We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. ~ Plato

The snow shimmered beneath the final rays of the waning sun, the light yielding to the moon early in the evening for the autumn season. It bathed the whitewashed landscape in a warm golden glow that would fall to bitter darkness as soon as the light disappeared behind the forbidding peak of the mountain. Secreted away within the mountains of the Pale, the Hall of the Vigilants sat stoically in the shadow of the great peak.

It was the home of the vigilants of Stendarr – monks who dedicated their lives to the god Stendarr and paid homage by hunting the undead and those who practiced black magic. They wandered from province to province, condemning and hunting those who so dearly needed the grace of their supposedly merciful deity. Each member, whether through the influence of their elders, or their own character, eventually succumbed to the time-honoured tradition of destroying what they feared, what they didn't understand.

As the sun set, the light fled in away from the hall, shadows growing in its wake. The little girl standing at the wooden chopping block, axe hanging limply from her exhausted hands, shuddered from the sudden chill. Though the bear skin cloak dwarfed her small, fragile shoulders, it did little to ward off the cold. She raised the axe, letting the blade fall on the log with a sound that seemed thunderous to her ears, echoing of the icy faces of the mountains around her.

Bastard, that's what they called her. It hadn't been meant for her ears, but she'd heard it all the same. The tall, black haired man with the thick beard and small eyes had asked the question: Who's the kid? He was a hard man, not like the others, and definitely not like Vigilant Tolan.

Vigilant Tolan was her favourite. The stories he told her she could scarcely believe. Had he really seen a dragon? Yes, he had said. Did you really see that man, the one who killed the dragon in Whiterun? Yes, the Dragonborn. I've seen him. You know, they say he has lovely blue eyes and he's really tall. Alesan said he's mean and fat, but I don't believe him. He is rather tall, and he's definitely not fat. Have you ever been in a battle, sir? Of course, he had said vehemently, I've fought vampires, daedra worshippers, spirits. It had taken him some work to convince her that he had. He was so soft, and a little bit flabby that she had trouble believing that he had ever picked up more than a dagger.

Quite unintentionally, she had overheard the man with the small eyes and Carcette, the leader of the vigilants, speaking in her room with the door ajar. Her conscience had urged her to move on and bring the basket of snowberries she carried to the bar, but her ears burned and her small feet remained glued to the floor. The heated sound of lowered voices had heightened her curiosity even further.

"She is a nuisance. Get rid of her." A masculine voice had begun the argument.

"She is a hard worker and earns her bed. She is only eight. I cannot turn her out."

A growl. "Then send her to Riften, to the orphanage."

"You know Grelod! The waif of a girl wouldn't last a week in her care. I'm not sending her away!"

"You surprise me Carcette. When did you grow a heart?" She heard a dark chuckle. "Especially for a little bastard child like that."

"Watch yourself, Borjund. You are only remaining here because I do not wish to see you return to the jailhouse so quickly."

"Still, I cannot see why you take so much upon yourself. Do you even know where the little cretin came from? She's probably the nameless offspring of some whorehouse-"

"She is mine! She is my child!" Carcette had hissed from behind the door. A defeated sigh punctured the silence that followed her words.

The girl's heart leapt into her mouth, and salty tears burned in her wide hazel eyes. Of course she was the Keeper's child. Why else would she be allowed to remain there? Her feet had suddenly unglued themselves from the floorboards and she had dropped the basket of snowberries as she bolted towards the basement, a safe dark haven where she could hide away unnoticed and unheard.

Now, outside in the chilling white snow, her hands were near frozen, the usually pink skin of her fingertips grey with the first signs of frostbite. She touched her fingers to her nose to see if any warmth was left in either of them, but gave a small whimper when neither appendage felt anything. Whether or not she'd finished the mountain of firewood Borjund had sent her to carve out, she was going back inside. She glanced up with a shiver to see the final ray of sunlight reflect back off the snow high above her. And then the sun was gone, and the snowy valley cloaked in a murky shadow.

"Minah!" The girl dropped the axe suddenly, whirling in surprise. Keeper Carcette stood at the door, her eyes glancing around uneasily.

"Inside, child! Quickly." Minah ran toward her, the simple beckoning gesture of Carcette's hand enough for her to flee the chopping block.

