Archive of Our Own ^beta

23 July

The woman is impossible. 

Everything was going fine, there had not been a single fight as of late, none of our usual struggles or even one of her insufferable know-it-all moments. She's been tempered; she's been sweet. Her honeyed-gold eyes have been bright, and her giggles spirited! 

But tonight, as we made a return from Rigoletto, she just started snapping! The old damned usual! Questioning my enjoyment of the play, my appreciation for the lead, and my liking of the band. Claimed my ears must be failing if I didn't notice the piano being out of tune! The gall of this woman! Of course, I noticed the piano was out of tune, but that didn't take me from the majesty of the other players! And most importantly, it didn't make me enjoy her company any less! One supposes the same cannot be said of her. It cannot be easy. When has it ever been? I offer her nothing but smiles and embraces, but she kisses hiss and hisses to kiss, and I am no toy to be played with! I asked her this: "Does it please you to offend me? Does it make you happy to know you anger me, to know you make me question even if this was, truly, a pleasant night like I thought it was once the curtains fell down? You seem determined to sour my opinion of this whole night! Well, you've succeeded." 

Instead of a tender hug or a delicious bite, we parted ways like we often did: in silence. Absolute silence and the old brawl. Damned woman! I have my own pride. I am not bowing down before she does. She best apologises for her insults. I have no time for her games.

24 July

I do not wish for my journals to be painted red by my furious tears. Let the only red be the colour of my ink.

Tonight, I enlisted Benji with the task of installing cameras at the Castle Entrance so I could watch the Amazon delivery man. I am trying my best to embrace our nature as blood drinkers, but I cannot help loving mortals. I want to know him! I want to see him! I need to know his story, how he came to this job, if he enjoys it or if he loathes it. If he finds our ruse odd, or if the apathy of routine has him not even bothering to ask. I must see if he has been battered by duty to the point of oblivion. I must… I simply must. But I cannot ask him this. No, never that. Mingling with mortals seldom ends well.

On a related note: Benji giggles a lot. He always seems happy when he's with vampires. He couldn't understand my endearment for mortals.

Misery, poverty and famine shape indifference of the likes a thousand banquets could not perfect.

But the camera has been set up, and I'll be able to watch the Amazon Delivery man in a few nights.

26 July

Lydia came to my coffin tonight but didn't stay. She handed me a small envelope, said it was a gift, and then left. I have only just opened it. It is a white-gold bracelet. A delicate little trinket with a charm pendant of a rabbit with ruby eyes. A white-gold rabbit! Is it for luck? And the envelope itself smelled of lavender like she does. Did she spray her body mist on it? Did she buy this as an apology? It's a beautiful bracelet from a brand which bears her goddess' name: Pandora. I have carefully written her name on a card with my best fountain pen and sprayed it with my own perfume so that my red rose will mix with her lavender. I put it inside her envelope and placed it under my pillow. I must thank her for this gift tomorrow evening. I must hold her in my arms and smell flowers in her hair. 

27 July

The damn woman left Auvergne without notice. In her chambers, a simple post-it said: "Gone for Taylor Swift concert with Bia Sev and Ally" I have set it on fire. Why does she always play with my heart, always?

Why can't it be easy?!

28 July

Quiet night. I've spent it repeatedly watching the two-minute-long footage of the Amazon Delivery man, whose name tag reads "Bertrand". Bertrand seems to be always listening to his headphones when he comes. I have asked Benji if we can record it and he set up a hidden mic beside my camera. 

29 July

I enlisted Sybelle to uncover which song the Amazon Delivery man was listening to. I had to pry her from Antoine's company. For modern music, no vampire could compare to Sybelle, and of course, my blood made her strong. She's a powerful vampire. 

She said my mortal courier is listening to a song called "Feuer Frei!" by a German band called "Rammstein". What a wonder! Bertrand is a lithe and delicate thing, with toned and strong arms coming from craft and trade, not heritage. His brown hair shines lustrously under the summer sun, and even with the blurry camera footage, my sight caught his long lashes. Even Sybelle found him lovely. But Rammstein is such a… Strange band. I cannot appreciate modern Rock. But this hard-working man seems to love it! He bobbed his head in his truck to the tune of it. I cannot make sense of it. But I must.

31 July

Uneventful nights lately, the evenings are still warm and the village is quiet during French Holidays. I still cannot make sense of Rammstein. Sybelle says it's about their dedication to the craft. She thinks I could maybe relate to that. I will try. 

31 July (cont.)

Sybelle doesn't seem to mind how the blood made her play perfectly beyond what a mortal ever might. Unsure how I feel about her confidence. Best not to feel at all.

1 August

Pardon the paper. Received a letter from Pandora which asked for my presence at a dress parlour in Vienna. Waiting for me at the dress parlour were Flavius and Fontayne. I did not wish to join them. It seemed to me, then, that Pandora decided to make me just another man in her little audience, and I would not stand to be treated as such, for I am not one of her little fledglings to be accepting of this mistreatment.

