Disclaimer: I do not own Legacy of Kain.

This is a holiday gift-fic for Emerald Embers.

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Vorador was used to this, although he didn't like these times. The first few times Janos had told him to stay away for a few years, he'd tried to argue. Soon enough he had realized that when his arguments started to get through to Janos they made him feel even guiltier, and these moods of his lasted longer.

Frankly, he didn't understand this, and that troubled him because this was such a big part of Janos' life, of his self, so not understanding Janos' faith was like not understanding his own sire.

Something very distressing to the fledgling that still remained within him despite all that he had seen, but, he had to acknowledge, true.

Truly, he couldn't object to Janos' faith, not when it was the reason he still lived.

Vorador hoped he gave his sire a reason to live, but after the death of his entire race, he knew that he simply wasn't enough.

The death of his entire race and the loss of his god.

The humans when Vorador had been born hadn't been very religious. Enough of the spells cast during the war between the Hylden and the Vampires had caused collateral damage that both the faiths of the ancients, the Vampires' wheel and the Hylden's secular humanism had become very unpopular. They had wanted both of them and their foul war to just go away.

Now, they had, though which was going to return was still in question.

Vorador tried to believe in the person Janos was waiting for. Objectively, he was certain that person would come: the vampires had once had predicting the future down to a science.

He would come, and the vampires would be restored to the wheel and the blessings of their god. Vorador wanted to believe in the hope that once again vampires would rule. But he knew that death returned one to the wheel. Perhaps the champion would bring about the final death of his 'new' race?

Janos wanted to die, that was the thing that scared him, die like his brethren had.

So if a few years spent in his aerie as a hermit, doing nothing but praying, restored him, he should be grateful for Janos' love of his god, that the hope of once more hearing his voice helped his beloved sire stay in this world, stay with him.

Still, even as he indulged himself with his fledglings, the fleshy, distracting pleasures he needed more and more of more decadent ones to be soothed by them, he was jealous of the god that took his sire from him. Janos was the most holy being in Nosgoth, utterly devoted to his god if he would abandon his only child and friend for him. Why was he not worthy enough to hear the voice he so craved?

Vorador remembered holding Janos in their bed during the day, rocking his sire and speaking soothingly as he cried for all that was lost, all that was denied him.

How long would it be until Janos sent for him? He would come, and he would kill the Sarafan vultures that hovered around him. He would drop whatever he was doing for the blessing of his sire's voice, of his company.

He wondered if Janos felt that emotion for his god.

It was galling, to know he would always take second place. No, third place: the savior came before him even if he was millennia late. He would have to chastise him for keeping Janos waiting so long.

He was also growing tired, tired of his race, the accursed ones, dying all around him, all his children: there were no vampires that were not descended from him still 'alive.' The humans would be destroyed if vampires were not restored to the guardianship, and sometimes he wanted that, wanted the Hylden to destroy them all. Vampires meddling in human affairs, trying to save them: what had it gotten them? But no, if the Hylden took this world they would do more than simply kill Janos.

The sword he had made, the one Janos guarded. He hoped it gave him comfort even when Vorador was not there. Janos' guardianship of the blade: it was better to think of that sustaining him than empty words, hollow memories or the coming of another. To think that Vorador was more to him than his child who tried to look after him, nagging, watching him too closely, as though he was growing senile.

Sometimes Janos was indeed irritated with him, though he was too kind (or too desperate for company) to bear a grudge. He didn't even despise the humans, though Vorador thought that would be far healthier than the bitterness he did feel. He deserved to be bitter at his fate, at his persecution, but…

Vorador wished he could make him happy for longer than those precious moments he made his sire forget his pain, brought joy to his face.

He wished there was more he could do, but there was nothing more he could do than the best he could. Be with him, cheer him, wait with him. Yet it was not enough. Only the salvation he waited for could save him.

Vorador tried to remain optimistic for Janos' sake, but centuries of persecution had taught him well: it would not come in time. Not for any of them.