"It is not safe for you to be out here," Carcette murmured while ushering her inside. She knelt down to brush the snow off Minah's shoulders and head. "You're cold as the grave." She cupped Minah's hands between her own, rubbing vigorously to warm them. The child looked up at her with shocked eyes. Was this…kindness? "There are some snowberries at the bar for you. Grab them and then sit yourself down by the fire."

"You little pest," a growl came from the back of the hall. "I told you to bring in the firewood."

"Borjund," Carcette cautioned harshly, getting to her feet as Minah ran for the counter. "Leave her. Since you want the firewood so much, you can bring it in."

His low grumble was met with a cold glare from the Keeper. "Fine," he grunted.

Borjund stumbled outside to the woodpile. He had to admit, Carcette's little cretin had worked hard to cut the large stack of firewood in only two hours. Shaking off the snow, he lifted one log into his burly arms, and bent to pick up another. He knew he was coming to the end of Carcette's patience, and he was in no way willing to go back to the Riften jail. He bent for another piece of firewood, but swore as the pieces he held fell from his arms and squarely onto his toe.

Perhaps the extra bottle of ale had affected him more than he thought. "Bloody alcohol," he muttered. He made to pick up the wood again, but stopped still, his heart quickening and hair standing on end as he heard a crunch of snow. His hand fell to his belt, and his throat immediately tightened. His axe. It was on the table by the door in the hall. Borjund cursed the ale again and listened. Nothing. He let out a breath. Carcette's paranoia about those creatures of the night seemed to be catching. With his mind and body dulled by drink, it was no surprise that he felt like he was being watched.

He glanced undecided at the woodpile. They had enough inside to last the night and an hour or two past dawn. There was no need for him to remain out here, risking his life and the circulation in his fingers. His body gave another shiver and that settled the decision. He turned around and took a step toward the hall as the woodcutter's axe came flying from the dark and buried itself between his eyes. Borjund fell back onto the woodpile, his face set in a silent scream.

Carcette heard the scream and dropped the jar as she bolted to a standing position, the clay shattering on the ground. "Bar the door," she said hurriedly to the vigilant behind the bar. He began to protest that Borjund was still outside, but she cut him short. "Do it."

The man ran toward the door as Carcette called for Tolan. The aging man stumbled from his room, eyes heavy with sleep. Other vigilants emerged from their rooms, only half-clothed.

"Tolan," she said hurriedly, dragging him by the arm, "take Minah into the basement, and keep her there until I come. You are not to open the trapdoor for anyone except me. Is that clear?"

The older man's eyes seemed hesitant. "Go," Carcette ordered, pushing him toward the child cowering at the bar. Collecting himself, he picked the child up swiftly and took her toward the basement trapdoor just as the creatures outside began throwing their bodies against the door. He hurried Minah into the basement and grabbed a sack of apples and snowberries from the bar and threw them in after her.

He glanced back. The vigilants piled furniture frantically against the door. A few had spells at the ready, with their weapons drawn. The door bowed with the weight of the creatures against it. The vigilants moved back from the door and two of them sent streams of ice onto it in an attempt to freeze the door to its frame and slow the creatures. The guttural hisses of the creatures pierced through the door and dread wound around Tolan's gut. He knew of only one kind of abomination that possessed voices such as that. With their strength, the door would barely hold another assault.

He swiftly descended the ladder and pulled the trapdoor down behind him, leaving only a sliver open so he could see. "Hide in the corner child," he whispered hurriedly to Minah. He heard the shuffle of her feet as she obeyed his instruction and he turned back to watch the door.

"We must cut them down as they try to enter through the door," Carcette whispered to the other vigilants fanning out around the door. "It will slow them down enough for us to fire at them."

"They're vampires, Carcette," one young vigilant whimpered, the iron axe shaking in his grasp, "they are far faster than us."

The Keeper growled, sparks of magic growing in her hands. "Then you'll be the first to-"

Shards of wood flew across the room as the door finally splintered and gave, the body of the first vampire becoming visible. Almost at the same time, a window near the ceiling shattered and three creatures dropped through, their glowing eyes menacing. Tolan slammed the trapdoor shut and shoved home the deadbolts. With a grunt, he heaved the sleeper into place across the door and stumbled back from the ladder.

He turned to see Minah huddled in the corner her face pressed into her dress and hands clasped over her ears. He could hear above them the thunderous sounds of powerful magic and the shattering of glass and furniture. A bang sounded as something fell on the trapdoor and he winced at the rattle of the metal lock.