But the wise Athenian looked healthier than ever, his short hair carefully hidden beneath a black beanie. He wore a lovely floral bomber jacket made of canvas that was, in itself, a work of art! Oh, Flavius! Sweet Flavius, who was always so wise and revered, always so intelligent and tempered, bowed to me and said in earnest: "Oh, Sir, it's been such a long time since we talked. Have you been reading anything of interest?" I had no inkling to leave. I would not stay for Pandora, but I did for him. He was right; it had been too long. He asked me what I had been up to, I mentioned the courier, and Flavius laughed. "Always eager to befriend the help, sir. It's easy to love you." It warmed my heart. The distant smell of flowers wafted through the warm night, and I might have asked for forgiveness as I never truly meant for him to feel unwanted upon his turning. But the brilliant Athenian waved me away. Fontayne was there too, somewhere, while we talked, doing whatever it is he does.

When she arrived, Pandora invited us to her seamstress. She wanted us to help her pick dresses. Thus meaning I was right: she wanted an audience, not to apologise. I would not play her game, but Flavius gave me way, and I stayed for him.

Flavius shredded each dress he didn't like with knives of insults and admonition. He liked perhaps one out of four, but even then, never without suggesting improvements. In comparison, Fontayne constantly said he loved the dresses. All of them. No exceptions. Dmitri, like Louis, is the pale shadow of my lovers. He and Pandora match; that much is true, for women love men who never deny any of their whims. But he is perhaps a faint back vocal to her contralto solo. But as a Maker, I must concede: his love for her is real; he does not mistreat her, quite the opposite, and as her child, I must tolerate him. But he is too frail a man, too timid a lover. 

There was a particular time when this infuriating man forced my hand into saying out loud what was clear in his eyes. Pandora came out of the screen wearing a gorgeous cut of a dress with a sensual slit on her legs. It was made of chiffon and silk which gave the impression of being sewn into her body in rippling waves of fabric. She looked stunning, except that it was in a dreadful colour, and Flavius promptly said as much. "Marius?" she taunted, and I didn't cave in. But then she turned to her fledgling and prompted the same "Dmitri?" And he took a deep breath, sighed like a forlorn Victorian child dying of consumption and merely whispered. "The previous one flatters you more." Acquiesced when distaste was clear in his face! 

The man in me, who's been dead for two thousand years, wanted to come back to life just so he could strangle Dmitri Fontayne right then.

Luckily, I'm too rational to give in to baseless aggression.

Alas, I had to intervene. I just had. I could not tolerate her giggling at Fontayne's answer like this spineless man's inability to tell her no somehow pleased her immensely. I said what we were all thinking. It was a beautiful dress, yes, and she looked stunning in it, but the colour was awful. It was horrible to the point of feeling like mockery that she even dared present a dress in this colour. The colour was awful, and she had to know it. She has to know it! She has been walking this Earth for two thousand years. By now, the least one can expect is that she knows lemon yellow is not her colour. 

She laughed and said: "Would it be better if it were red?" Cruel woman. It is always her maintaining the brawl. I could not tolerate her games anymore. I stood and left. She dared gasping! Seemed dejected to see me leave! But if it were so, she shouldn't have taunted me so horribly. I could tolerate the taunt of the invitation, the taunt of her refusal to apologise, but not this taunt against my love. She mocks me by proposing to wear my red?! Would that offend her?! Is my love a joke to her? 

I flew off but decided to book myself a hotel in Bratislava and turned off my phone. I am writing this in the notepad the hotel offered in the room instead of my usual journal. Damned woman.

2 August

Don't feel like writing but want to take note: Flavius sent me a heartfelt SMS after the fiasco of yesterday's night. "Always good to catch up with an old friend. Glad to see you and the miss still love one another so intensively." I reassured him the feeling was mutual. Of Pandora, I had nothing to say. He may be an old friend, but he is still her fledgling, and she has not apologised.

2 August (cont.)

Writing a small note on a little annoying mess so I don't forget it in the future. I have been in contact with my Maker via SMS. Mostly formal conversation. He sometimes asks me for updates on the status of the court, which annoys me, for he could simply read the Court Agenda and minutes, which I ensure are always circulated. Doesn't matter. I haven't told him of the Amazon man or of the situation with Pandora. However, it seems he has caught wind of it, for he surprisingly asked tonight: "How was it in Vienna?" which obviously prompted me to ask who told him. My maker said he still keeps tabs on Talamasca, and four vampires having a night out in a city that has no coven raises concerns.

I was happy to let the subject drop, but he added: "And how is your son?" which was concerning. 

