1796
Henrich - as he now calls himself in attempt to remain contemporary - drifts through a mutating world, following Alaric's increasingly confused and damaged trails. It's clear that the man is going mad, his attempt to anchor himself to an ever-changing planet through Henrich failed.
And when Alaric has crumbled to dust by his own crazed, ancient hand, Henrich follows war instead.
And when there is no war to be had he creates it, against humanity.
Alone, his exploits seem crueller, even to him, too much time to think on pain and death and pleas for mercy. His satisfaction takes on a brittle fragility, wavering too easily, descending into regret too often.
When he meets others of his kind, he loathes them.
He travels to London on the promise of feast, drawn in by the promise of urban squalor and easy pickings. And oh, they are so easy. People are dirty, poor, unloving and unloved. One or two more disappearances each week makes no toll at all.
"Almost too easy ..." Hal murmurs, watching them bustle by.
Wrickles Marsh at midnight: the alley echoes with his footsteps and the gutter-ash of dusk. He followed a pretty young man from an ale house. Doesn't know why, never knows why someone or other catches his eye above the rest.
This one, at least, is cleaner than most. Lithe and strong, only a little drunk. He might even put up a fight - already knows he's being followed and his neck is tensed, strides slightly longer. Hal smirks, ready to break into a slow, predatory run and-
"Why're you followin' me?"
The boy rounds on Henrich, wagging an accusatory finger,
"You shouldn't cos it's odd an' I don't like odd."
Henrich blinks. This isn't usually how his brutal murders go.
"I'm ... going to kill you. Prepare to die."
His voice sounds uncertain, even to himself.
"Erm. Do I 'ave to? Just cos my mam's expecting me back an' it'll really piss 'er off if I got ... y'know, dead like."
Hal leans forward in disbelief, "Piss her off?"
The boy shrugs, "Yeah. Mad as a box o'rats. And probably screaming."
"Oh for -" Henrich is lost for words, "Please go away."
The boys face brightens and against all predictions, he grins, "Aint gonna kill me then?"
Henrich shakes his head, "I think I would find it far too exhausting."
"Oh," the boy looks confused, "So..."
"Before I change my mind," Henrich says between clenched teeth, "and please be aware of how ridiculous you are."
"Ha! Sure mate. 'm not the one in an alley bein' all 'kill you' 'm I?"
And with a final cheeky grin, he darts away into the shadows.
Henrich watches the space he had inhabited, hunger clawing at the back of his throat, but can't make himself regret the look of naive happiness in the young man's eyes - his completely unawareness of his own mortality despite having had an entire conversation with the physical equivalent of death.
The next night he returns to the alley, leaning nonchalantly against the cold, damp stone. The boy doesn't reappear - why would he? - but Henrich waits until dawn, listening to the cool drip of stagnant water on brick, and the rates scuttle about in the debris below.
Henrich spends a long summer of confused starvation - he tries to kill, to feed, but every terrified face beneath his fangs reminds him of that boy and his wide-eyed innocence. At first he thinks the hunger will kill him, that he will become a desiccated corpse, or his skin will rot off and melt away from the bone. This doesn't happen. But it burns, burns hard and hot in his veins.
In October, Spain declares war on Britain, and Henrich is one of the first to enlist himself. After all, killing men who have volunteered to die is not such a crime, is it now?
By November he is glutted on blood, the boy well forgotten (or at least pushed into the darkened corners of Henrich's mind), surveying the delicate morning after a night's battle, the call of the nightingale tinged with pain on the wind.