1The Persistence of Memory

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I am a miser of my memories of you

And will not spend them

-Witter Bynner

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He stood, as still as stone, on the balcony facing the fields and ruins away from the town. His room was the farthest in the back, the highest up. At noon, the sun hit just right as to illuminate his room. It was their room. She wanted it that way. Bright.

The bed had never been made, and it still laid in the same disheveled way it had been for the past centuries. He had counted, day by day, and will always count till his number is up which he prayes for. If there even is a God. If there even is a higher being. But if not, well, they might as well be the Gods; who else has the power to smite upon others as they? Who else could live an eternity besides they? No one. How disappointing.

Eternity. A beautiful thing mortals beg for, but, have they ever asked the consequence? Ever thought what eternity meant. Marcus thought it was a beautiful thing till his meaning for eternity was, in a breeze, swept away.

The day was sunny, per usual. She saw the sun on her last day. He had left, just a day he was going to be gone. What could a day hurt? They had plans. They would travel together to see the world. It's what she wanted. Her spirit was too free to be confined to castle walls. She yearned for the sun beating brightly on her face, and the feel of the grass below her feet. Marcus was glad to follow. He would follow her to the end of the earth. She was his sunlight. She was his warmth.

When he returned, it was a frightful sight. The memory haunted him constantly. Every time his eyes would shut, for decades, the look of black ash burned in his mind. His brother had always avoided contact with him since that day. All he would see was a constant replay of black dust, hair, and shards of bone. Marcus' eyes were so hollow, burned, as she was, by the image forever impressed in his mind.

As the enforcers of the vampire world, they destroyed when they had to. To penalize the ones who have wronged, in other words ' threatened our secrecy' , it usually involved in the penalty of death. The fire was lite. The smell burned the ancient man's nose. The smell, so potent and vile, wafted by the wind into his senses. No matter how he tried, the smell brought images. The smell of that day lingered forever in the air. The room in the castle, overlooking the walls with a fireplace and balcony, was tainted with that smell. The floor burned black. After that day, the door was shut, never to be open again.

The rest of the castle had always seemed to echo with her laughter. Those who knew her could hear it. Like a seashell taken from the ocean, her laugh had always echoed if you just listened. The smell of flowers and sunshine corrupted each hall. Some vases even held dead flowers that no one dared move.

Marcus could see her. He could almost see her running around the corner, sitting on the bed, or standing in the light. But as she turned the corner, her footsteps disappeared. Maybe he imagined her, but it was good enough. Because as much as he wished, with all his being, that she would bounce through the door, smiling and laughing, Marcus knew she never could. She could not speak, or laugh. She could not walk. She could not be there. She could not live. She was an angel, so what right did she have to stay. Yes, Marcus fell in love with an angel. Sadly, his angel flew away.

Marcus did not laugh anymore. Why? She made his laugh. He barley talked because she could not. The day she died, it was very clear to most that not only she burned in the fire. It was very clear from his cold-blooded screams that he would never be the same. He cried that day. He wished he really could weep for her, but he was immortal. Marcus cannot shed even a tear for her.

The sun was beginning to set over Volterra. He still stood very still, very alone, on the balcony. Her unearthly figure came up from behind him and began to intertwine her figures in his hand. A smile almost formed on his face as she commented on how lovely the sunset was. The smile never fully formed though. She wasn't there. His fingers slowly curved toward his palm. Her hand wasn't there. No one stood next to him. She would love the sunset, but she could never say. Marcus heard a voice. He always would hear a voice. A voice that was never there.

He stood, very alone, on the balcony. The sun made violette and pink hues across the sky. His ancient eyes had seen it before. They would see it again. Had she seen these colors the day her life was taken?

Did you want her to see it? He sighed as the last of the light faded and the sky revealed tiny stars. Maybe she was a star now. Who knows. . .

Goodnight, Didyme.