I was only allowed to see him one last time before I died.
And it was he, who killed me.
Had I known he was going to do so, I would never had agreed to the walk. I would have stayed home, cleaning and answering to my lord's calls. But I had agreed, and three hours later found me dead.
I don't remember much of my death, except for the hungry red eyes of his, for the sharp piecing teeth that broke open my skin, and for the hum of life being drained from me. I knew then what he was, knew then that my life was over, and I had only yet to begun to live. I was 24, the youngest of my deaths.
I did learn one important thing that day, however, before he killed me. A name, one that I have hated for all of 400 years.
Christophe.