I asked if he knew something about Amadeo that I didn't, and this is what I intend to register: I felt, then, a strong frustration and offence that my maker never interfered with our demise. Did he know of my burnt state in Venice? Did he know of the Roman coven? Raymond certainly knew of what had been made of Amadeo. Why didn't my maker come to my boy's aid like I came for Daniel? I can understand a Maker's conflicted heart towards a fledgling whose choices he may condemn, so I can see why he didn't come for me (I guess). But what resentment did he have towards that boy to have spurned from him indifference only one's maker, a lover, or a father, should be entitled to feel? Why didn't he open his arms and heart for my boy?

His response was: "Nothing, Marius. Only that his domain remains unchallenged and unquestioned. Nobody can get too close, not even my former underlings."

I did not know what to make of the whole topic and felt very willing to let it be dropped, for this message had come almost at the same time as Flavius' when the most shocking message popped in my chat with Teskhamen: "It is never too late to love a lost fledgling."

I am always happy to assume the best from my maker, but this felt too strongly like a jab at my and Amadeo's past, and I would not accept that. "Let's not talk of Armand and his relationship with me."

He answered: "Very well. Good night, my fledgling," and has not sent me any messages since, and my pride has felt a little wounded all night. Something akin to resentment. I will wait until he sends a message first, or for him to come to court in person. 

I must also note this note ended up being much bigger than I intended.

5 August

Several days have passed and I feel I must register the past two nights in detail before they fade away from memory, especially the night of 4 August.

Tense discussions broke out in court three nights ago, but I could not pay attention to it. I noticed early on that Thorne wasn't his usual self. From his favourite place, standing at the corner of the council room, I saw his eyes distant and misty, his mind clearly elsewhere while mine was focused on his wonders. 

I flipped through my agenda a few times before I realised what was afoot: the anniversary of Maharet's death. 

When the session ended with the younger De Landen sisters taking Cyril, Louis and Lestat to Notker's abbey to sort out (appease) the choir boy civil war, I approached Thorne, inviting him to a hunt anywhere of his preference. He smiled, and perhaps Thorne knew I meant it more for his worried mind than for his empty belly. How sensible he is! How unexpected of a Viking, with his emotional heart, to be such a kind-hearted giant. He hugged me like men do — strong muscles crushing me against his broad chest with his grown beard rubbing against my neck.

His embrace grounded me to him, and perhaps him to me, to now, to present. We left for Lyon for a bar, where I sat at the corner to sketch while he charmed young mortal after young mortal with his rugged, rough beauty. Eight sketches of Thorne feeding himself with his preferred little drinks. 

When we returned home to Auvergne, he had a full belly that was bulging and strangely attractive. Men's bellies usually don't do for me what boy's bellies do, but Thorne is a wonder.

"Let me sit in your crypt and listen to your stories," I proposed.

"But you intend to be a listener this time? It's usually the other way round," Thorne teased, letting me in and locking the stone door. He's taken to a small stone crypt in the common wings. Being close to the young, weak ones makes him feel more useful if something comes up.  I let him lay against the stone of his crypt shelf, and I occupied the space as I could, mourning how Thorne did not build his crypt for two!

"Very well, let me tell you a tale of my youth, Roman. Back in my land, which your kind never occupied."

"Indeed," I laid at his side, our long tresses tangling up on pillows, our legs interlacing. He makes me feel small, which is a strange, seldom acceptable wonder.

"When I was young there was a tradition of a father passing down a youthful version of whatever a man's trade when a son was eight. My father, you see, was a seafarer, a trader by nature and a wanderer by heart. I had spent hours at my mother's company, waiting for his return. At that time, I was merely a boy, a little thing and like most boys, I dreamt of being a man, being a warrior, too. I expected him to give me some tools for sailing, perhaps a rope-cutting sawed knife for climbing up masts and tearing fishing nets. Instead, my father gave me a wood-carving knife and chisel. I had never been so disappointed."

Only now do I recall his words: like most boys, I dreamt of being a man. They make me smile even now as I write, but I don't remember if I smiled then. Instead, I said: "Boys usually prefer swords to pens, and it's no wonder you were the same. Did you know him to be a lumberjack?"

"A lumberjack he never was, no, but only then did I notice once he made it back, he would always have a lovespoon carved for my mother. Beautiful, intricate works which I never cared for. And even then, I didn't. It was only years, a good decade or, no — even better, it was only after death that I saw the value in it. He taught me how to carve, but not how to rip a net, for during his seafaring trips, the most he did was long for shore and carve a gift for the wife waiting for his return."

His voice, bass and resonating, was only as beautiful as he is, and on his breath, I could smell the fresh scent of mortal blood, which was so enticing. I felt waves of music in his voice as he retold me a tale of his first lovespoon, given to Maharet and left behind by her once she finally abandoned him. A keepsake he burned in furious rage. I held him in my arms, and he rested against my neck.

Thorne isn't one for crying. I wonder what it would take to make a man like him cry. 

Instead, he laughed, or perhaps merely chuckled a calm mirror, deflecting it all. "Tell me one of your tales, now. I would carve you a lovespoon."

"Would you?"

"For your tales." 