A sob escaped the child and he crossed the floor and sat next to her, pulling her tight against him. "Hush, we will be okay," he said firmly. She grasped his arm tightly and looked pleadingly at him. "You will see," he whispered, more to convince himself than the child. The shouts of both vigilants and vampires carried down to their ears. An ear-splitting scream pierced the chaotic noise and he held the girl tighter, whispering an earnest prayer to Stendarr.

Which one of their people had just been bitten with those ice-cold fangs, he wondered? He ground his teeth. They were fools to not prepare. The shouts continued, growing softer as the animalistic growls of the vampires became louder.

It went on for what felt like an age to Tolan, but it truly could have been no more than ten minutes before it became eerily silent. He swallowed, his throat raw. Had they gone? Or were the vampires picking through the pockets of his dead comrades? Or worse, were they feeding? He felt his stomach roll and the urge to dry retch overwhelmed him. He pressed his fist against his mouth and swallowed it back.

The child by him stirred and looked up. Unsure of what else he could do, he attempted a smile that he was sure was more of a grimace and held his finger to his lips to signal silence. She turned her eyes back to the ground, not before Tolan noted her red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands.

Before long, they could hear a crackling above them and Tolan looked up toward the trapdoor in alarm. In the dim light of the lantern they had in the corner, he could see a silhouette of smoke pass through the cracks of the trapdoor. He glanced worriedly back at Minah. If the smoke continued to leak through, they would have to leave the basement or die of suffocation.

Tolan tore fabric from the end of his robe, cringing at the loud sound. With the child's confused eyes on him, he took a waterskin from the shelf and wet the fabric, then tied it around Minah's neck.

He tilted her head to look at him, his fingers beneath her chin. "There is smoke coming through the door child, pull this up to cover your mouth if it becomes too thick," he whispered, rubbing the makeshift mask around her neck.

Tearing off another piece of fabric, he did the same for himself.

Again, they waited and the smoke continued to seep down. It grew thicker and Tolan pulled the covers over his own mouth and Minah's. The acrid fumes stung his eyes and again he fought the urge to gag. The air tasted of burnt bodies. Minah could not hold herself and wretched into the corner. They could not stay here.

Whispering, he told her to close her eyes and keep the mask against her face. He rose and walked quietly to the ladder, climbed it and unlocked the door. He gave the trapdoor a shove. It would not budge. He bit back an angry growl and shoved again, this time a sliver of light passing through as it lifted marginally. He coughed into his shoulder and prayed again, as he heaved against the weight of the door. This time it came loose.

Slowly and quietly, he pushed it open the rest of the way. Immediately, his head was enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and he slipped back down the ladder. Minah came behind him and tugged on his robe, and he pulled her up with one arm and climbed the ladder. Once they exited, he kicked the trapdoor closed just as the stench assaulted them even stronger.

He pressed Minah's face into his shoulder and bid her to keep her eyes closed. His gut churned. All around them were bodies burning, and beneath the smouldering flames, he could see torn throats, slashed chests. He pulled his eyes away, swallowed thickly and set his wary gaze toward the door.

The flames licked at his feet as he stepped through debris quickly, the thatched straw roof of the hall still alight in some places and smoking remnants in others. Gingerly, he stepped through the doorway and out onto the snow, Minah sobbing into his neck.

He set her down on the snow and brushed the hair from her eyes. "Hush, hush child," he whispered. "It will be okay."

She raised her watery eyes to look at him fearfully.

"Wait here," he said gently. He rose stiffly to his feet, the aches reminding him of his age. He could not simply walk away from the hall. His brow lowered. He had to be sure that there was no one else alive in there. The snow crumpled beneath his feet as he went to the door to look inside again. Pulling the neck of his robe up over his mouth and nose, he looked inside, willing one of his friends to stand from behind a table somewhere. No one moved.

Tolan brought his arms up over his head as the central beam of the roof collapsed, bringing the rest of the roof and burning thatch down with an explosion of sparks. He waved them off as he backed away from the burning structure. If anyone had been alive in there, they certainly were not any longer. Tolan coughed and turned away from the flames, making his way back toward the girl, eyes streaming and blind from the smoke and embers.

"That's close enough vigilant," a voice purred. Horror poured through Tolan, his stomach dropping to his boots.

"Where's the child?" he rasped, silently praying for his eyes to clear.

"Go on dear," another voice simpered darkly. "Don't ignore the nice man. Tell him."

Minah cried weakly. "Help me."

