"The Conquest of One’s Self" (Byron)

Maalik's un-life had taken more than a few turns over the years. The past few nights, however, had probably been the most eventful in centuries and it seemed, quite excitingly for the Nosferatu, that this was just the beginning. His letter, delicately penned with quill and ink, had reached the Prince and he had met with the delightful Arabella soon afterwards. Sure enough, he had been summoned for a more direct meeting not long after the encounter. His thoughts were not solely on the Camarilla, however. A significant portion of them dwelled upon the extraordinary human child, Cereza. How strange it had been, to meet one so young yet so formidable, despite her lack of sight. Furthermore, the fact that she had sensed his presence was nothing short of astounding...

The day passed slowly and, as was often the case, the Nosferatu had struggled to sleep. He eventually abandoned the idea, instead focusing on making sure the Malkavians were as comfortable as their fractured minds would allow. When he knew the sun was about to set, his steady, softly uttered prayers echoed off the cold stone walls of the Labyrinth as he walked back to his personal library. Clawed fingers gently plucked a shallow wooden box from its resting place on a shelf. Drawing the air into his lungs (a novel experience for one that technically doesn't breathe), Maalik blew the dust from the lid and allowed himself a smile, hoping the Prince would appreciate the gift that lay inside. The smile quickly faded as he opened the box, the torchlight reflected in his gaze echoing the turbulent emotions that burned within.

"When a thing disturbs the peace of your heart..." he whispered, echoing the words of the Prophet (ﷺ), "Give it up..."

Closing the box once more and placing it on one of the many tables, often buried in books and scrolls, that stood in the library, the old Kindred crossed to his prayer mat. With the sun having just set, it was time for one of the five daily prayers uttered by Muslims to their God. Although he knew it would take time to get to his destination, just as he knew the one he was to meet would not take kindly to waiting, prayer was never something to be rushed.

Some time later, the Nosferatu emerged from the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city, feeling the wind caress the cold skin of his face as he exited the crypt housing one of the many hidden. Miraculously, he was early, so took the time to wander between the elegantly carved crypts and headstones, wondering, as he often did, who these mortals might have been during their brief existences.

It was a sneering joke often told among the Kindred of Paris that if you wanted to find the youngest fledgling in the city, you should head to Père Lachaise cemetery. The mortal fascination with the necropolis, the romanticising of what amounted to heaps of stone and bones, lingered with newly changed Kindred, particularly those of the melodramatic Toreador bloodline who swooned over the headstones of centuries dead poets. It was the kind of place where no respectable Kindred would set foot, which was exactly why Byron had chosen it as a meeting place. As a Gangrel, he had no melancholy attachment to the cemetery, but understood it’s value nevertheless. After dark, it's acres of tree-lined paths afforded a level of privacy that many of Paris’s other sanctuary spaces would not.

Byron stood before the Aux Morts monument, with its facade of emaciated, skeletal figures straining for release from their mortal coil. Alone and with a perpetually dishevelled appearance, he might have been mistaken for a rough-sleeper considering a night in the ossuary. His guest would arrive soon.

It was not sight or sound that heralded the Prince's arrival, but his scent. Had the Nosferatu not detected the same scent on Arabella previously, he might have simply dismissed it as another Kindred taking a walk among the tombstones. Following this olfactible trail, he soon came upon a solitary figure standing in front of a familiar sight. Having spent so much time in the Ossuaries beneath the city, he had been intrigued by its construction and visited it a number of times over the years. Maalik had no doubt that this very appropriate choice of location was far from accidental.

From the shadows cast by the trees around the monument, Maalik stepped into the moonlight, careful not to dampen the sound of his footsteps as he did so. Sneaking up on the most powerful Kindred in the city, if not the Country, would no doubt be a poor first impression. As he approached, he lowered his hood, allowing the full horror that was his visage to be seen plainly.

"As-salamu alaikum, Prince Legard... it is an honour to meet you," He said, a bow punctuation his greeting.

From beneath his robe, Maalik retrieved the box he had prepared earlier.

"I have no doubt that you have many questions for me... but first may I present you with a gift."

The Nosferatu's long, delicate-looking fingers pried open the container, allowing the Prince to see within. A white garment, folded carefully yet bloodstained and bearing a crimson cross.

"I have had this in my possession since before I came to these shores..." Maalik's voice was hushed, yet it betrayed the emotions lurking beneath the surface, "In fact, it played a part in me leaving my homeland, all those years ago. It was worn by one who would have defiled everything I held dear... Now I give it to you, as a token of my respect. May the attempts of those who would harm you and yours be equally fruitless."

Turning away from the monument, Byron was confronted with a figure who could have easily blended in among the garogyles of Notre Dame de Paris. There were some Kindred who looked upon the Nosferatu with revulsion, recoiling at the sight of their monstrous appearance. As a son of clan Gangrel, another bloodline that embraced the inherent animalism that came with Kindred unlife, Byron felt no such horror.

"An impressive gift," he said, looking down at the box, at the bloody rag inside, then his eyes shifted back upward to meet the strangers.