"If they please you," I told Thorne about the Amazon delivery man and of Rammstein. Thorne listened with little change in his expression, his eyes a tranquil lullaby. 

"Do you have it on you? The music?"

"Not now," I said. "Not when your eyes are hazy and calm, not when you are relaxed and about to doze off into pleasant dreams. It's perhaps a bit too agitated, and frankly… Jarring. Let me tell you some silly story from my own past; let it soothe you to sleep. I fear most vampires are horribly fatigued by my tales."

"Not me, never me."

I don't remember now what short tale I told him. The silver bell, maybe. Doesn't matter. Thorne heard it all and then simply replied. "A good tale, Roman. And now, I'll sleep. Good dreams. May they bring you the calm you brought me tonight." With a final kiss, he closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep. The spell was broken on the following night, and we each went our ways with a simple farewell to a long embrace.

5 August (cont.)

My old companion Daniel suddenly arrived in Auvergne in the early hours of the morning! If I knew he was coming, I would have collected him from Lyon train station. He didn't inform me…

Amadeo, he said, has remained in Paris to reinforce his ownership of the Coven House in Saint-Germain-des-Près. Daniel has chosen to take residence in his maker's rooms… And not mine. Both Daniel and Amadeo will be gone after the Winter Solstice ball, as usual, but hopefully, that means I'll have them near all of autumn. 

5 August (cont. again)

Sent Thorne a link to Rammstein's spotify profile. Eager for his opinion. Checked on Daniel before coming to my own crypt. The boy was soundly asleep and did not forget to change into his pyjamas, which is good. Going to slumber now. Bedtime 5:34 am.

6 August

Daniel invited me tonight for a trip down to Lyon, so he might collect something from a seller. It had been a long while since the two of us had any time together. Why did I have to lose both of them when I left Trinity Gate for Court? Why didn't they come? I thought they would come… What keeps them in America? Distance poisons my heart.

Once the gift was bagged, we hunted. He seemed conscious of his feeding but picked a decent victim in a wife-beater and disposed of his victim properly. I cannot complain. All in all, Daniel is better; that much is clear, but it feels like he still inhabits his mind first and foremost. He would benefit from a careful watch! Amadeo is just one vampire. The court offers plenty of eyes! Even if Daniel has left me, I treasure him! It's not fair to have this one so far from me after so many years... The boy must be kept and cared for and any sensible man would agree this would be easier in court. 

Daniel kissed me goodbye before he went to his coffin. His lips were delightfully warm, and I did not expect such a lovely display of affection. He said he was looking forward to some quiet time and asked me to recommend some songs for him to listen to, which I also did not expect.  I must carefully think of some recommendations for him… I thought of recommending Rammstein, but I still haven't been able to make sense of it. Waiting for Thorne's verdict.

6 August (cont.)

Daniel slept without changing into pyjamas. A little concerning. Will keep watch over him tomorrow, too.

7 August

I invited Daniel to come watch the latest footage of my courier, and this time, Bertrand was listening to "Haifisch" (according to Sybelle). Neither I nor Daniel could make sense of it, which is a big relief. I would be devastated to discover I wasn't keeping up with the ages, but if my modern Daniel couldn't, perhaps I am not so far off the bat. We decided to invite Thorne at Daniel's suggestion. Apparently, he loved Rammstein. 

"It's dope," Thorne said.

Daniel explained that doesn't mean it is like a drug, more like it's good — maybe some parallel here between dope and addiction, for Thorne said he had been listening to it non-stop.

It might be an Anglo-Saxon thing… Although Bertrand is French. Inconclusive thoughts.

7 August (cont.)

Daniel is soundly asleep, changed into pyjamas, and slept with headphones playing Rammstein. Poor thing. I removed it so he may have sweet dreams, then came to my crypt. Bedtime: 5:57am

8 August

Surprisingly, my maker did make himself known in the form of sending beloved Raymond to Court. Like at that time, he brought words from Teskhamen through his own writing. He had some old journal pages! Apparently, and I quote: "Your maker told me to bring you these. They were never catalogued by the Talamasca." Imagine my surprise to find these were long lost pages from my Venice diary, including the note I made Amadeo write of our visit to his homeland, but also the damned note where he told me to get my act together… Oddly shameful and sweetly nostalgic. Youthful calligraphy from my son! I framed it.

I wasn't sure what to tell beloved Raymond then. His presence is always welcome, but this feels like a slight from my maker to not have come to deliver this in person. But Raymond must not be judged for it. I offered him a small painting and did a little A5 sized canvas of him as he is now but wearing the clothes I remember him that night, as an old man. It made him laugh. He says he shall cherish it forever. I joked: "Don't let Talamasca get a hold of this one." He seemed awfully spooked, then. I don't think he understood my joke, but I silenced any doubt. Shame he can't have my blood anymore. Or I think he can't. I'm not completely informed on the limitations of the ghosts, I'm afraid. They don't offend me, but it seems I'm an exception. Can ghosts kiss?

