The Vampire Anthologies

Jeremiah

     Jeremiah the Weeping Prophet, a man with a heart so tender that he wept for the people corrupted by sin. The name that meant "the Lord exalts" as Mother once told me a long time ago. Blessed with a name such as that, I carried the heavy weight she placed around my neck for many a century.

     Even though I was the middle son of five boys, I had to uphold my family name. To never stray from the path set before me by my Father, Viscount Theodoric the I.

     My Father was not a cruel man but rather one of stern disposition. Eyebrows grayed with time always furrowed in disapproval, eyes of silver glinting in warning. Valuing family above all worldly desires, the only thing he upheld over even that was the Church. And anything that brought undue attention was frowned upon.

     My Mother loved the Church and was the epitome of a perfect servant to God. She never raised her voice in anger, even when my two older brothers mocked the lessons she put before us. She always stayed by my poor, sickly, youngest brother to care for him. Even at the risk of her own health as her beautiful flaxen hair dulled. But her crystal blue eyes never lost that sheen of life as she supported me and my fourth brother with our passions.

     I always enjoyed books, often getting my hands on as many as I possibly could read much to Mother's delight. All with the cost of scorn from my brothers who did not find pleasure in such things as knowledge.

     "Why do they ridicule me Mother?" I would cry helplessly into her skirt, books and papers lying crumpled at our feet.

     "Because, God has gifted you a talent for knowledge and they cannot understand that which they were not given. For you are so special my little Jeremiah."

     Kissing my forehead, she helped me replace the books back to their rightful place as if nothing had ever occurred.

     It was then I understood the meaning of different gifts. And I looked at my brothers in a new light upon her guidance.

     My elder brother, Theodoric II, was named after Father, even looking like a copy of the man himself. He had the gift of the sword. His strength was unparalleled against his brothers and many respected him for it as he would always use it to protect his family.

     My second eldest brother, Emil, was as handsome in looks as Mother was. His silver tongue was his greatest weakness, yet also his greatest strength for he often relied on that tongue to save him from trouble.

     My fourth brother, Randolph, had a talent for art. Always painting the beautiful scenery around him, I can still remember his masterpiece to this day, centuries later : a painting of Mother standing before one of the stained windows of the Church, an angel of the Lord at her back. Just like me, he always softened around her. Often running to her for advice or to show his recent project.

     And then there was my dearest Pascal. A young boy four years my younger that I cared deeply about. Often too sick to even get out of bed, I helped Mother nurse him back to health when bouts of fever would rage once more. My knees were always bruised and sore from kneeling next to her in prayer but I longed for his restoration. To see those silver eyes brighten at the outside world and how that contagious smile would form in joy. Those beautiful flaxen locks swaying in the summer breeze as he ran in the meadow next to our home, cherub like cheeks reddened with exertion.

     However, it was not to be. For when he was only seven summers old, his frail body finally gave out. Mother and I's prayers were not enough and he joined the other children of God in Heaven. But even I knew at only eleven springs old that he was better off and no longer suffering.

     Mother never really recovered. Her health declined further with Pascal's death and she never had more children.

     But what we had believed to be God's grace soon became His punishment for us. For he was not yet done taking members of my family.