“How long have you been in my city?”

"I am most pleased to hear you say so, you have my thanks," Maalik said, noting the lack of reaction displayed by the Prince regarding his appearance. The Nosferatu had often found that even upon the first meeting you could learn the quality of a man, simply by his lack of fear in the face of something so different from himself. It was the nature of Kine to hate the 'other', whoever they may be. For a Kindred to shred this mortal abhorrence showed a true maturity and wisdom that was not gained by years alone.

Maalik paused to work out the answer to the question. Immortality had its limits, even on the mind; memories fading into obscurity.

"Since long before it was your city, my Prince. Eight hundred and nine years, to be precise. By the Gregorian calendar, I arrived on the outskirts of the city in the year twelve hundred and three. When I announced my presence, I was treated with great hostility, even by other Nosferatu. Religious hatred transcended death far more easily back then..."

There was a definite sadness in his voice. Truly, he felt pity for those long forgotten Kindred.

"Over the centuries, there have been times when hiding from both worlds has been necessary for my survival. When the Kine turned the mines into their great ossuaries in seventeen eighty-six, I found there were areas that could keep me hidden. I have been there ever since, tending to those children of Malkav who have lost themselves to their madness. There is something about the catacombs that must comfort them, for I find one wandering in the dark every few decades. I do my best to ease their suffering..."

“Eight hundred and nine years,” Byron repeated. Did that great expanse of time speak to the quality of Paris as a city, or simply the fact that it could be depended upon to conceal those who did not wish to be found? It seemed the latter. Byron’s predecessor Francois Villon had kept secrets in abundance and taken all of them with him when he had fled France. Villon had been a skilled manipulator. Perhaps the old Toreador had known there was an equally ancient Nosferatu lurking at the edge of the city.

“Why reveal yourself to me now?”

Maalik couldn't help but let a chuckle escape him, followed by a clearly emotional sigh.

"Ah yes, the most important questions are often the hardest to answer, but I shall endeavour to do so honestly," he said, his glowing green gaze examining the tortured figures that adorned the monument. When he spoke, the Nosferatu's words were saturated with the sadness of ages.

"I have lived for a very long time, my Prince. In the youth of my unlife I surrendered to my baser instincts, causing more suffering than it is within my power to atone for. I was lost. So very lost... Until I happened upon a stranger who showed no fear, revulsion and hatred. He expressed only sympathy, compassion... far more than I deserved."

No matter how long he lived, these memories would not fade for Maalik. They were too raw, too soaked in faith, to do anything but remind him of who he was.

"This stranger spoke of a new way, one so fresh even in the memories of Kine. That new way would become the faith of Islam. My doubts, my fears, all were burned away in the light of Allah. I have lived for more than a thousand years with these teachings in my heart."

He paused, offering a whispered prayer of devotion to his God.

"The Prophet Muhammad, may Allah's peace and blessings be upon him, taught that there is reward for kindness to every living thing. If he had been aware of Kindred, I believe his definition of living thing would apply to us too. Which brings me to why I have chosen now to return to the world..."

Maalik's green eyes now looked directly at the Prince's own.

"If Kindred Lore is to be believed, then these are the 'Final Nights' of legends far older than I. The feeling of dread in the air, in the very blood within us, was inescapable. I cannot stand idly by as the children of Cain face what lies ahead. I know that I must work with those I so often retreat from. Allah has presented me with my test. All is as He wills it. Allāhu akbar."

With their gazes fixed, Byron could not deny the sincerity that he saw in the old Nosferatu’s expression. Everything about their meeting, thus far, had been so earnest, so respectful, and yet...

“In the eyes of the Camarilla, I should punish you for breaking the Traditions.”

That was the right and, more importantly, the duty of a Prince, after all: to uphold the law of Kindred society in preservation of the Masquerade. In concealing himself beneath the streets of Paris and failing to present himself to Byron earlier, Maalik had broken the fifth Tradition.

“Then again,” he tipped his head to one side, still considering the creature before him, “I’ve never cared much for... dogma.”

"It would be within your rights to do so, of course, my Prince," Maalik replied, amused by the notion but understanding regardless, "I must admit, while there is much about Camarilla society that I am unfamiliar with, I was aware of the Tradition I was breaking. No matter how necessary it seemed at the time, I broke it nonetheless."

There was no need to beat around the proverbial bush; he had suspected there would be consequences to revealing his presence and was prepared to face them. That being said, the Prince had yet to show any signs of hostility, so perhaps his worries had been for naught. The Nosferatu's fanged smile grew as Byron mentioned his disregard for 'dogma'.

"It was often the case in the Ashirra Sect that the Wah'sheen, our term for those of the Gangrel Clan, were hesitant to take Islam into their hearts. I suspect it was much the same with the Gangrel of the West in the early days of Christianity; filled with doubts about religion bringing civilisation in its wake and denying them the freedom their Blood longed for," he explained, his voice soft and thoughtful.

The two unlikely associates stood quietly regarding eachother for a few moments; no doubt each trying to gauge the measure of the other man.

