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Twilight Ends When Lavender Falls

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"Get this Ravendalf. There must be a reason your heart is on the left... because it's not always right.

And time, reason, or logic ain't got nothin' to do with it either."

   -Conversations with Count von Graf, unpublished memoirs





The 18th of November, year 2880


... seven hundred and seventy years have gone by


The smell of vanilla...

I don't think I'll ever get tired of it. Or be rid of it.

You see, it's hard to find things you can describe in just one word.

Vanilla is sweet. It smells sweet. And sweet is good.

But what I like best about vanilla is the color.

White is pure... like a billow of clouds in summer or a wintry blanket of snow. 

Sometimes the radiance pains like a shock of sunlight. 

So they say white is blinding... but for me it's the only other color. 

Everything else is black like ash. Like the smell of death

Like the sound of ghosts, or the taste of sin when I think of him.


Vanilla makes me think of him. It's childish and naive, I know.

But my thoughts of him are not innocent. He's so pure it hurts.

He's so gentle it makes me want to break him.

He's so helpless beneath me I feel the urge to crush him, bleed him.

And his resistance makes it all the better.

Red must be a rich color, now that frustrates me. I become careless... 

I break him and heal him just so I can break him all over again.


I lust for him, and it's not the same as sex.

It must be part of it, how can I not want him that way? But it's never enough...

My lust is savage and tireless. As that part of me grinds into him

My nails dig into his flesh. My fingers tear into his soul.

My fangs tattoo him with scars. He bleeds...

He cries in agony and my orgasm soars. 

His tears frighten me, but they're too beautiful to regret.

I plunge into him with every heartbeat, loving his body and his pain.

We make love until the moon's grown tired. No night is long enough. 


My lust is filled with wants.

I want all of him, the scent and sweat of him...

Everything that's part of him is mine.

I crave the very air he breathes, I'm jealous of the rain...

The tiniest speck of dust that touches him.

I lust for his soul. I thirst for his blood.

My mouth takes him all in, he's hot and hard, and I'm burning up. 

But my hunger for him is nothing that food or drink can fill.

My body has been starving, yet it refuses to feed...


I crave something deeper. I had tasted him, ravished him.

I had thrust myself into the deepest part of him and took his all.

My hunger drags me to despair. His everything is addicting. 


There's an abyss inside of me.

A black hole that wants to devour him over and over.

My hunger never abates. If anything, it only grows stronger.

Under the moon, I chased his shadow. We made love like alley cats.

We were shamelessly dead to the world, though my lips have traveled every inch of his skin. 

Cannons fired, tanks roared, and the war ripped hopes and dreams in nameless places.

We withstood the centuries, or at least I tried. I felt the world change.  

Memories came and went. But in every one of them he's alive... 

I still worship the sound of his feet. I still watch him as he sleeps.

I count the rise and fall of his breathing like bullets through my heart.


But his pride is like a dagger, his stony silence a whip  

That my desire for him quivers when he kneels at my feet.

I get lost in his eyes when he holds it in.

I watch him pray, I listen to his broken pleas.

He thinks someone out there can save him.

I'm the broken savior who damned him to this hell.

I'm the only savior he needs.


The truth is, the world isn't worth saving if he's not in it.


I know I'm mad, but I can't help myself.

I must have him. I must have him again and again.

Even when I know that it ends the same way...

My deep, despondent love shall kill him, shatter him as before.

But I can't help myself. And there's no other explanation.

Not that it matters. There's no cure, no logic, no excuse.

I'm desperately mad, and I can't even lie about this.

It's not a curse, just a bad habit. That I can't lie about me.

It's always where the trouble and danger begins.

But that's not half so bad.


The worst thing about life is trying to die.

It's ironic that no matter how I hate this life, I can't even die. 

I've tried killing myself countless times but nothing ever worked.

Nothing ever could work.


By now you must know, you're reading the diary of a madman.


I'm tainted with incurable madness, I'm as mad as the moon is mad.

I'm as mad as the sound of rain, the scent of snow as it falls on his hair.

His hair is silver, thank god it is. In a world of black and white, his hair... his pale, pale skin...

At least I see them as I should. His beauty is real, not imagined. 

They tell me his eyes are the color of twilight. I try to think of lavender...

But all I see are petals falling. Someday I hope to see what it's like...

When the sun paints the sky before it fades into grey.

Then again, that's all I can ever hope to know from other people's eyes.

Still it's better than utter blindness.

Though everyone must be blind one way or another

Otherwise we'd see the ugly part of ourselves.

Not that we should. Not that it hurts to deny what hurts.

At least the things no one sees hurt no one.


To me the world is a dead monochrome of black and white.

They must think it pitiful that I can see only this.

As if it bothers me. If anything, I can use my imagination.

