Age at Death: 21
Born in 1160 in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, I was a slave to a merchant and caught in the cross fire during the Crusade. I nearly died, but an mysterious stranger saved me by giving me the Dark Gift. I had traveled throughout Europe since than. Currently reside in London as a modiste.
(NSFW. This is an independent rp account, I am not Nijah, nor Alexandra Daddario)
In her mortal years, Nijah had several siblings. Some were older, some were younger. And among them, she was closest to her older brother Patiyk.
Patiyk was the oldest and one of the kindest person she had ever known, also the smartest and the most skilful. Always looking out his siblings as a big brother should. He had always been the leader. When they were younger, he had always been the one who leaded a group of younger children running around the house, dodging their master through the hidden servant passage and sneaking outside their master’s house and exploring the nearby farmlands. They always managed to return before their master realised they were gone. He had never complained, not a single word, the chores that was placed among them. And by Jove, they were chores. Often they would return to their quarters at the end of the day with bruises, cuts and burns. But Nijah had never seen him cry, or even frown, when their mother apply lotions onto them. As any little girl who admired her brother to a fault, she had followed him almost everywhere. And he had always let her. Even places their parents had specifically ordered not to under any circumstance. Growing up, she could not remember a day without him in it.
To Patiyk she was his most darling sister. The jewel in his eyes. To him she was the exception. She should not be a slave. She should be spoiled and cherished. He had fought with his father so angrily and bitterly when he learned that the older man had delivered his own daughter to the master’s bed chamber in the dead of the night, believing he had betrayed his own children. The argument resulted her older brother one intense flogging from their master and one week’s solitary confinement. After that he tried to keep her company whenever he could.
Therefore that day was the darkest day of her life.
It was the day he died.
He had been working at the stables as a young lad. As he grew older, his skill with melee weapons were improved as well. By the time he reached 20, he was one of the guards that escorted the silk from and to places—a highest honour among the slaves. It was also dangerous, for the route was usually littered with robbers and bandits. Nijah remembered she had spent many days gazing at the gate when he was out of the city.
That day was no different from the rest. She was assisting her mother on the loom when she noticed the stirs in the courtyard. Some of the slaves went to investigate, but returned a few minutes later with face as pale as paper.
“C’est votre fils.” They said.
And without even dropping the the colored yarns and rushed off to hear the news for herself, she had known exactly what had happened. Her worst fear was confirmed.
Patiyk had died.
They were in the gorge on the way back, carriage laden with silks when the ambush happened. Her brother had fought fiercely against the bandits, killing many of them before his body finally fell. She remembered her mind went blank. Nothing she did that day left any impression on her mind. And later, when the moon was up, she climbed onto the straw rooftop of their slave quarter after everyone was asleep, the tears finally fell.
And she cried. Cried and cried and cried. Until her throat hoarse and her eyes dried. Until her face was tear-stained and all the strength from her body was drained. To her, it was the end of hope. From then on, she was truly alone, with no one in the world that would care about her.
Nijah knew she was about to die.
The arrows that pierced through her body, as well as the deep cuts caused by scimitar, had made her laid one the field for quite some time, long after the first wave of Crusaders. Beneath her, a pool of blood was quick forming. She moved slightly and felt the stickiness at her fingertips. Above her, the pale blue sky, turning slightly red along the edge of the horizon, for it was near sunset, was clear of cloud. There were bodies, thousands of them, scattered across the battlefield. Some were no longer moving and some were crying in agony. Somewhere out of her sight, she could hear vultures circling, summoning the others for foods below.
She panted and opened her mouth, trying to gasp more air. It had became harder and harder to breath.
No, she did not want to die.
The master had escaped the Kingdom of Jerusalem days ago, when hearing the Crusaders marching toward them. He had a estate in the County of Tripoli, where he decided it was save to stay until the war is over. He had left in the dead of the night, with only his immediate family members and a handful of personal servants, and abandoned the rest. Her family, which at the time consisted only her mother, herself and one of her younger brother, was left behind in their own devices. They decided to travel to a smaller city nearby to avoid the conflict. Bad mistake. Because it was there the two armies, one Crusaders and one Muslims, clashed.
They were crossing a patch of dryland when they saw a small loose groups of armies were fighting against each other. They tried to avoid it, but it was too late. Soon they were all down in the shallow valley between the hills. Her mother, sister and brother were all dead.
And soon she would be joined them.
Then it was when she heard the footsteps. Assuring and calm, as if the person was in no hurry to go anywhere else. She frowned, for such a person should not exist in a place like this. She turned her gaze from the fading sky above to the sound of soft boot pressed against the soft sand and rocks.
“Qu’est-ce une chose assez peu que nous avons ici.” The person drawled. His figures was hard for Nijah to see for it was against the sun: “Un lieu insolite pour être quelqu’un comme vous, non?”
The young slave opened her mouth, split and stained with dried blood, trying to make a sound. But nothing came out.
“Il n’y avait pas beaucoup sur vous qui me reste à un festin, pour être honnête.” The person continued to talk: “mais je vous le souhaitez. Dites ce que vous, je vais vous donner un cadeau. Quelque chose … quelque chose que je crois que vous chérir pour l’éternité.”
What? Nijah frowned. Before she was even realise what happen, the person pressed something against her mouth.
“Buvez,” The mysterious stranger said: “Buvez le lot … si vous voulez vivre.”
And she did. Something warm and salty surged past her mouth and straight to the back of her throat. Like holding onto a lifeline, she drank it. She felt her body started to grow cold, and tired. She was so, very tired…..
They were blood!
