They sat by the fireplace. The fire mattered to Janos because he always felt cold; his frail, hollow bones suffering from the coldness that radiated from the thick ice-cold stone walls surrounding him. For Raziel it would’ve been one and the same whether the fire was there or not, because he always felt the same old nothing, regardless of temperature. He gazed at the ever-changing flames a bit bitterly, feeling a sting of jealousy. Even his physical appearance was merely a withering illusion, what use was there for a fire? He could sense the warmth, of course, he even sensed the penetrating cold coming from outside, nipping at his back, but the sensation was dull, meaningless, and he found neither pleasure nor pain in it. The feeling was just like his being was: ethereal, vague and wavering, and he was not sure how to regard it or where exactly did it belong.

What made him stay by the fire was Janos: he seemed happy if Raziel sat there with him, and while Raziel wasn't one to indulge others, he couldn't bring himself to leave and be elsewhere only because the fire, or the cold, or anything real didn’t matter to him.

Janos' clawed hand was resting over Raziel's, and though the simple touch felt indefinite, he was content just knowing it was there. It was a soothing and in a way dreadful confirmation of being still in existence; that his wretched manifestation was still inhabiting this realm, and not some other where the dead and the damned roamed. That was the initial reason for Raziel still being there, resisting the inescapable, draining powers pulling him back into the spirit realm where he unwillingly belonged, and sitting with Janos by the fireplace in the topmost floor of his elaborate abode. There was also the more convoluted reason, the one Raziel couldn't understand in its entirety: his being there made Janos glad.

The old vampire had been alone for some time, for the most morbid of reasons, before Raziel came along. His whole kind had been wiped off the face of Nosgoth by the humans who considered his race a plague; an inhuman venom poisoning the land and slowly abolishing it of all life. Those fools authorized themselves to control the nature, and thought that they were doing it for a greater cause, which in reality was nothing but a selfish proclamation of an infinite quest for gaining the title of being the strongest.

Oh, they had been right about the vampires being a plague and the reason for the corruption and destruction of all human life. Raziel knew that. He had seen it all: Kain’s empire and the pitiful remains of human kind.

But that was only one half of the coin: it was the crusade - that self-righteous massacre the humans carried out in order to rid the land of the vampire scourge - that shaped Nosgoth into the form it was now. Or rather will be (“as I’m stuck on this decaying century,” Raziel thought to himself bitterly). The forthcoming corruption of the Pillars was, of course, a source of the inevitable decadence as well.

Stuck on this decaying century, he tasted the words and found the bitterness unfounded. After careful reconsideration he replaced “stuck” with “spellbound”. Janos was to blame, that old fool who sat by the fireplace because his old bones ached. Raziel stole a sideways glance at his benefactor. That face spoke of times past, of countless tragedies, and Raziel didn't know should he feel compassion or pity for him. He was the last of his kind, of Nosgoth’s original vampires; the Winged Race. Raziel had come to know their tragic history fairly well during his now finally beneficial quest, and he knew exactly what kind of past was hidden beneath that noble interior, and why Janos had withdrawn all the way back into his refuge deep in Nosgoth’s northern mountains, surrounded by a forlorn windswept wasteland of eternal ice.

If there was a definition of truly alone, Janos was an epitome: standing on the balcony high above the frozen waters and watching over the barrens he once ruled, now inhabited by his own dead children, impaled with spears and stakes, taunting him and standing as grotesque symbols of humans’ superficial triumph.

Raziel had seen how his heart bled when he had to see them; how anguish veiled his bright gaze for an ephemeral second before he recollected his tranquility and looked back to Raziel, almost breaking his heart. There is only so much you can hide under the guise of calmness.

What perplexed Raziel the most was that after all that Janos didn’t even hate the humans. “They fear what they don’t understand,” he had said back then, turning his eyes back at the wastes. Raziel had never felt so confused before, not sure if he should go and take revenge for him; not sure if he should coax Janos into doing it himself. It pained him to see Janos’ tranquility and quiet acceptance. Raziel couldn't understand how he could harbour mercy for someone who took from him everything that he held dear. He had said so, voice full of contempt, and Janos' reply was a smile. He shook his head softly, and Raziel understood exactly what he meant by what he had said earlier.