8 August (cont.)

Daniel surprised me by being awake when I came to check on him and told me to stop doing it, that it wasn't needed, and that he was actually looking forward to this period alone to check on himself and his own mind. I would not apologise for my concerns, which are valid, but I promised I wouldn't do it anymore.

Mildly disappointed my care wasn't appreciated. But one supposes Daniel must be given the space to make his own choices. At least in court there are more vampires to keep a watch on him.

Either way, I will check on him before he retires to bed to ensure he's properly feeding from the dungeons and keeping to a routine.

10 August

An uneventful couple of nights until Bianca called me yesterday, asking for a chaperone to her solicitor's office tonight. This, in itself, would be an outstanding and puzzling request from any vampire, but that it has come from Bianca is what made me drop everything at her prompting, which Daniel understood, as we were just spending a quiet night of silent companionship. 

I met her in Paris, in the La Defense station. She wore a sombre dark grey dress made of cotton and no jewellery. She had a sensible denim jacket in her hands, but the most glaring thing was that Bianca's hair was down. She didn't have her usual elegant braids or delicate updos with strings of pearl woven into her charming blonde locks. In sum, my beguiling Bianca looked like a practical working woman, the very opposite of the humble vanity she usually wears with ease. She had, at her feet, a large black leather briefcase that matched her black doll-like patent shoes. I collected it for her but found it terribly light. Paper, merely paper. I instantly knew what this was about. 

We said very little. A silent Bianca is a troubled Bianca, and there was no joy in my Bianca tonight. Her fledgling perished almost ten years ago, and she asked me to be there with her because she is selling the penthouse where they lived together. I had nothing to say. It was Bianca's night. I believe she merely did not want to do this alone.

Contracts were signed, hands were shaken, and all I did was be present for her. After the solicitors had left her in the now-empty penthouse, we stayed quiet for almost an hour. She looked around the empty room while I looked at her. Finally, she said, "It's time to go." 

We walked down the esplanade de la Défense until we got to the Arc de Triomphe, at which point she finally said she had read my memoirs many times. I expected her to question me about our time in the shrine, about the punctual, minimal and incidental lies I told her. Instead, she said, "You didn't write about the period during which you thought Amadeo was dead." I don't remember what was said, then, but I said something, this much I know.

She wept but laughed and said "It's easy to skip the bad parts when we know good ones came after, shame I'm not that lucky. It feels like my book would end there, with fire, with that coven house catching fire, with Amel's whispers. I might have included a short chapter after it, maybe saying I met you again, that I was ready to forgive, that more than forgiving, I was scared of losing both my fledgling and my maker, being alone in this world. A short chapter. Of course, not as short as Lestat made it seem in his book. But for all accounts, my book would end with the death of my child." 

There was nothing for me to say to her. In fact, I am not sure we talked much after this; if we walked together down the Arc de Triomphe and into the Champs Elysée, or if I did that walk alone. I know Bianca did tell me after a while that she was going to Cappadocia to be with Jesse, who was there for this summer, and to be with Allesandra, someone I cannot love. Bianca needed to be with them and grieve their lost ones. She couldn't be at court for now to hear Lestat miss Amel as if he wasn't to blame for the death of her beloved fledgling. Yes, she did say that, but

I don't remember much. 

I didn't tell Thorne about the period of Amadeo's death because, in truth, I don't remember most of it.

13 August

Had my hands full with one of Lestat's antics for the past two nights, but Bianca's dead child still hangs heavy in my mind, and I don't feel like writing about his nonsense. Note for future reference: the wedding invitation is in Minnesota. 

Daniel has informed me Amadeo will arrive tomorrow. Bianca put once again the image of his burned lace in my mind and I cannot wait for his arrival. I am off to my death sleep and shall dream about his brown eyes full of life. Bedtime 6:11am.

14 August

My Amadeo sleeps and slumbers like an angel in my coffin. I am at its edge, balancing my journal on crossed legs so my journaling doesn't take me from his peaceful form. He arrived yesterday night, within the sunset hour. His lips were as soft and velvety as they've always been. His bright, dark eyes were full of love! He has been full of love since he reopened his heart to me again. I held him in my arms, and we got caught up on the latest updates. Daniel had left to give us a night of privacy after giving Amadeo his gift (a courier-style leather bag). 

I could not tolerate how cold my child was. He was so warm… He said the last time he fed had been a month ago, in New York. It would not do. I carried him like my darling groom in my arms and flew us straight to Barcelona, where we found an evil-doer for him to feast on. 

Oh, I can see his plump lips closing on the man's neck even now. His tiny fangs… It takes me instantly back to Venice and those blessed few weeks, shortly after giving him my blood, when these same fangs made my fledgling plump and juicy and lustfully pierced my neck night after night. Sweet bites, sweet bites.

