“She left. She just… left.”
“What were you expecting? For her to make a choice? You really don’t know her at all.”
“I had hoped. One way or another just to know. This is, however, for the best.”
“My God, I hate you.”
“The feeling is quite mutual.”
“Everything I had done, all I had risked, it had all been for her.”
“I can say the very same thing. Even now, I totally, truly love her. Except I hid behind the memory of a dead child fearing that love.”
“Don’t even try and trump me at being pathetic. She said she loved me, when she didn’t. I never said I loved her, when I did.”
“Huh!”
“I was waiting for this all to be over, for my debt to be paid and we could be free. I was ready to say the words out loud to her.”
“So, we are agreed.”
“I never pictured it ending like this but it is suitably poetic to me. Yes, we are.”
“If I were to survive this, the Sabbat would kill her.”
“If I were to survive this, the Camarilla would kill her.”
“Hold me tightly. The flame will burn brightly between us for only a few moments.”
“If you'd like I can assume a different form? There’s a little something I’ve only very recently mastered that may take some of the pain. Call it a parting consideration.”
“No, I think it is only fitting that the last thing I see is you. To remind me of my undying stupidity.”
“Fitting.”
“I knew it was you, by the way. That time you came to the Elysium.”
“Indeed. How did you know?”
“Faith is a far better kisser.”
“Go to hell.”
“See you there.”
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4 comments:
Death be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else ; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown ;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know ; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love ; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.
But I am none ; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.
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