Disclaimer: I don't own The Record of a Fallen Vampire.
The incandescent full moon shines brightly over the field. The grass rustles lazily under the soft breeze; their chime is like the rolling of the morning tide.
The tall woman's platinum blonde hair shines silver in the moonlight; her ice blue eyes glow. Or at least, they would have if they were open.
As it is, they are screwed shut in exhaustion and pain.
Two hundred years ago. Two hundred years ago tonight, Adelheid was sealed, and Strauss betrayed the kingdom. Two hundred years ago, I became his hunter.
Two hundred years ago, the world went to hell.
Bridget stands alone in the cold moonlight. She opens her eyes, and allows the moon to fill them with a luminous radiance. She stands tall and straight-backed, a woman of heartbreakingly proud bearing, unable to be bowed even by grief and guilt, even if it did weigh with unbearable weight on her mind.
A million tiny stars, pinpricks of snow in the smooth onyx sky, glitter coldly down on her lithe frame.
As she draws her heavy brown cloak closer about her shoulders, the wind whispers familiarly in her ears.
I failed. I failed so badly. Why couldn't I see it before? When I think about it, it was so obvious. Of course it was Adelheid. She had the motive, the means… I just didn't think she had the heart to commit to such an act.
She smiles weakly down at the plain-woven black cloth of her dress. Gone are the day when she wears the plain but ornate clothing of a royal retainer, gone are the days when she inhabits quarters that are extravagant and opulent for one of her station.
The vagabond and the lonely road are her companions now; she is a homeless hunter, always on the move, bound by duty to help destroy one she loves.
At a time, long ago, Bridget wanted to have a home. She wanted to be able to wake up every morning and see the sunrise cast its tapestry of light over the same landscape.
That time is long over.
Now, she steps with ghosts haunting every shadow, urging her onward, pushing her forward, the ghosts of Stella, all the past Black Swans, every single vampire and dhampire who has so far died… They all mark her steps. And even if they didn't, Bridget would still walk. Because every step she takes, be it in the right direction or no, every step brings her closer to Strauss. Her master. Her friend. Her beloved father. Her everlasting foe.
But there is only one problem. She has no idea where to find him.
Have my skills deteriorated so far that I can no longer track him? Strauss, where are you? A wry, bitter twitch makes her thin mouth spasm. I've even lost track of the Black Swans over the years. If I could just find the present Black Swan—if there even is one at the moment—than I might be able to find Strauss.
It has been a long day of traveling; summer is fading out, autumn taking control. The year is dying once more. Bridget had to keep the wool cloak pulled tightly about her person for the duration, even during the reign of noontime.
Many would call her vigilant for her unrelenting hunt, but Bridget knows it is an empty effort, because for all she knows, Strauss could be in the opposite direction, and her hunt is for naught.
Bridget knows that she will continue to hunt him. She will track him down to the end of the earth, until the end of time. She will be Strauss' pursuer until she is consumed by grief, until she is made an empty shell by her purpose.
Because though she knows not what her effort is for, she knows that before she dies, she wants to look at Strauss' face one more time. Because Bridget knows that when she finally does catch up to Strauss, Strauss will kill her. Jarring in her grief-stricken mind is the unequivocal truth that she is no match for Strauss.
It is a sad truth, a cruel joke of fate, that a daughter should hunt her father, waiting for that same father to end her wretched existence.
By now, Bridget's grief had left a black hole where her heart should be. This will kill her, if Strauss does not. That hole is consuming all that made the world bright in her eyes, all that made life worthwhile is flooding away like the tide from the shore. The world is shifting underneath her feet, waiting to swallow her up. Her blood sits stagnant in her veins, unable to be jolted back to life.
The day has become night to her, all equally dark. The light of the sun is extinguished, and as far as her eyes can see, there is only cool darkness, the never-ending phases of the moon, the ever-shifting constellations.
Strauss is not the only fallen being in this world. We have both fallen so far, that all we can any longer do is rush towards our deaths, praying that our sorrow will be slaked by the embrace of Death…
Why?! For a moment, she shakes with anguish impassioned, feeling Death toy intimately with the tangles in her hair, feeling it brush a hand over her skin. Why did everything have to go wrong? Why did happiness have to be but a fleeting dream, peace but a whistle in the dark. Now we scream in the night, praying that others will hear, but know it is futile.
Her thoughts are all a jumble. She tries to reestablish control over her reaching, jumping mind, but to no avail.
I will never be the bride of any man, for I am promised to another. I will never have a home, for my home stands no more. I am the bride of Death, and Strauss is trying to outrun my grim bridegroom. And as the wedded of Death, it is my duty to bring back Strauss' head as a wedding present, and his duty to bring back mine to win my freedom.
Strauss' lover? Only in my poor deluded mind.
She lifts her head, letting the breeze play over her cool neck like the kisses of a lover. But there is no warmth here, only cold sensations over her supple skin. The scent of autumn flowers, of honeysuckles growing wild and beautiful spectral moonflowers, drowns her in their sweet smell. She is rushing down, down…
A shrieking howl of agony, rushing across the landscape like a black wraith, can be heard for miles as Bridget collapses to the ground, sobbing and screaming, her screams like a black raven. Village women who have lost children and loved ones wince in sympathy and send up prayers for she who has suffered like they have, other hunter feel the sting of their shared grief, and somewhere, the Vampire King weeps in his sleep, whispering apologies for she who will never hear them.
How was that? Bridget's my favorite character, and she seems such a tortured soul.