But back to the now: I am adding a sketch of the Catalán man's pliant body being gently rocked as if by a lover. Amadeo sat on the floor with his victim in his chubby arms like a Pietá. I must make a proper painting of him like this. Warmed by his kill, he was so soft to touch and kiss, his belly round and squishy and his tongue sweet and savoury from the tang of copper. The smell of mortal blood wafted between us. Soft cheeks, sweet kisses.

I asked to see his Fire Gift and was pleased to see how powerful it is, but disappointed it wasn't fast enough to my liking. I offered him my blood so he may grow stronger but the boy has always been cunning! His smiles are always deceitful, always full of teasing! "Take me to our bed, maestro, and pull curtains around us. Make me spread my legs, put yourself between them, and only then I shall drink."

The boy is impossible! The boy is as seductive as he is powerful, and I've always been weak to his tactics. I shamefully admit I had him in my bed within the hour and promptly undressed him. I played a symphony with his boyish moans and timid smiles all night, and now that he rests in my coffin, I cannot help committing to page my old regrets. I cannot think of anything but love as I look at my Amadeo. I want him so much… 

I want to show him my camera footage of Bertrand. I know he will like it! He keeps endless cameras in his neighbourhood in New York. He might be able to do for me what fledglings are meant to, be my teacher in the modern world, my companion in this endless night, and make me see sense in Rammstein so I might best comprehend the court's good courier. Bedtime 6:04am.

15 August

I am about to go to the coffin, 5:52am now. Amadeo is already asleep, a naked Daniel in his arms, the two boys resting in my crypt.  Amadeo was able to make me see the value in Rammstein, the poetry of the lyrics, the virtuous skill of the instruments like Sybelle had said, and even in their unbowing pride of writing in their mother tongue, in place of the more profitable English. 

He has also used his wisdom and prowess to stalk mortals! He found Bertrand's Facebook profile, his Twitter (which Amadeo has informed me is now called X) and even his Reddit profile. He's been able to discover where he lives, when he started working for Amazon, and even the name of Bertrand's girlfriend. Together we spent a whole evening watching every footage I have of our good courier and listening to Rammstein. I had Amadeo in my lap for a good portion of the night, then Daniel joined us, and the two boys played a game of kisses that turned into a bath we shared in peaceful calm. I brought them both to my crypt — I couldn't let them go. We swapped kisses and blood before the sun took the boy, then shortly after, took my child. They look lovely together. Wish it could always be like this.

16 August

Had a brief conflict tonight with Amadeo. Over petty NFTs, which he is obsessed with. I cannot approve of what I could only describe as a collection of traced monkeys. It doesn't matter.

What drew my attention was his reaction. It seemed to me the discussion was banter, but I saw his face melt in fury as he visibly shook his fists, tightly closed, before relaxing. Have I angered him somehow? Then he muttered, shaking his head with a sigh. "Can we agree to disagree, master, like two men in a bar who are far more interested in the sweet mead they share? I would rather we move to a subject we agree on so we may have a pleasant night. We've had too little of those."

He seemed, then, like a man, not my boy, and it nearly made me weep for a feeling that is neither joy nor fear. 

I opened my arms, and we both rushed towards each other. I kissed him, my hands cupping his soft cheeks. He tasted nothing, and I suckled on his tongue, piercing it softly so our kiss would taste like his delicious blood. We came to bathe together, and I heard tales of his nights like it had been in Venice, with his naked body flush against mine as he sat on my lap, grinding our bodies close. 

He told me of Daniel's new hobby of photography and I shared with him the night with Bianca. He hummed in a whisper. "I cannot fathom the pain of losing your only fledgling…" I felt a strange pain in my neck right where Rhoshamandes snapped it. I needed to kiss Amadeo. I needed to! But his eyes were so sad for Bianca… I reasoned I should be respectful. 

Always attentive, my boy noticed the silver bracelet and I told him it had been a gift from Pandora. I have not removed it yet. Refusing to let Lydia's antics and games sour the mood, I quickly retold the tale, skipping the unimportant parts (which is most of it). Amadeo giggled and then said it is true that nothing compares to a gift from one's fledgling. He then said I should try to be patient and kind. "The Opera may have shaken her heart, master. Especially as Rigoletto sees that his daughter lies dead. It is easy to imagine she saw herself as the daughter and him as her deceased father." It again made me want to weep. My boy has always been too wise for his own good. I argued back, and he kissed my lips. "Oh, my Marius. It isn't an excuse for her actions as much as it is an exercise in trying to see her side and understand her pain. Is pride worth more than her presence?"

My son has grown into a wise man, I find. 

But oh, I could not let him see me cry, I could not accept my son has become the man I might talk of my burdened heart. All I ever wanted! All I ever wanted! I settled for kisses, for holding him close and hearing his beating heart. Now he is asleep with Daniel in his arms, and they look so cute! Very lovely. Another painting subject for a future time.

17 August

Have been spending some really lovely nights with Amadeo! 