Raziel had been to Hell and back and to that moment he had selfishly thought that no one could have ever before experienced the kind of agony he had went through to become the creature that he now was. After he had learned to know Janos, Raziel had to admit that he knew nothing of pain, and begrudgingly he admitted to himself that his suffering was insignificant. Janos had been in existence far longer than Raziel had: he had seen monarchies rise and fall, he was the father of the whole vampire race and he had been the one to witness its downfall; his own children annihilated one by one. Immortality, the infinite eternity, was his disease and there was no cure but the finality of death itself.

Pain came from existence, and the longer you stood, the more you hurt, Janos was the living proof of that. Raziel's existence was debatable at best, even if he fought tooth and claw to remain in physical realm, and at times he wondered if his only reason for existence was his vendetta; the thought of getting his revenge someday being the only thing keeping him tied to the living and resisting his fate. His whole unlife was sustained by the hatred that he bore for his vampire brethren, after all.

Janos could forgive, but Raziel was fuelled by his unforgiveness, and while he understood, he didn’t want to realize why anyone would be willing to forgive something so clearly unforgivable. To him there were no shades of grey, not when it was about something as primal and dark as murder and taking someone’s life for selfish reasons. (The story of his life.)

He wondered if suffering was the only thing keeping Janos alive: if living was his punishment for everything and he stood there looking at the impaled carcasses because he felt it necessary. Maybe it was against his will: he knew of Wheel of Fate, he knew it had to turn, and he stood proud, accepting his preordained role in the grand scheme, even if it meant centuries of suffering befalling him.

Whatever the truth, Janos was not bitter.

The humans of course got it all wrong, twisting the reality as they best saw fit in their hatred and fear. Janos was nothing like Raziel had seen in the apparently propagandist paintings back in the Sarafan stronghold. He saw no blood-thirst, madness or pure murderous intent when he looked Janos in the eyes. He was definitely more like the high-minded creatures depicted in the murals scattered around the shrines of Reaver Forges. Janos was beautiful, gracious, he – in fact - looked like he could never hurt anyone; his refined being bearing inexplicable kindness Raziel had thought was extinct in this world. His face held hardly any signs of his age, but instead those of all the wisdom the years had brought, and his eyes gleamed with grief rather than hatefulness, which - by all things considered - should have been there. And he smiled these tiniest of smiles, all sorrowful, but beneath there was pure hope for reaching something better that still lied ahead.

He was more human than many of the humans Raziel had encountered, and less monster than most of them.

Raziel understood how completely different he was from Janos, at least on that regard: he shone bright like a day while Raziel lurked in the deepest reaches of the darkest night. If it wasn’t for the thirst for answers Janos could provide him with, and the almost zealous curiosity (compassion? Pity? Solidarity?) Raziel felt for the ancient vampire, he would’ve already left.

Raziel wanted revenge and held grudges, Janos however was the kind to forgive anything.

Yet there was something about Janos that almost made Raziel feel like he was staring in the mirror, and it wasn’t that pair of majestic wings protruding from his back, or the blue hue of his skin. He couldn’t quite put his finger to it, the true nature of his feelings eluding him.

Raziel was shaken from his thoughts when he noticed that Janos was looking at him almost curiously, as if listening, his head tilted slightly to the side. Raziel's first reaction was to retract his hand, the soothing touch of Janos' claws suddenly making the knowledge of existence - of pain - too real. He wanted to shrink back to his realm and hide from Janos, who was so good while Raziel was everything but, yet he knew that in spirit realm awaited something much more terrible. And he couldn't go yet, he didn't know everything and Janos would be left alone again.

Janos was amused at Raziel's reaction. “I’m so delighted you’re here with me,” he said and the strength of his smile was reassuring.

Raziel gave a soft grunt, belittling and sarcastic out of old habit.

Janos had waited for him for centuries. Waited fervently, without even knowing what fate would eventually carry to his doorstep. What astonished Raziel the most was that first time Janos had turned to greet him and seen the distorted carcass that he had become, and there had been no pity in his eyes. Raziel was used to seeing pity, fear, disgust and other abhorring looks on the faces of his adversaries, but Janos, he was just surprised, maybe even a bit curious, to see Raziel the way he was. The prophecies apparently didn’t tell what sort of damned, downcast creature would waltz to him seeking for answers.

