Fifty-three more hours of sleep
Dakun merited his own faerie tale.
His story started long before Morla and ended well after her death.
Once upon a time there was a boy.
His name was Dakun and he lived in a small village on the coast of Japan.
Dakun was a bright boy, fast and cunning. He had speed enough to run faster than a horse. His knowledge spanned the gap of history as no child's memory should. His appearance was dark and small, like a changeling, yet he was handsome. He was an exceptional child.
It was for that reason that the ancient one, Cocytus found him so very attractive. She wanted to teach this boy, raise him into the world of blood from the very start. She wanted to mold him into a killing machine. She was not aware of how very pliable and how very willing this boy would be.
His baptismal into blood was quick and he did not protest. It was almost as if he wanted to be raised into the brotherhood of death.
He would quickly surpass his mistress in blood lust. He would turn into the renowned boy killer. Cocytus was the least surprised when he turned on her to drain her blood and take her soul into his own.
Dakun stalked the night and killed human and vampire alike with the same zeal. He loved the act of death as he took the life sustaining blood into his mouth. He was a connoisseur of blood, seeking out the perfect blend to satiate his never-ending thirst.
His skills as a human had become amplified in death and he was much faster, so fast as to be almost invisible. He was handsome as well, so handsome it was almost unbearable to regard him for long. His knowledge of life expanded into death and he could understand his prey better than anyone.
He did not create more un-dead like himself. He only took away that gift, the gift of life after death.
He could be merciful, but the boy killer's mercy was a mysterious thing. No one could understand why he had not killed the scarred ballerina Ona, why he let her continue to live for centuries after their meeting. They did not know of his mind games, of the moral crises he could create with a simple act of mercy and a bargain.
"Every vampire you create after this day shall be sacrificed to me," he articulated in a man's voice, a voice that did not fit in his tiny body.
The little ballerina who had been so beautiful stared at him, blood tears coursing over her pale cheeks. "Why?"
"Because I can," he explained. "And do not for one moment think that you can escape by not creating any more. You will create. I will see to it."
Dakun was a great observer. He enjoyed watching the kind of delirium that Ona eventually fell under. Each sacrifice was created under his careful guidance, though Ona was allowed to roam free as she wished. Each sacrifice was allowed to live for so long, to let the blood age to perfection. Dakun was a great collector of vintages. As each new sacrifice was born and handed over Ona started to lose a little bit more of the humanity that had plagued her since her baptismal.
Dakun could see it vanishing away into a tiny compartment of her consciousness. She tucked away all of her regret, she hid it under a great lump of stone where her heart might have been had he not been so merciful.
The final sacrifice was created and her madness had taken full hold. Ona walked into the sun and Dakun later observed her pitiful ashes as one would regard the ashes of a fire that had been dying for hours. It was not great loss for him. This experiment had run its course.
He started many other tiny experiments in similar fashion. How much would it take for a blood thirsty killer to crack? What would it take for the average human, or the average vampire to lose hold on reality?
His study spanned generations and each result was a new revelation to add to the pile.
His most favorite case study was Morla. She was a study of how truly loyal a new vampire would be to its maker. Her loyalty seemed tireless; she tracked him for centuries on nothing more than the dying request of a selfish mistress who would throw herself into the sun with no more wisdom than a few days shared in the dark.
When he was ready to drink her blood, which had aged to perfection he came to her.
He relished Ona's last sacrifice, taking the blood of Morla as a trophy, a trophy he had waited patiently for, letting her blood grow and mellow over time. This one was a particularly good year and he would not know the regret of drinking her for many years to come.