*-* Erik I - Hunger

Night had come again and with it the relentless hunger. Or was it thirst? It'd been his companion much too long to care, by now. Too long without food or drink, other than that longing for blood, that he'd forgotten even their taste.

Not that he'd liked it much to begin with.

He had mastered it, of course, could be his same self as before. Stronger, of course, smarter, faster. His gifts had been even greater.

But the fear he'd inspired had also grown, and that was what had driven him South, away from the changes of the big city. It had always been a gamble, staying there. At the opera house, he'd thought he could let time go and spend his eternity doing the things he loved. But after those incidents, he'd thought it best to leave and start anew. Or wait to die.

He'd tried, the gods knew he'd tried to die, but nothing had helped.

Immortality, both a gift and a curse.

One that had made his suffering even more unbearable.

His love had never faded, even when she'd died, and her young man, now an old, frail man had followed her to the grave, he had stayed there, no less a corpse than them, still living, still moving, his heart still in pieces.

He still went to her grave every year, on her death day. Still put the flowers she'd loved, still wept over her loss and her choice.

They had given her the honors, of course, a white tomb, headstone of pure marble, an inscription, of a famed singer, beloved wife and mother.

The following years, she always had flowers, always had people, family, friends and admirers alike coming to pay their respects at her grave. Now, a hundred years later, the markings had faded, and a few other graves had joined her. Her husband, her daughter. Her daughter's sons.

She still had living relatives, but he'd kept away, as he'd promised, when she'd left him, putting his ring back into his hands.

He was forgiven, but would never start anew.

How could he, when his heart was still burning for her, a hundred and thirty years later?

When he'd left the opera house, leaving nearly everything behind, he'd only brought her portrait. It'd been a gift, from the diva herself to her angel of music, the only one she'd ever given him, and one he'd kept close ever since.

Not even the organ he'd painstakingly built inside his home under the Palais Garnier had been the recipient of so much love. There was also one shoe buckle, and a ribbon from her hair, small tokens that she'd left behind.

These were prized as well, and no less dear to his heart.

Beating no longer, but still aching, unbearable, every single, lonely night.

He'd built a castle, deep in the forest, on a hill overlooking the plains. From there, he'd spend the rest of time, in a place forgotten and lonely, beautiful and wild, where time still flew differently, away from the rush of modernity.

The years had changed him, only a bit. He was wiser, quieter. Nothing could move him anymore, he thought. He went through his no-life as a moving corpse, from hunger to music, from playing and composing to sleepless days, from reading and painting to drinking blood again.

It had to be his penitence, for his many sins.

He didn't believe, never had, for how could a god, good and powerful, inflict on a small, innocent infant so much pain? And then he'd been cursed with that bite, when he was curious and wandering the wild, remote places of the world. He'd thought it a gift, to be immortal, to spend the rest of time practicing his many talents.

But now, what was the point in making beauty and art, if he was the only one to bear witness to it? What was the point of bleeding, aching fingers, when no one could hear the music he made, the notes he tore out of his violin, to see the paintings he made out of his hopes and nightmares?

There was no point at all.

So this lonely night, with his unbeating heart, he started out looking for someone to eat from, someone who would go on with their life, none the wiser, who would fall in love and marry and have children and an ordinary life, and die at peace, surrounded by love and family.

He'd only ever wished for that, and it was the only thing he could never, ever get.