogne.”

I could not refuse. And they insisted on my story, of course, there was no way around it. This is what I told them: that I had met Fetinja, who had taught me to read, and had travelled with her. Then I had met a rich Viscount and had worked for him in procuring books. Throughout the tale, I kept profusely apologizing for leaving so suddenly, letting regret and guilt flow freely, with some measure of self-irony. They were not interested in that, however, they held no grudge, though my father did mention that he would prefer if I took my leave in orderly fashion, in the future. If not for courtesy’s sake, then for the sake of their peace of mind. As I wrapped up the story, I warded off their questions with the only story that – in their eyes – matched mine in importance, namely my brother’s.

“Tristan is apprenticing,” Roland, my father, said, smiling. “He is growing. But he has missed you most dearly.”

“And Tristan is seeing a girl,” my mum said, looking both vexed and excited.

Now that caught my interest. What sort of women caught my brother’s eye? The same as me? But they didn’t know much. My brother returned shortly thereafter, announcing his arrival loudly before running up the stairs and freezing when he saw me. Then his face split in a huge grin, “brother!” He uttered and sprung forward to embrace me, and I laughed gleefully.

They asked me stay in the night, and I agreed, mostly to have some alone time with my brother, though I impressed on them that I was obliged to leave early in the morning. But my brother held his cards close, regarding the girl, and the night became mostly me practicing my story again. I left when he fell asleep.

But for a week, I visited every evening and pretended to work during the day. They were no fools, of course, my stories were unprecise, hesitant at times, perhaps even inconsistent. But they never asked any difficult questions. I was well, and that was enough for them.

After seven evenings I was ready to travel again, but not before promising them to visit every week, or at least every two weeks.

For the first time in many months, my heart was light and strong. I no longer carried regret, sorrow, or nostalgia, nor even loneliness. My spirit was brisk and energetic, my smile easy, and I had a powerful inclination to help where I could, to give strangers pleasant smiles. Left and right, I made young and beautiful women blush, and I drew compliments from the elderly with my courtesy and respect. I played the part of the perfect gentilhomme, speaking with delightful confidence, free from fear of anyone and anything. I was most important. My conscience was most important. And it was light and satisfied.

I preferred the evenings most, when I had the whole night in front of me, when I was full and warm and felt vibrant. I bought myself a new, larger carriage, a very solid one, and placed a large casket inside, one that wasn’t easily identified as a coffin, and made some alterations myself, reinforcing it with steel and several locks on the inside. I felt quite safe, overall, and hired parking spots from local villagers with a generosity that made them my instant, life-long friends, and chief-defenders of my strong warning: “no one must ever look inside.” Then I would smile to them, and shrug trivially, “you could say I am a private person.”

Of course, it was much easier to find the honest persons when I could read their minds like books. By this time, very few could resist me.

I was a monster of the night, but I felt like a fairly angelic one. One that could bear looking its loved-ones in their eyes.