From the Journal of Darius Delara

Entry One:

Dearest Journal,

I was suggested to start writing you, perhaps to you, I am not sure, by my therapist. I am to write everything I can remember; to get it all out so time doesn't fade and corrode the parts of my memories still in tact.

I was dead, you see, for over five hundred years. My mate had killed me in an act of rash mercy. I do not hold this against him, as he was no more than a boy, just as, if not more so, trapped than I.

It had been quick, I remember. So fast and painless; another mercy bestowed by my Cameron. If left to Destris' mercy, I fear I would not have been given the release that was death, but rather a cruel life given by cruel hands.

I spent these last five hundred years watching Cameron grow from a sullen boy to the cold man he is now. It felt long and lonely, but also as if no time has passed by at all.

To be trapped between a state of life and death.

But I wasn't trapped, I don't think. It was my own choice to stay and watch over him, to be able to offer at least a presence. So his isolation and loneliness weren't solidified into something unyielding.

I knew him in life, I watched him decay in death, I just hope now, dear journal, that I can help him grow now that both our hearts are beating once more.

With love,
Darius Delara