Janos didn’t care about what Raziel was or why he was, but treated him like an equal, and showered him generously with all the answers to all his questions about the Reaver, his race, even himself. Raziel’s hunger for knowledge was insatiable and Janos endeavored to satisfy it the best he could.

After some time Janos had asked Raziel to stay, offering to provide him with the complete history of Nosgoth’s vampires. Casually he mentioned that he had been alone for quite some time, and having someone to keep him company, even for a moment, would’ve been nearly a dream coming true. Raziel remembered that there had been an odd feel of finality to his words. Maybe he knew exactly what was to become of him, or maybe he merely guessed that his time was nearly done.

Raziel had his misgivings about it: he wanted his vengeance to be swift and while he had all the time in the world and more, he didn’t want to tarry along the way. He was supposed to get his answers and get going. That was his plan. But for some reason he didn’t dare to refuse, maybe because he already knew of Janos’ fate, and after careful consideration he found himself accepting the invitation.

Raziel stayed, and for the first time since his unique resurrection and the day he crawled from the condemned nightmare that was the Abyss, he felt actually even somewhat at peace. There were short periods of time when he forgot time and place, his desire for vengeance, Kain, Wheel of Fate, everything, while he listened to Janos talk, his strange accent slowly starting to sound common in Raziel’s ears.

***

“The humans are gathering, there is something devious going on,” Raziel said, alert, gazing down over the edge of the weathered balcony. Tiny figures, couple of dozen of them, were skittering across the frozen lake towards the retreat, the red-and-gold clothing betraying them to be Sarafan crusaders. The howling wind successfully covered any and all possible noises coming from down below, so it was impossible to hear if they were saying anything.

He heard Janos walk across the spacious balcony to him, his claws scraping the solid rock with each step. He stopped right behind Raziel, gazing down over his shoulder.

“Maybe they have found a way inside,” he said almost playfully.

“I did open them a path as I sought my way here,” said Raziel, his brow furrowed in sudden worry.

He knew about the cold-blooded execution of the infamous Janos Audron. He knew about the Heart of Darkness and its origins: how it had been torn, still beating, out of Janos’ chest and declared the concluding symbol of humans’ triumph. It was of time, maybe the humans would…

Janos chuckled and placed his hand on Raziel’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, they cannot reach us,” he said.

Raziel sidestepped with a groan, slipping away from Janos’ touch. He kept his eyes keen on the Sarafan down below. Janos tore his eyes away from the intruders and gazed into the distance, to the dark silhouettes of the mountain peaks drawn against the pale grey sky. Snowflakes were floating softly through the air: it would seem that Janos’ prediction of afternoon snowfall had been right.

If only it had been snowing earlier, the Sarafan couldn’t have followed Raziel’s footsteps into the mountains...

“Eventually they will and you know it just like I do,” Raziel replied finally, trying to hide the bitter desperation from showing. It was not like him to just suddenly want to prevent the omnipotent Wheel of Fate from turning, not when it didn’t concern him.

There was no hiding from Janos. He glanced sideways at Raziel, his expression indecipherable. “Are you concerned about me?”

Raziel’s only answer was the usual belittling sneer, but he knew that Janos saw right through it and wasn’t even expecting any other answer. They both knew, and no words were needed to convey how either one felt about it.

“It is… inevitable,” Janos said, reached out his clawed hands to take hold of Raziel’s shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. Raziel resisted initially out of habit, but yielded for the lack of a better reason, and let the old vampire hold him. It made him happy, after all. Janos spread out his wings and soon Raziel’s view of the Sarafan was obscured by ashen feathers, the wings wrapping around them and shielding them from the now more rapidly falling snow. He let out another sneer. It still astonished him how Janos could be so naïvely open-hearted, but a small part of him, a part very quickly silenced and denied, thought that maybe he had stayed not because of his greed for knowledge, but because he was alone as well, and Janos was the only creature he tolerated near him. Janos didn’t even care for his horrifically deformed manifestation.

“It is time,” Janos whispered and placed a single gentle kiss on Raziel’s forehead before stepping back and letting him go. The Sarafan were nowhere to be seen when Raziel gazed over the edge of the stone balcony with a metaphorical lump in his throat, and the strength of Janos’ smile was everything but reassuring.