Reposting of my Godric story ...

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(Godric was Eric Northman's Maker.)


 Godric's Journal - December 31, 1899 - The Lost Boy


Despite what had been written in penny dreadfuls, the life of a vampire is not a ghoulish one, at least not for a vampire such as I was at the turn of the century. By living carefully, the clever use of aliases, and finally settling in that most civilized of cities, London, the dawn of the 1900's found me living a carefree life with more social invitations than I could satisfy.

I was rumoured to be the sufferer of severe migraine headaches, making me sensitive to light. I started this rumour myself to account for my absence during the day. A medical doctor in my employ validated this diagnosis, a diagnosis made without ever examining me. A little glamour and a monthly cheque was all that was needed to maintain his cooperation.

I say carefree, but of course that is an exaggeration. I was just beginning to experience the faintest ray of hope that there might be redemption for me if I devoted my energies and resources to doing good among humans. I went out most nights, not for selfish reasons, but to see where my efforts might be most useful to relieve the suffering and want so many humans experienced.

The squalor, filth, disease, misconduct and horror to be found among the poor and degenerate classes does not bear describing. My tiny efforts might not make much of a difference, but it was my fervent hope that they might bring some infinitesimal degree of relief. It did me much good to help where I could. I focused my efforts mainly on children, while never doing anything to harm or frighten them. If a vampire, already once reborn from the grave, could be said to have yet a third rebirth, that would be my state of mind in late December 1899.

New Year's Eve at the turn of the millennium was a major social occasion. Balls and parties were planned in all the great houses, each one determined to outdo the others in splendour and extravagance. I had a six inch thick stack of beautifully engraved invitations, many of them from families with an eligible daughter. My obvious wealth and mysterious origins aroused a great deal of curiosity, and my unmarried status engendered hope in the breasts of mothers who wished their daughters to marry well. I immediately eliminated those invitations for obvious reasons.

Finally I settled on one costumed ball at the Brandt residence. They had no eligible children and no plans to try and dominate my social life. They were connected to several charities I was considering for my donations and I wanted to get a first hand look at what their character and demeanor was. I was a shrewd judge of character, and if that failed, I was able to glamour anyone I could get alone for a few moments. One way or another I would have my answer by night's end.

A costume for the evening was no problem. I had worn so many different styles of clothing over the last 1900 years I would have been comfortable in anything. I settled on a brown homespun tunic, brown tights, a wide belt and pointed flat heeled suede boots. I had my hair lightened for the evening and I put blue around my eyes.

The lighter hair color, the impish clothing, and the improvement in the unrelenting guilt I had been feeling over my past life gave me a more youthful appearance than usual. I needed to wear a long sleeved knitted green shirt under the tunic to cover my tattoos and brand. Nothing like them had been seen by anyone in the British Isles for over a thousand years.

The ball turned out to be, as expected, tedious and unrewarding. I did get Mr. Brandt, dressed like Henry the Eighth, to step aside in the garden with me to discuss a large donation I was considering. While I had him in the cold pale moonlight I glamoured him and learned, to my disappointment but not to my surprise, that his fund raising efforts were mainly to benefit himself and Mrs. Brandt. I was as cynical and jaded as someone observing human nature can be, so I did not react with anger. I did plant the suggestion that he and Mrs. Brandt would be happier in a small cottage so the proceeds of his lavish estate could be distributed to the needy.

Mrs. Brandt, elaborately costumed like Marie Antoinette, asked for my help in the pantry. Once she got me alone in the secluded room she proceeded to fondle my genitals and place my hand on her heaving bosom. She kept telling me how young I seemed, how delightful I was, how she could show me the ways of love.

She told me she was experienced in the sensual arts, which I didn't doubt, but when she tried to place my unwilling hand between her sweaty thighs I had enough of her lechery. I glamoured her to discover that she routinely took advantage of the youthful boys their charity "helped" with whatever small portion of the donated funds was allocated for that purpose. This reflection of my own sexual misdeeds enraged me, and if I had not vowed to never kill a human again I would have dispatched her on the spot.

I did glamour her to experience horrible cramping pains and loose bowels whenever she looked with desire upon a young man. When she awoke from her glamour the sight of me sent her running to her privy pot. I smiled with satisfaction when I, using my very keen vampire hearing, heard her moans of pain in her bedroom as she strained trying to relieve herself, squatting on her chamber pot like the loathsome toad she was.

Having satisfied myself the Society for the Edification of the Young was nothing but a swindle, I took my leave, smirking inwardly when my host apologized that the hostess was "indisposed". As soon as I could I took to the sky, feeling the icy winter air rushing through my hair and over my skin as a blessing after the stuffy indoors and the suffocating press of party goers. The stars twinkled above as they had since I was a human child. I always found the sight of them to be reassuring.

