Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except for Elaine. Which should be obvious.
I just jotted this down in half an hour, so please review. :-D
He isn't really a vicious person. He just isn't prepared for the war. He has always been a fighter. But he isn't prepared for the war. To see his comrades fall next to him, to feel their agony, hopelessness, despair. To see his friends get sick, writhing away off the battlefield, to feel their helplessness. To kill. He never likes to kill. He avoids it as much as possible. But killing is a necessity in any war. He advances through the ranks, quickly. But he never gets use to war. By day, he is a Major-merciless on the battlefield. By night, he strolls around in the woods, savoring the quiet until the red sun rises.
One evening, he breaks. Completely and utterly breaks. He is sick of killing. He is sick of disease. He is sick of death. He is sick of the squalid conditions his brethren have to live in. Under the glow of the Texan moon, he cries.
From the shadows of the trees, a woman, just out of girlhood, leans against the bark. Her small figure moves slowly, cautiously across the clearing. The pale moonlight illuminates her white skin; her black hair. She stops behind the Major. He is unaware of her presence, until she sets a small hand on his shoulder.
"It's alright," she says quietly. "It will all turn out okay in the end. You just have to keep going, and hoping."
He turns to look at her. Her black hair curls gently to the middle of her back-her bangs obscuring her eyes. Freckles dominate her heart shaped face. Her little mouth turns up into a grin.
"It's okay, Major. Things will turn out."
Without a warning, she sprints off into the trees, her white dress flowing behind her. Major Whitlock isn't sure if he she had really been there.
He returns the next night. She is waiting-a spectator in the shadows. A light smile lingers on her wine-tinted lips.
"Hello." She greets him in her quiet voice.
"Evening, ma'am." A perfect Southern gentlemen. She gradually makes her way toward the tall figure. Carefully, she raises her hand, stretching out her arm to put it on his shoulder. She looks the other way. He breaks again, collapsing to the forest's ground. She goes down with him, never breaking contact with his arm. Swiftly, she wraps her thin arms around his torso, holding him while he cries.
"I told you yesterday, it'll be okay." She winds her fingers in his curly, blonde locks. He presses the unknown girl closer to him. "Things always turn out okay." Now he was dry sobbing, thankful for the company of the stranger. "At least, in the end." And she was gone.
They meet everyday. Jasper Whitlock is grateful for her presence. One who understands him. Her touch can say everything and nothing. But one thing is certain. She is comforting. A beacon of light in the hopeless dark of war.
"Hello, Major Jasper Whitlock." She greets him for the fourth time.
"Hello, ma'am." He is alright, for one night. He even smiles as her dirty bare feet dance through the grass. She sits down by him-looking the other way.
"I am glad to see you are doing better."
"I am glad to be better. It's all thanks to you." She shakes her head.
"I was just telling you what you already know." They sit in silence. The two contrasting figures. Fascinated, the Major watches the strange girl, wishing she would look at him. She hasn't looked at him in all four days. She merely stares at the grass. The girl rises up, but the Major doesn't want her to leave. He grabs her arm and asks her one question.
"Please, what is your name?" She snatches her arm back and darts to the vegetation. At the edge of the clearing she speaks.
"Elaine. Just Elaine." She is gone. The Major leaves the clearing, not knowing he was about to die.
Three days later. Elaine, the ghost, is waiting in the trees, a frown on her lips. Suddenly, the Major appears.
"Hello. I was beginning to worry. What happened?"
"Nothing. Nothing happened. It's alright now, ma'am." She strides to his side, and sits down once more. Their silence envelopes the grounds.
"You've changed." She states suddenly. Jasper looks at her, his neck twisting at inhuman speed. Elaine doesn't notice. She is gazing the other way. Her hand gropes in the dark for his chest. "You are not breathing, Major Whitlock, and you are so, so cold. What happened?" Jasper Whitlock will never know, even centuries later, why he told the spirit. Maybe he thought she could help him.
"I have changed. I'm a vampire." He wished she would look at him. She sits in silence. He wants her to say something, do anything. Jump up, screaming. Accuse him of being crazy. Anything but the silence. And most of all, Jasper Whitlock wanted her to look at him. "Elaine," he says tenderly, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Please talk to me."
"It's alright. I still love you," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. "I've loved you since I met you, Major Whitlock." Standing, she turns on her heel to run. But Jasper stops her.
"I love you too." He spins her around to face him. "Please, don't leave me." He leans in, towards her mouth. A terrible sound rings through the clearing. A bang. Elaine's mouth opens in shock, and Jasper looks down. She stares straight ahead. A hole. A hole right through her back. Straight through her heart. The musket ball harmlessly clings to Jasper's shirt. Elaine waivered and fell. Jasper didn't let go. Her hair moved up, and Jasper looked deep into her eyes for the first-and last time. They were a beautiful blue-grey. A clouded blue-grey. She was blind.
"Don't worry, Major. Everything will be alright in the end." Jasper's light flickered once, and went out