“C’est vrai, il boit, mon enfant.” The stranger cooed: “Et vous aurez un sommeil très longtemps. Quand vous vous réveillez, tout va devenir …. très différente.”
Before her heavy eyes fully closed, Nijah saw the person gave her a gentle stroke on the side of her cheek, stood up, and walked away.
Nijah emerged from the cool water of the pond and approached the edge, grew with soft grass and smelt of lavender. She leaned against the small rock perched at the side of the tranquil waters, resting her head to a side on her left lower arm. Her senses told her it was close to midnight.
Swimming did calm her down a little. Yet the burning rage that threatened to burst inside her over the last few days still refused to subsided. Something wasn’t right here, for she had not felt like this for at least 500 years. Not since the time when she was a young blood drinkers.
That, and the memories of her past, the times when she was a mortal, kept creeping up on her. Those distance days when she was helpless against those around her.
In the distance, a child cry. The baby’s unique squeak broke the silence of the night.
Nijah was 15. She had been sicked for days, throwing up everything that she ate. She even managed to do that in her master’s bedroom, much to her inward delight. The master sent her straight home, order her no to return until she became better. She had no complaint on that account. Let the others in the harem served him.
Now she was more horrified this sickness would never left her.
She was bending ofer to her chamber pot, doing what she felt like emptying all her internal organs out, when her mother walk in. The old woman took one look on her and her face went white. She rushed over, grabbed Nijah by the upper arm and dragged her out of the room.
The woman did not reply. She kept on walking, taking her daughter with her, to the stables where her father had been working over the last couple of week. They stopped in front of her father and she pushed the young woman in front of the old man.
“Quel est le problème?” Asked her father.
“Regardez-la! Elle a été malade! Regardez-la!” Her mother’s body began to shake.
The old man’s dark eyes was puzzled for a minute before widened in shock, and pain: “Non.”
“Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” Nijah was terrified. Her parents seem to know the reason of her sickness but she did not: “Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas? Quelqu’un me dit quel est le problème!”
“Obtenir son de la tisane.” Said her father.
“Non, il va la tuer!” Her mother protested.
“Mieux que le maître lui jeta dans la rue!” The old man barked back.
To her utter shock and confusion, Nijah’s mother began to sob. She leaded her daughter away from the stables and returned to the shack where her family stay, she went to the kitchen and rummaged for a while, before returning to the front of the hovel and pressed a small bottle into the young girl’s hand.
“Il suffit de faire comme je vous l’ai dit.”
“Mais je ne sais pas encore—”
“Il ne vous tuera pas, ma chère enfant.”
“Ne pas poser la question plus, il suffit de boire.” Her mother’s tear stained face torned her hearts apart.
No more questions, she emptied the bottle, without asking any more question nor protest. Later that night, Nijah woke up and found her bed was soaked in blood. There were so many of them, for a moment, she thought she was going to die.
The vampire elder closed her eyes and allowed her tears of blood to fall.
Nijah was on the roof of the clock tower again. She was pacing, with a long section of lit cigarette between her fingers. Her long hair was slightly wet from the drizzling rain, plastered around her back, her neck and her glistering face. Small raindrops hung on her long, curly lashes. The thin fabric of her dark blue dress hung to her skin. Her brows forrowed. She was deep in thought, oblivious to the deep rumble in the distance and the sign of rains was about to pour down even harder.
“Où allons-nous, papa?”
“Chut, tais-toi, mon enfant.” Her father had assured her: “Le maître veut vous voir ce soir.”
Over 800 years ago. She was 8. It was a dark, moonless night. Her father had woke her up from the slumber and piled the nicest clothed in the house for her, urged her out of their small shack, across the courtyard and toward their master’s quater. Her mind was dazed from the sleep and confused why would her master want to see a little girl such as her, let alone this time of night.
She caste a small glance at her father. His expression was tensed and slightly….sad. Her heart lurched. Why would he feel sad? They have been with this master since her grandparents and they had always tried their best to please him. what had been amiss? What was he worry about?
Her father arrived at the heavy door of their master’s chamber. He gave the polished wooden panel a slight knock.
“Je l’ai amenée ici, Maître.” He said.
The door was opened. The master stood behind the panel, wearing only one towel around his waist. He smelt of wine and…something the little Nijah could not identified. His gaze fell upon her, glittering strangely. There was a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth that made her felt very, very uncomfortable.
“Laissez ici.” Their master ordered.
“Maître …. elle est seulement une petite fille ….” Her father started to shake. Nijah puzzled. What’s happening, why was the master want to be in the room alone with her.
“Je l’ai dit la laisser ici.” The tone of their master sounded impatient.
Her father shut his eyes tightly for a second, before bending down to her level and looked straight at her eyes. Deep brown eyes, with lines fanned around them, were filled with pain and sadness.
“Nijah, je dois vous laisser ici.” His hands began to shake: “Juste …. écouter ce maître vous demande, vous comprenez? Je serai avec maman quand il est fini.”
And before she responded, he stood up, gave the Master a stiff bow, slide past the half opened door, and closed it behind her.
“Papa?” Her eyes were widened, still unable to comprehend what had just happened and what was about to happen in the room. She stared after the closed door her father just vanished.
Suddenly, she found she was being lifted up into the air and moved away from the door. The master was carrying her somewhere.
He was carrying her to his bed.
Nijah jerked her memory back to the present, hissing. She dropped the cigarette and buried her fingers into her hair. She slowly slid down onto the slat rooftop. What had happened that night was so painful, so horrifying, it took her centuries to numb the feeling of betrayal, and pain. Yet somehow, it had surfaced again tonight.
She shut her eyes tightly. Her hands began to tug her hair violently.
She started to scream.