"Oh no my dear, he will not help you. There are too many of us for an old man to fight." Yet another voice spoke those words, to his left.

One of the creatures hummed. "Mmm, what delicious skin you have child. I can see your blood pulsing in your neck." A shiver vibrated in its voice. "And soooo warm."

The other creatures hissed and laughed.

Tolan stepped forward furiously. "Don't touch her you bastard!"

"Oh? Why not?" the female hissed. "Are you going to stop me?"

Tolan's eyes cleared finally and he rubbed the rest of the grit away. There were four across from him, their eyes glowing scarlet. One had his arms holding the little girl to the stump of the tree. There were another two to his left. Only the path to his right was unguarded, and fleeing down it without the child would lead straight to hell.

Minah whimpered again.

"Shut it, girl," the female, obviously the leader, hissed. "It's been so long since I had a pleasant meal, I might not be able to wait if you keep squirming."

"Please," Tolan groaned. "Please leave her."

"Run away vigilant," another hissed, a deadly smirk on his lips. "We do not need your blood."

Tolan stood frozen, looking at the trembling child.

"Help me," she cried, fearful tears wetting her cheeks. "Don't let them hurt me, please!"

There was silence as all six creatures watched him in his indecision, before the leader let out a short laugh. "Leave him, he will not harm us. He is too afraid."

They bared their fangs and the vampire held the girl against the stump, baring her neck. The female descended on the child, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I promise you, this will sting." Her fangs hung suspended over the white skin and the sight of the child's rapid bounding pulse.

The others still watched him, eyes predatory and waiting. Almost like they were daring him to flee. He seemed deaf to the child's cries, his hand shaking as it hovered over his throat, envisioning his own end as if he were in the girl's place.

There was a slick piercing sound as the creature bit into her flesh. Tolan paled, his body tensing in horror as he saw the thin rivulet of crimson trailing down, the colour harsh against the child's porcelain skin. The creatures laughed, mocking his inaction, the sounds harsh against the child's cries.

Stumbling suddenly, Tolan fled from the horror, leaving the child behind him as he stumbled into the night. Straight down the road to hell.

The tack on the man's enormous horse rattled as he urged it faster, forming a steady musical rhythm with the thunder of hooves. He had seen the tower of smoke rising from the mountainside at the fork on the Whiterun road that split toward Dawnstar to the northwest and Windhelm to the east. He had pulled the cloak tight around him and squinted at the light that made the smoke seem blood red against the night sky. It had been far too large for even a giant's fire.

His heartbeat had quickened, his first thoughts those of dragons. He had looked back the way he came, then quickly spun his mount onto the road toward the pillar of light.

Now, he urged the beast faster and faster, a dark feeling brewing steadily as he drew closer, the outline of a large hall silhouetted in the flame. The path left the road and they plunged into the soft snow powder of the wooded mountainside. He let the horse have its way, weaving through trees with a speed incredibly agile for its size.

The beast slowed marginally as the incline steepened and it began to wade through deeper snow. The fur-cloaked man slipped from the saddle and pushed the rest of his way up through the drift that was becoming sloppy and wet. The roar of the fire grew as he came closer and was hit with a wall of burning heat. The whole structure had ignited, collapsing in on itself. It appeared the roof had long since fallen through, making tinder for the larger beams of hardwood that formed the floorboards and walls.

He brought his forearm across to shade his eyes and cursed. He hoped to the divines that the structure was abandoned. He looked around, circling the structure as close as he dared to see what was or had been within.

With a start, he recognised the plateau in the shadow of the mountain, the lone tree on the slope, the outlook on the forests and valleys of the Pale. He recalled the stable and looked to his right. Charred and burnt to cinders, but still there. The wood chopping block behind him, but this time bloodied.

He peered into the flames consuming what was left of the Hall of the Vigilants. The blaze couldn't possibly leave any survivors. It had burned too fierce and hot.

The man shed his cloak and draped it over the horse's saddle, the heat becoming too great. Cautiously, he walked to the side of the building, wary of falling debris. Perhaps he could find some evidence as to what started the blaze around the building.

The breeze picked up as he rounded the corner, carrying the scent of scorched flesh. He knew it, and had smelt it far too often. The dragons had decimated the village of Helgen and attacked several other settlements, and the bodies they left in their wake always smelt of this. Sickly sweet and putrid, with charcoal and sulphur hanging in the air.