"One night soon," Maalik said, breaking the brief silence, "I will tell you the tale of Zayyat, a legendary Ashirra Gangrel I had the good fortune of meeting long ago. You have the same fire behind your eyes as he did..."

"Mm," was all Byron said that mention of the legendary Gangrel. His sire had done little in the way of instructing Byron in the clan's history, as their brief time together as sire and childe had been spent marauding through the country-side as savages. The thought of the muddy, bloody chaos that the country had been in those years made him smile a little.

“France may have been at war with itself for centuries, squabbling over who has the right to worship their god and how, but I wouldn't deny you your right to worship whatever you want.”

Byron paused, turning to look out down the length of the cemetery. How many entombed there had died in the name of some god? Even among their own kind, Caine was deified. It did not take a Malkavian seer to predict that prophecies of the Final Nights and Gehenna would, in time, become the sparks that ignited a holy war of sorts between the Kindred.

The Prince shook his head, dismissing the fruitless line of thought.

“I don’t hate them for that. I am... indifferent to faith. It serves me no purpose. The Traditions, however... serve a purpose, but they can be... as draconian as faith. I don’t plan on leveraging any punishment against you, Maalik, not as long as you continue to respect my city and its people.”

"And by that statement alone, my Prince, you show greater tolerance and wisdom than all but a handful of Kindred over the eons," Maalik said, his grinning visage clearly pleased, "May Allah's peace and blessings be upon you, indifference or not."

Despite being so advanced in years and so pious, the Nosferatu was not without a sense of humour.

"My faith comes with its own blessing from Allah. I am resistant to the effects of 'True Faith'. It has saved me from my demise at the hands of hunters more than once. You could view it as allowing my to serve my purpose..."

His tone was just on the border of teasing, before turning serious once again.

"You have my gratitude. I would be remiss not to ask, how would you like me to contribute to the Camarilla? Unlike my Clan Brethren, I do not have access to a vast web of resources. Not yet at least."

Maalik still shared the blood of Absimiliard, he was capable in all the ways his distant kin were. It was only a matter of time before his own network began to develop; after all, he had just developed a relationship with the top of the food chain.

"My assets are knowledge; ancient books, scrolls and scripture. I have accumulated quite the collection over my many years; one the young Arabella seems most intrigued by. My journey from the Holy Land to France might not have taken a decade if I had been travelling without it."

“The Camarilla has many uses for you, I’m sure.”

If there was one thing the Camarilla knew well, it was how to use. The number of Kindred required to maintain the Masquerade was vast, and skills such as Maalik’s would be in high demand among many.

“My concern is for Paris, always. Where do you see yourself fitting in?”

"Firstly, with your permission, I will seek out my Nosferatu kin. Much has changed during my seclusion. Perhaps, if they can assist me in getting re-acclimatised to this world, I will be better able to identify where I am needed most," Maalik explained, having considered the possibility of this question arising earlier.

It would be arrogant of him to assume to know his place in this new world. He may have the wisdom of centuries, but knowing where to apply that wisdom was another thing entirely.

"That being said, I suspect there are those that might benefit from my experience in many ways. I am happy offer my counsel to those who seek it."

The Nosferatu could have mentioned that he had already done just that for Arabella, but he suspected the Prince already knew that. It was doubtful that there were many secrets kept in that particular relationship.

"If there is anything you require from me in the nights ahead, you have but to ask, my Prince."

“There are two of your clanmates I would recommend you speak with. Members of my own coterie.”

Byron fished in his pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil. On the scrap he wrote down an address, where Maalik would find the two Nosferatu known only as Erik and Michel. The pair had worked closely with Byron for almost all of his time in Paris, and were among the most well-connected Nosferatu in the city. Not well-connected enough to know of Maalik’s existence, perhaps, but the Prince could not begrudge them that, could he?

There was the Primogen too, of course, but something told Byron it would be wise to speak to Victor personally before revealing Maalik’s existence to him.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Maalik's slim fingers gently plucked the offered piece of paper from Bryon's own, his eyes quickly reading the names and address. Erik and Michel... It would be interesting to see their reaction when he appeared at their door, that much was certain.

"As you say, my Prince. I will speak to them at my earliest opportunity," he said with a nod, placing the paper within some hidden pocket of his thawb.

When Byron enquired if there was something he could do for Maalik, the aged Nosferatu stroked his chin in silent thought for a few moments.

"There may be... Before I met with Miss Belfour the other day, I stumbled across a Kine child; seemingly blind, yet she somehow sensed my presence. While she departed shortly after Arabella's arrival and the Masquerade remains unbroken, I cannot help but think this is no coincidence..." he paused, smiling, "My faith tells me this child will have some part to play in the nights ahead and I have a feeling she will seek me out again."

His eyes were now affixed firmly on Byron. The fact that he was sharing such personal information could be considered a risk, but the Nosferatu was more than willing to take a leap of faith, based on how their conversation had gone thus far.

"I feel some connection to her I am yet to understand... I realise it is an unusual request, but do I have your leave to safeguard this child until her role becomes clear? Without breaking the Masquerade, of course..."