As I flew I saw a large third floor window open and a big black and white shaggy dog looking out. I lightly entered the house while reassuring the dog with the special way I had of communicating with animals. The beast licked my hand then went in the corner and laid down. The large room was a children's bedroom and playroom, filled with toys, books, and the quiet breathing of the three sleeping children.

Each had a little bed, each held a stuffed toy, and their angelic faces had slight smiles plumping their rosy cheeks. I had spent so much time of late with the downtrodden, the poor, the very dregs of society, it was amazing to me to see these beautiful healthy loved children sleeping so peacefully in their clean beds. My eyes drank in the sight of them without an impure thought.

Suddenly a smallish man with a broad brow and modest mustache appeared with a lamp. He saw me and said, "You, boy, what are you doing here?" He spoke in a whisper so as not to awaken the children. He had a Scottish accent. 

I had no answer for him, so I looked down at the ground. He came closer. "Boy, how did you get in here?" His tone was not hostile or angry, merely curious and astounded to find me in the nursery.

I still did not answer him and I turned to go. I did not want to glamour him because he might suffer some damage from it. Most did not, but occasionally a human with an exceptionally weak will was hard to rouse, or remained dazed for quite some time. He might be the sole caretaker of these precious children on this New Year's Eve. I did not want to risk dulling his senses.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked in a kind gentle voice. I looked down. On a small round wooden play table I saw an illustrated children's book about a calico cat entitled "Pitter Pat" by Wendy Watson.

"Pitter Pat," I said whimsically, making my whispered voice sound soft and youthful.

"Peter Pan?" the man asked, making sure he heard what I said. I nodded, as it didn't make any difference what he believed my name to be.

"Well, Peter Pan, how did you get in here? Did you fly through the window?" he asked in a joking tone.

"I did," I answered him truthfully.

"I see," he said as if he gave my words weight. "And why are you here? Did you lose something?"

"I did," I entered into the playful mood this man brought with him, "I lost my shadow." I turned to face him. We really were the same height.

After a moment I asked him, "What might your name be?"

He said, "I am J. M. Barrie."

"Are these your children?" I asked him, feeling a certain rapport with him.

He chuckled, "I care for them as if they were my own, but no, these are the children of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur and Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. Their names are George, John and the little one is named Peter, just like you."

One of the children stirred so we moved to the far end of the nursery where our conversation would not rouse them. He sat on a large toy chest and I sat in a little blue rocking chair. I smelled chalk, cocoa, and shortbread cookies. I saw a wooden train set piled in a box.

A handsome cab pulled by a tired horse clomped past in the street below.  New Year party goers coming home, no doubt. I heard singing and laughter from the cab's occupants. Auld Lang Syne, I think the tune was called, a Scottish song.

"Where are you from, Peter Pan?" he asked me. He seemed glad to have some company, no matter how unconventional our meeting might be. He set his lantern on the floor, casting weird shadows on the wall and ceiling.

I tried to think of an answer. I wasn't from anywhere, not anymore. "I am from Never Never Land," I said. This was the closest to the truth of any answer I could invent. His presence affected me in an odd way. I felt playful and creative and open with him. I sensed no danger in the man, just an innate innocent goodness. I wished he ran a charity.

"I see, and how old are you?" he asked in a kind voice. He was probably thinking I was one of the hoards of homeless street urchins looking for a warm place to rest this frigid night.

"I am nearly two thousand years old," I told him. The truth was so unbelievable that I could speak it without fear it might be believed. I rocked a little in my small chair until it squeaked.

"And yet you are still just a boy," his eyes twinkled with merriment at our playful banter. "Would you not have grown old and gray by now?"

"No, I never age." I said. I felt the first tickle of dawn approaching and knew I should take my leave.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Barrie. I must leave now." I told him, standing up from my low seat.

"Will you fly out the window?" he asked me with a smile, standing too.

"Yes. I will head towards the second star to the right, and then straight on till morning."

"Do you have any family, Peter, any friends?" he asked, genuine concern warming his voice.

"Oh yes, there are many of us lost boys around. We help each other out." I was thinking of a certain big blond Viking. Suddenly I missed him so much I felt pain in my unbeating heart. A new millennium, a new start.

I put my finger to my lips in a shush motion, then I walked silently to the third floor window and stepped out, standing still on the thin air. Mr. Barrie came to the window, his eyes huge with wonder. "My sweet God, you really can fly," he breathed.

I took off, heading for the second star to the right.  

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