oceans of time

Castle Dracula

I do not know how long it has been since Abel departed our service.  Days?  Months?  I cannot tell.  Time has no meaning here.  The sun will not breach the dark clouds over the mountain, for such is my will.   The storm reflects the turmoil in my heart.  As does the loneliness of the wood and the cold stone of the mountain.  Darkness, my love. The darkness is all that I have, now.  It is all that I want.

Abel.  My sweet Abel.  I miss him.  I cannot avoid the simple truth.  My heart aches for a servant.  A gypsy boy with dark eyes and a mouth full of irreverence.  I miss the sullen glare he would give me when he thought I wasn't looking.  I miss the way his hands felt straightening the back of my robes.  I  miss the sound of his heartbeat somewhere within the castle walls.  This place is so very empty without him. It is as if the castle itself mourns his loss.  In the stillness, every footfall reminds me of his absence.  

I have not taken on a new caretaker, and I will not.  I cannot stand to imagine someone else as my body man, or the thought of another heartbeat taking the place of his, one so very different from his own.  I cannot stand the idea of talking to someone who does not have his face, his dark eyes, or his gentle hands.  He was a gift to me, and…

He served me well.  He served me well, and I repaid him by taking his life, discarding him on a pile of bones for his people to reclaim.  Elizaveta, I do not even know where he sleeps now.  Deep in the earth.  Or in fire and ash, if they feared I had given him more than just a good death.  I miss his face.  I miss the sound of his voice.

I have not slept in many weeks, and it feels as if his ghost accompanies me on my nightly walk.  I feel his presence beside me on the parapets.  I feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin.  I welcomed it at first, but now, it bears down on me.  He was a balm to my heart, for so many years.  Without him, I feel as if the waters are all rushing in at once.

I have seen no other living thing since my return. I have not fed.  The hunger rages but I refuse it.  It is his blood that flows in my veins now, and I will cherish it for as long as I can.  Without it, the years gather in force and show themselves on my face.  Without it, I walk the fine line between madness and truth.

I fear I look like my father, now.  No, my father's father.  Old.  Like white goat skins pounded smooth for the pen, aged and thin.  It amuses me to look upon the backs of my hands and track the march of years.  My hair has grown silver and long, almost to my heels.  I have taken to wearing it in the style of the ancient kings, swept up away from my face, and then in a long queue down my back.   I know, you have always thought me vain, my love, but if I am to be forgotten lord of these lonely halls, at least I should dress the part.

I have not slept and yet I dream of you, my love.  I dream of what I would say to you, if you have indeed been watching over me these many years, if you had seen what I have become. My love, I would beg for your forgiveness.   I would lie face down on the stones of the chapel and wash myself in your tears.  The words feel like ash in my mouth, but I would plead that I have not borne the weight of years with the dignity and patience you would have of me.  But I am still here.  My soul, perhaps you might call it, still resides behind this monstrous mask.  Whatever lies within me that loves you still holds fast, and will not falter, will not fall.   That love sustains me, even in blackest night, even in when I fall to despair.  You are lost to me, my love, but I am still here.  I walk the earth, and I light the candles so you may see my face, shriveled and veiled as it is.  I am not lost to you.  

I am always, and ever shall be, your husband.