Bloodlust

Chapter Eleven

I have lived for long enough to recognize the false constructs of humanity. The words that they give to things they can't truly understand or explain, that hold so much meaning for fragile humans, are nothing more than that: letters, transformed to words, that try to explain the inexplicable.

For a very long time, I believed love to be one of those.

As a human, I had never experienced what the Ancient Greeks so joyously celebrated. Storge, that of familial love, was foreign to me. We were kin and blood, but dysfunctional, to say the least. Madness drove my mother and father's love for me, before the stranglehold of time brought them to their ends.

Though I had no shortage of lovers throughout the innumerable centuries, none stood out to me. True, many proposed, the most memorable being a German viscount who died falling from his horse during his ill-fated proposal. But in the end, they blurred together, forever marked in my mind as my bed companions, but nothing more.

It wasn't until I met Thierry that I finally understood the Greeks' eros love; that of which the poets wrote about, of which movies were made of.

The late 1700s were tumultuous times for the people of France. Paris was under siege by revolutionaries and the wealthy aristocrats of the city were terrified. I should know, as I was one of them, though my terror was limited. The fall of France's royalty would not be mine; there was a world that waited for me beyond the admittedly luxurious barriers of Paris.

Annoyance was the first thing I thought when I saw Thierry Gerard-Toussaint. It wasn't because of his status as a peasant, or his association with the revolutionaries of France. It was his inane talent to frustrate me beyond belief.

I had gone to the Aether Coven in search of a tracking spell - at the time, there was a certain person who owed me a great deal and kept escaping me through magical means. My meeting with the young tête de sorcière had not gone as planned, with the shockingly good-looking Frenchman turning down every offer I made.

I admit, my rage may have exploded just a bit. I bit into the neck of a young witch and dropped her upon the floor, her blood coating my chin and dripping from my teeth. The tête de sorcière had not been pleased, to say the least, and had sent me out of the Coven House.

Later that night, I had happened upon a revolutionary meeting in which the tête de sorcière spoke. I felt the inexplicable pull of attraction, then, as he passionately defended the rights of the average Frenchman against the aristocracy.

Sometimes, I wonder what would've become of Thierry if I hadn't so openly defied fate. If I hadn't apologized for my actions for the first time in a century and offered a vial of my blood to heal the witchling. If we hadn't begun a hurried entanglement which quickly grew to something more. If I had sacrificed myself for a greater purpose: Thierry.

If, if, if. Something I contemplate continuously, as if it will change the past.

It will not, but it helps to remind me of my guilt. Thierry's death was my fault, not fate's.

Nik asked me if I felt remorse over the vampires and humans and witches and wolves I had screwed over in my lifetime; who I had openly betrayed; who I mercilessly hurt without a perceived second thought.

I answered with the simplest phrase. "No," I had said. If Nik had been listening, he would've recognized the taught tone of my voice, the complex nature of my one-worded answer. As one should, he recognized the finality in my tone, but he did not see the pain that accompanied it.

I do bad things and I do them very well. That does not mean that there is not a reason for my actions. Everything I do is evaluated and thought-out, even if it is only for a brief moment. And all because of a faulty witch's mind, centuries before Thierry ever existed. Before Will and Nik did. Before Alastair, Anastasia, Zak, Tomasz, Adama, and hundreds of others that I have harmed with my actions.

You see, fate punished me for events that were out of my hands.

Is it fair that I was punished for the crimes of another? Perhaps not. I suppose, since then, I've done things to warrant this curse that plagues me.

It is one thing to live forever. It is another to live without love.

My punishment for being turned into this thing, into this monster who craves blood and upsets the balance of nature with immortal life, is to live a lonely life. The curse is all-encompassing. It is unchangeable.

If I retain a close relationship with anyone under the moon, they will suffer an awful fate.

Damn the witches of old.

The Greeks knew what they were talking about when they created their registry of loves and their gods to preside over them. It is not a small thing to be loved, whether the feeling is platonic, one-sided, romantic, familial, or all-encompassing.

There is no life without love.

And I have no life.