I wrote this because I love Janos, and the Janos in BO2 annoyed me in that he spent /years/ suffering at the hands of the Hylden and yet seemed to recover in the blink of an eye as soon as Kain rescued him. I don't buy that. Thus you have this little ficlet. It's set just after Kain and Janos return to the HQ of the Cabal and Kain has left for his next mission leaving Vorador and Janos behind to talk.

Further warnings: Um, rather dark. Very angsty.

Written, crazily enough, to all the sad songs from the first Buffy Soundtrack. ;D

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A Perfect Crimson

His claws shook where he held them tight against his abdomen, pulled in protectively lest anyone see his trembling. Through the bars of the street-level window he could see the booted feet of the human populace as it made its way towards whatever mortal goal it wished to achieve this evening. A fine pattering of rain misted down onto the cobbles making them gleam in the sickly lamplight. Never had the commonplace seemed so extraordinary, so gilded in new finery as this sight.

It was incredible really, he had seen the sight almost every hour of his tortured dreaming, his body captive and his powers chained, yet his mind free to roam through the haze of agony. The debilitating drain upon his strength, his very soul, the only anchor to the shell that his body had become. How often had he passed down these streets, ghostly feet treading unnoticed and soundless, their passing not disturbing the silver mirrored surfaces of the gathered rain or the dust of the summer markets. And yet he was bound always, nothing more than a spirit, not even a whisper of his presence communicated to the humans that surrounded him. And now, now as never before, these sights that had haunted him for so many years gleamed like a priceless treasure. Here he stood before them, perceiving the world, and finally, the world returned his gaze.

From the darkness at the back of the room Vorador regarded his sire discreetly, keeping one eye on the crimson liquid that he poured from a crystal bottle. He filled a chalice to its brim and set the decanter back onto the oaken cabinet. Then taking up the dark liquid in one clawed hand, he padded softly across the room to his maker and paused, suddenly a little uncertain. Janos stood upright and unmoving, his gaze lifted up to the high-set window, a tall aristocratic profile framed by the lamplight from the street outside. The pale light glinted in eyes dark and wide with what Vorador could only read as wonder. It saddened him and an unconscious frown pulled at his features as he took in the sight of his long-lost sire stood like a child gazing at Yuletide decorations.

"My Sire…?"

Janos seemed to snap suddenly out of his reverie and he turned slightly to regard his vampiric child, his expression open with blank curiosity. They regarded each other in silence for the space of a few heartbeats, Janos' thoughts broken by the interruption and his expression expectant as Vorador searched his maker's eyes to pick out the pieces of what he had been thinking. Finally the younger vampire realised that time was passing and that his sire awaited a response, and he shook his head as though to clear it, quickly offering up the chalice for the other to take.

"You know…I have no desire to drink," said Janos sadly and turned his head away from his protégé. Vorador drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, a habit left over from his years as a mortal.

"Sire, I…" he paused, feeling helpless as his words were rebuffed by Janos' turned back. The older vampire was staring upwards again to where the window of their basement room opened onto the street above. His eyes were tracking the falling raindrops, watching with fascination as they broke into glittering fountains where they impacted on the cobbles. Vorador looked down at the fading carpet at his feet, staring through the threadbare cloth as his mind sought ways around this unseen barrier. This question. His heart ached for the pain in his Sire's stance, in the lines around his eyes, in the stiffness of his wings held tight against his back.

"Sire…what…?"

/What happened?/ He drew a deep breath, his courage failing him.

"What are we to do?" he asked instead, his words sounding lame to his ears.

"Ah…" Janos breathed. "Time is short. That bastard has held sway in this world long enough."

Vorador looked up at the harshness in the elder's voice, his eyes widening at the unaccustomed fierceness he heard.

"We must be strong and take the fight directly to his gates," Janos continued in a whisper, "I /will/ bring him down, for all that he has done and…and…I…"

The elder vampire lowered his head and squeezed his eyes closed, his breath held to stop himself from choking. The tightness in his throat was almost unbearable and he was more than a little aware of his fledgling's concerned gaze.

"Sire..?" the other's worried voice was accompanied by a claw to the older vampire's shoulder. Janos shifted away from his child, lest the other feel the trembling in him and become afraid at perceiving his master's fear. Instead Janos could only guess at the hurt on Vorador's face as he was rebuffed. But the Ancient did not think that his child would respond kindly to any pain of his master's. Janos could foretell only too well the younger vampire's fury at those who had hurt his Sire, the burning rage that would blind him to the necessity of caution. And there was so much at stake here, too much to risk on a mission of revenge. But…what was this existence of his if not one born of revenge? Janos hugged himself tightly, his claws wrapped around his upper arms and hidden in the shadow of his wings so that they could not shake. This cursed palsy, a remnant of his pain, his torture at the cruel hands of his captors, at the cause of which were both the physical abuse of his captivity and the spiritual torture of his existence.

He remembered screaming. He had not meant to scream. The alien mind gripping his body with mental claws of steel had moved his limbs in ways he could not have predicted, used his body in manners that were cruel and unnatural. He had fought with all his considerable strength, all his centuries of learning and experience and mental conditioning, but in the end it had not been enough. The Hylden Lord had tried to force him to teleport them both to Meridian, the winged Ancient and a parasitic demon threading its tendrils throughout his body. Janos had fought wildly, panicked beyond reason as he felt the foreign pull at his magic, the violation of energies so personal to him that he felt he would go mad if the hylden insinuated himself further. He had struggled fiercely, adrenaline shooting painful paths along his limbs as his muscles fought a two-way battle. In the end, they had flown, Janos lying exhausted in his own mind as the other operated his body. The hylden had made a comment to him as they flew, some offhand remark about the differences it could feel between the positioning of flight muscles between their two species, and Janos' resulting fury had almost pitched them both out of the sky.