Before that: my agent called me about some Dalì sketches going on auction, and I need to get back to him on that. 

Now, onto what matters. Amadeo has let me dress him up tonight and willingly wore clothes from our time: black stockings with tiny embroidery of robins and a bright red doublet. Gorgeous red velvet slippers, and he wore a feathered hat matching his slippers. I was busy on my knees before where he sat, kissing his ankles, when a knock on my door disturbed us, albeit not for long. Beloved Zenobia came to my room to give me a thank-you gift, reminding me I had sent her flowers for the summer solstice. 

We talked about amenities while I removed my other jewels so my fingers might wear only the signet ring she bought me: solid gold and black onyx.

But soon my heart was bumping to the sight before me: darling Zenobia, with her intense eyes and kind smiles, and my gorgeous, beloved Amadeo, his cherubic face and round eyes filled with love. I had two angelic beauties in my room! Endlessly beautiful and forever frozen in their youthful years. I needed nothing more than to commit both to canvas, and this made both angels laugh.

"Maestro, you are so predictable," Amadeo mocked me but quickly sat beside Zenobia in my settee. They held one another in their arms for me.

"Make me a copy, Marius, please! So I might give Avicus too. I am sure the two of us together will cheer him up. He's been miserable." I had to pretend to be surprised. Avicus, crying? Groundbreaking. "He's been missing Mael, blaming himself for his dead fledgling."

Amadeo had a grieving expression totally dissonant with the loving, teasing smile on my canvas. They met the sun at about the same time, and the laden grief of those months filled with a void of black could not be shaken by my usual disdain for Mael. Who is probably alive either way. 

But for Amadeo, I could not deny Zenobia's request. "I shall send you one by post to Geneva."

Perhaps sensing Amadeo's distress, she kissed his lips, and I was honoured by a most wonderful spectacle: the two angels passionately kissing and then swapping bites. It lit a fire in me. And I knew Zenobia would not quench it. She is not mine anymore. But I had wanted nothing more than for quietude and pulled red velvet curtains around me and Amadeo so they may trap his boyish moans for my delight alone. I knew I would have my way soon.

"Very well, tell me one story from your life as of late, Marius, so I might have something to retell Chrysanthe when I return; then I shall be on my way."

I tried reassuring her that she was always welcome in my parlour, but the two angels laughed, speaking through the mind so clearly as if I wasn't in the room. I chose to let it slide. They are too beautiful together for me to be offended at all. I told Zenobia about the Amazon delivery man, the cameras, and the footage. Offered to show her one but she dismissed it. "Ah, yes, that is good gossip to tell!" "He hasn't turned up as much lately, though." "Well, then order things every night so he has a reason to come!"

What a brilliant child! It was only a few more minutes before she went on her way, and I quickly resumed my kisses on Amadeo's ankles before bringing him to bed, where I undressed him. I kissed every nook and cranny of his beautiful body, and the most wonderful thing is always that he lets me. Then he suggested: "Maestro, buy me gifts if you are going to order things from Amazon." "What sort of gifts?" "Any and all sorts! When have you known me to turn down material gifts?" I could not argue with that, and neither did I want to when kissing his mouth was a much better option. I breathed near his neck and whispered words of love to the shell of his ear. Then, he said: "Tell me of your latest victim. Tell me about the last life you took." 

Squirming while naked under my body, Amadeo could have asked me to tell him the most intimate details of any of my lovers, and I might have. But I did tell him of my latest kill. Whispered of bursting arteries and palming hands while I lightly touched his mortal parts. This seemed to delight him. Nibbled his ear lobe as I told him of a womanly chest pressed against mine as she slowly faded into a pliant featherweight under my arms. "Show me, show me another's death through your blood."

Ah.

I could write whole pages of my son's sighs, of his trembling eyelids and lustful confessions. I could transcribe an epic of every single one of Amadeo's kissing whispers, of his secret confessions of love under my body, in my bed, of his rising chest and grinding waist. His moans sounded so close to the nostalgic memory of his mortal pleasures that one could even be fooled into thinking he was nothing but the young boy I had in my arms once upon a time.

Best to not write it for now.

18 August

Per Zenobia's suggestion, I have been ordering something every night to ensure Bertrand comes around. Endless gifts for Amadeo. Clothes, jewels, electronics, physical copies of movies, posters, colouring books, an electric saw, a pair of roller skates, chocolates he cannot eat but seemed eager to smell and make Daniel put in his mouth, jackets, signed copies of books, a shower curtain, a pair of leather gloves, medical equipment and a television he tore apart and crushed with his bare hands. Anything to hear his boyish laugh!

Bertrand seems like he noticed! He said, "Always something for this castle," today. His voice is baritone and manly. It matches Rammstein more than his figure, and I loved the sound of it. And he noticed it! He noticed my efforts! Wonderful! Most wonderful.

20 August

Amadeo and I had a huge discussion tonight in court because he decided to throw a childish temper tantrum in session. I refuse to write about it.