The breeze brushed against him again, tousling his hair and chilling the sweat that had formed on his brow. There was another scent on the air and his horse nickered anxiously, just as he caught it and his hackles raised. Vampire. He drew the blade at his side, the sound metallic and fast, and slowly stepped back toward the burning building and whistled for his horse.

He could only make out the scent of one. He scanned the area warily, and took hold of the reins of his horse as the beast nudged him in the back. It shifted nervously on its hooves. The man patted its snout firmly and whispered soothingly. "I know. We should go."

He raised his foot to the stirrup, but stopped abruptly when he heard a loud whimper. Turning, he looked to the corner of the house where the sound had come from, the side that butted onto the face of the mountain. He dropped the reins and stepped toward the sound, to the protest of the horse which shook its head disapprovingly.

His blade was again at his side as he rounded the corner to see a whimpering child, her eyes shut tightly and tunic and skirt stained red. Lowering his sword a fraction, he stepped toward her. "Hello."

The child whimpered harder, the cry becoming a moan.

He drove his blade into the ground gently, and knelt near her. Scanning her body for the source of the dried blood, he called out to her again.

A hoarse whisper answered him. "He ran away."

He only barely caught the words. "Who ran away?"

She cried out again from a stronger bout of pain, her hands trembling.

"Who ran away young one?" He asked gently. He went to his belt to pull out healing tinctures.

"He was supposed to protect me," she whimpered. "Mama told him to protect me."

The man's face darkened. "Where does it hurt?"

"Ooooh. My tummy." She gripped her midsection tightly, as if squeezing it would give her relief.

"Here, let me help you," he said, his hands going towards the hem of her tunic. "I have potions."

She hissed and batted his hands away, her eyes narrowed.

He drew back startled, then attempted to convince her again. "Please, let me help you. Just lift up your tunic."

She grabbed his wrists hard, her hands like a vice and bitterly cold. He tensed, suddenly guarded as her face contorted. As her body was racked with another bout of pain, he saw them: twin bite marks on her neck. His eyes jumped back to her face and saw the crimson irises swell, her pupils only small points of black.

He swore as she lunged for him, her hands leaving his wrists and scratching desperately for purchase on his shoulders. A feral hiss escaped her as he held her back, her skin slick with blood. She came forward again, long pointed teeth snatching at his skin. He could feel her strength growing as he struggled against her. One of her hands slipped from his grasp and claws dug into the taught thick muscle of his shoulder, making him growl in pain.

His eyes darted around them, looking for something, anything he could use to knock her out. The only thing was his sword, a few metres from them, standing upright in the earth. Too far.

She flailed wildly at him, claws trying to dig in further and he held her back with all the strength he could muster. Not even a man with werewolf blood, let alone a normal man could compare to the power and blind rage of a newly turned and feral vampire.

Its other hand caught into his other shoulder, and she pulled closer, slamming his head against the ground when he resisted. He growled back at her, and tipped their weight, rolling her over onto her back. His hands went to its neck as its claws dug deeper into his shoulders. It edged closer, his arms lacking the strength to hold it back in its desperate lust for blood. He could not cure the child if he was dead.

He kneed it viciously in the gut, and its advance slackened. A savage and sudden twist of his hands broke its neck, and the body of the girl crumpled against him.

He shoved it off him and rolled away, chest heaving. Adrenaline and anger coursed through him, and he pressed his forehead to the ground. The girl's body lay four feet from him, limbs splayed and neck bent at an unnatural angle. He thanked the divines that her face was turned away from him.

He brushed hot angry moisture from his eyes, coming to his knees. The heated rush of adrenaline vanished when he looked at her body, now peaceful and tiny. He clenched his hands, filthy with blood, dirt and ashes.

His face darkened in fury. He would kill them. He would make them regret ever setting eyes on the hall of the Vigilants. It was time they stopped preying on his people and paid with death for what they had stolen.

He rose slowly, the blood from the child still coating his hands. Let it stay for a while, his thoughts grated. Let it remind you of what they are. He pulled his sword from the ground and sheathed it forcefully. The crackle and roar of the flames ignited his anger. He pulled the cloak from the saddle of his skittish mount and refastened it around him, yanking the hood firmly over his face to shroud it against the moonlight. He swept into the saddle and the mount danced anxiously on its hooves beneath him, begging to be urged into a gallop. With the leaping flames mirrored in his eyes, he obeyed and dug his heels into the horse's flank, stealing away into the night.