There had been darkness then, a suffocating blackness that had risen up to claim him as the Hylden Lord closed his mind down. The pain had awoken him as the hylden's mind left his, a fierce stabbing below his shoulder blades that felt like a needle of white hot fire had been inserted into his back and between his ribs. He had tried to pull away instinctively, but he was held tightly around the upper arms and could only fight uselessly. Disorientated, his feet had slipped from beneath him sending him to his knees with a crack onto a surface that was hard and cold. It was dark and he was close to panic again for he was blind where they had bound his eyes with cloth. With great effort he had brought himself under control, using his fury and his hatred to channel his mind back to discipline. He would not show them weakness.

Mixed in with the cloying scent of cleansing chemicals was the dry dusty scent of their bodies as they moved around him. Their voices sounded clicking and horrible to his ears, like the monsters that crept in nightmares. But he was of the First Born, the Children of the One God and he would show them no fear. And so he had prayed, calling on God to aid him in his darkest hour.

They had struck him then, their breath hissing with their exertion, trying to force him into submission. He had felt fear, a deep soul shaking fear in the dark, but he did not submit. When he had caught his breath again, he had spat blood and continued his prayer. They had broken his wings in their rage. He remembered screaming as he felt the thick bones snap. He had not meant to scream.

"My Sire…? Janos?"

Vorador. Janos felt his fledgling's concerned hand encircle his upper arm and was unable to repress his flinch. He pulled away quickly, turning to face the other with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The look on Vorador's face told him otherwise.

"My God, Janos. What have they done to you?"

The Ancient could see the horrified concern in his child's face, in the eyes made wide with alarm and the subtle shaking of his head.

"Sire…I…Please…" Vorador's voice trailed off into silence as he struggled to find the words to express his worry to the older vampire. They would not come.

Janos reached up quickly to pat the other's hand with his own, and forced his features to relax into something resembling his once famous warmth and charity.

"It is nothing, my son. Just a fleeting memory. I am…fine."

"At least drink a little, Sire. You must keep up your strength," Vorador said, pressing the forgotten chalice of blood into Janos' hands. He watched closely as his sire gave in to his demands and taking the gaudy golden vessel in both hands raised it to his lips to sip delicately.

A sudden fear fluttered in Vorador's chest and crawled along his spine, a nameless dread that made him want to shake his head violently to dispel it. He was terrified and he could hardly tell why. The older vampire in front of him was drinking more deeply now, clutching the vessel tightly as a previously sidelined thirst took hold. He watched as Janos drained the cup and padded quickly across the room to fetch the decanter. He returned just as his sire lowered the vessel and quickly, before the other could protest, he filled it again to the brim. Janos nodded a weary thanks to him and offered him a small, sad smile. They stared at one another for long moments, one desperately curious, the other begging silently for understanding without a need for explanation.

There were so many questions that he wanted answers for, nay, /needed/ answers for, and yet he could see in his sire's eyes the express need for his silence. Vorador's mind was in turmoil and he wanted nothing more than to clutch the other to him as had been done for him when so long ago there had been pain in his existence. He shook his head at that, his existence was still full of pain whether or not he chose to admit it to himself. And now this. What should have been a reunion full of joy was becoming a terrible meeting of secrets and unspoken fears.

"Vorador. Child. I am well. I promise you."

Vorador looked up into his maker's eyes. They were dark and full of sincerity. /But I do not believe you/ he thought sadly.

"Please, child. I need to rest," Janos said softly. "We will talk more tomorrow evening, and then, I will tell you all. But for now, I am so weary. I must rest."

Vorador sighed and nodded his acceptance mutely. There was nothing else he could do.

"Rest well, my sire," he murmured. "I am but a whisper away, I shall be close if you need me."

He took one last look up into his sire's eyes before with a final touch to the other's arm, he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Janos watched him leave, waiting until the door clicked shut before closing his eyes and lowering his head. He rested quietly for a minute before turning slowly back to the high window. The rain had ceased sometime during his short conversation with Vorador. Sadness, bitter and aching took him and he laughed darkly to himself. His conversation…more accurately, his inability to hold one. His heart ached for his child, Vorador had suffered much, and Janos did him no justice by denying him his confidence. He sighed and looked up at the window and froze suddenly as shock clenched his muscles tight. The golden chalice slipped from suddenly nerveless claws landing with a dull thud on the carpet and spilling its contents with a splash across his feet. It took him longer than it should have to realise that the twin burning orbs shining in the window pane came from the distorted reflection of the candelabra and not the light of a soul shining from behind the eyes of a ruined wraith.

His throat tightened as the realisation hit him, and with it the vision of the last crime he had committed, the last failure of a fool.

"Raziel…"

Unable to support himself anymore, the Ancient slid slowly to his knees on the threadbare carpet and bowing his head, he wept.

"Forgive me."

Unnoticed, the spilt blood seeped slowly into the white cloth of his guardian's robes and stained them a perfect crimson.