I imagine his color, his scent, his taste when he and I can't be together.


My mind is a flood of colors of him.

Yet my world is a walking shadow without him.


Like that day in November, a cold night under colder stars.

The year was twenty-one eleven, the eleventh day of the month.

Seven hundred and seventy years had gone by since then.

It's not like I counted each day. Maybe I did... maybe it's the agony of waiting 

For myself to wake up. You see, it was the day that I killed him. 

And yet it feels closer than yesterday

The day we said our first goodbye to each other.


Crying is not manly, everyone tells me.

But I know much better than to think

That I'm the only one who has lost him. 

They must have wept their own sorrows like I did. 

Maybe I'm the only one who shows it,

The one who visits the same grave.

I despair that the cold earth embraces him more than I can.

For my kind, humans are lesser gods. They can't be loved or hated.

Maybe it's one of those golden rules. 

But another rule broken doesn't make any difference. I break them all. 

And I never asked once to be understood. 

My grief is my own.


I miss him now... all the time... before I sleep and when I wake up.

Don't ask what I do in between, when I miss him more than I can take.  

I'll bring him lilies tomorrow. He must be happy to know that his garden blooms with it.


I feel like traveling again. But I'm leaving this journal to you.

You've been reading this, I know. So we're not exactly strangers.

Just the same, there are things you must know...

The owner of this diary is I, Sorey von Ravendalf.

Though Sorey has been my name for ages,

Ravendalf belongs to the family that took me in after the war.

It's a strange name, I guess, but nothing's stranger than truth.

They are a clan of nobles, an old family of military repute.

Underground, an old legacy haunts it, a secret alliance guarded well. 

The Ravendalfs are a family of vampire slayers.

I've been the inheritor for generations, the undying knight-commander of its forsaken flock.

That story you will know soon enough... the litany of my horrible self.


But as all beginnings must start somewhere, let me warn you at least:

This is not a tale of beasts and magic, or some outlandish fantasy.

Even if you doubt as I suppose, I speak nothing less than the truth.

But why you? You never asked for this. You have a reason to be curious. 

Maybe it's enough that you hear me out, that someone else understands

What I did, what made me do it. My crime must be beyond hate.

Yet, the more reason I ask you to listen... as if I'm talking to a friend.


You must think we're demons, wicked to the very marrow of our bones.

Indeed we're dark and depraved, Hell Incarnate.

Immortalized sinners but no creature of the undead.

There's no sun so hot it can burn us to ashes.

We live and breathe, our blood is as warm as yours.

We fall ill, we feel our wounds, flesh and skin.

And the blood that runs in our veins is neither inky nor stale.

We have no need for coffins. We're not zombies.  

The dead can't undie. They can't rise with the living.

I'm not sure if the difference between us is what gives you life. 

Humans have a soul, I've no right to be jealous.

We've defiled ours long ago, when we defied the gods. 

Despite that, we are not barbaric.

We do not feed like vultures. 

We do not cannibalize our prey.


True, our lusts are tainted and corrupt, and they're also of the flesh.

But we only drink the blood of our chosen prey.

Your blood is a gift, a blessing...

The reason we treasure human lives far more than you think we do. 

The blood is the life, one vampire says in one of those old, old movies.

He calls himself Dracula, gods, what a fake!


We do not take life from life. We taste its sweetness...

Knowing the humanity we lost is written in your soul.

No one can take what cannot be given away. 

And no being of darkness may ask for more.


Tragic as it seems, that's just what I am. 

The real thing, a living, undying curse wrought through the ages.

A breathing monster of a man, a most inhuman man.


Twenty centuries of living is what killed me the most.

Because of him I can only write these words. 

His words have always been quiet, as voiceless as the grave.

But they burn inside me 'til now. Those eyes...

I love the way they move when he reads.

But this writing, this journal... it's different and unnatural.

My mouth is vulgar, just like every hidden part of me is.

My attempt at poetry shames me. But I try for the sake of something better

Than I am. I try because someone like him, so beautiful and perfect

In every single way deserves more than half-ass verses.

But even pure madness can only do so much. 

And miracles are hard, even for the most insane.


I loved him and killed him, does that make any sense?

It sounds like a B-movie, I know. 

It's like something written in the tabloids.

Bizarre crimes of passion. Just another suspense thriller.

But if there's anything I've been wanting to say since that day,

What I should've told him back then is that--

I loved him deeper than any hate, far more than all of me could ever love itself.

I can't let him go. Yet he doesn't belong here.

He's too damn good for this world.


Too good, too beautiful, beyond words and poetry.

That's why I killed him. And you must tell him this.

You must make him understand.


I'll tell you everything so that you'll understand what I did.

So you'll hear my truths... the truth that makes me hate myself even more.


Love is mad, I know... but only fools like me cannot unlove even so...