20 August (cont.) 

I'm going to write about it. 

The council had a debate over the merit of Seth and Fareed asking for another vampire to be made by a volunteering ancient — a neurosurgeon. Gregory picked up a fight against it, saying a vampire's CV should not be the determining factor, which is unexpectedly sensible coming from him. He went on to accuse Seth and Fareed of not caring for the man's mental health or if he seemed the type of mortal who would endure the endlessly coming years. Of course, the room exploded when Seth, enraged — quite unusual for him — countered it was no different from turning a vampire merely out of love when no one can be sure it is everlasting. It was a conversation I was already disliking. The two sides were getting too incensed for rational decision-making.

It seemed it was all spiralling too fast when I was put on the spot as Gregory asked for my opinion on the matter. It is a beast deserving of its own reflection for him to ask my input on anything when it often feels like there are defined factions in the court, and we so often sit on opposing sides. Was it a trap? A hoax? I might have politely bowed out of this debate if only Gregory had not chosen to use my Amadeo as the example of how love must come first, citing his age as an example of rationale coming second. 

I didn't even have the time to explain myself before Amadeo started firing back insults at Gregory, siding with Seth and Fareed. "We can't all be painters and poets," my child roared, which is true, albeit exuding too much offence for any reasonable man to perceive it as an unbiased opinion.

And Lestat, always brilliant, always kind… Trying to do good and inadvertently causing more mayhem than he intends to, countered it by saying (paraphrased here): "It was love, pure love. Armand was made in love. What else could it be? Armand was barely a painter when he was turned anyway and hasn't been since", which of course, caused a bout of awkward silence around the room before Amadeo exploded saying "Love is no good reason, love can't salvage anything, not a single more of us should be made! But if there must be more undead, let it be for use". I tried saying love is the only reason fledglings should be made, and Amadeo screamed back that "Love offers no solace, no purpose — best to have it than love which will inevitably falter and fail".

I could not stand to have our grievances debated for prying eyes when it was in no way related to the subject at hand. But also, I couldn't stand Amadeo (or anyone) screaming at me. I shut him down politely, then adjourned the session. Everyone had made their points and it would have been more productive to gather next time to vote and vote alone.

But what a disgrace of a court session.

Amadeo took off in a burst, taking Daniel with him. They've gone to Lyon to hunt, and now I fear he may leave for Trinity Gate again.

I was too incensed when I sat at my desk to write this entry, and I am still fuming whenever I picture him huffing and stomping his feet on his way out of the room. I must find my centre before I make any decision.

20 August (cont.)

I have spent a good hour in my bath and must admit I may have been too harsh in shutting Amadeo down. I may have called him a child without meaning to. I sent Bianca a message, and she agreed but then added: "Nothing that can't be fixed with a heartfelt apology", which I presume must be true. Alas, she also added, "Much like the situation with Pandora", which is preposterous. I have nothing to apologise to Lydia. But I shall go now to meet with Amadeo, and see if I can at least stop him from leaving France for Trinity Gate. He often does it after incensed Court Sessions. I hope he doesn't… I can't be the reason he walks away again and again, not after Rhoshamandes. It will break my heart.

21 August

Yesterday night, after my bath, I met the pair in Lyon, near Gambeta, where Daniel was just finishing a drug dealer off. He sent me a message through the mind along the lines of asking if I had come to apologise. He left after I confirmed but eased my worry with a single sentence: "He's not mad at you, but he's really mad". 

I got on with what I came for. I didn't mean to call Amadeo a child or berate him for his attitude then, although I must confess on page, I could have for the sass he showed upon hearing me. Amadeo didn't help his case as he rolled his eyes after my honest apology. But he much confirmed what Daniel said, admitting his anger was mostly at Lestat. I felt an irrational jealousy spark then but tempered it with calm. 

Amadeo kicked an empty can in an almost youthful fashion, hands in his pockets, before saying Lestat was right and he had barely been a painter. 

My heart broke. I came to him, held him in an embrace, and thankfully, the boy let me. I reassured my son he doesn't have to paint and that his value isn't tied to his art. That he may paint if he wishes to, but he isn't expected to. His turmoil showed in his face. I kissed and kissed him, and he finally kissed me back after a long, broken sigh. 

I feared his tears, I did not want him to cry. I do not want Amadeo to cry for God any more than he always has. It frightens me. Luckily, he didn't. 

This all happened at around 5am, but I kept staring up at the sun, dreading any lighter shade of blue in the black dead of night, pulling him closer and closer into my embrace so that I might shield him from the threat of the sun with my velvet cape.

Finally, Amadeo broke our kiss and sighed. "I know you wanted me to paint; I know it is the main reason you turned me, but I can't do it," I reassured him again that I turned him for love alone. That I turned him because I loved him simply too much. I renewed the vows from the night of his turning. All I wanted from him was reassurance that he did mean to be like me and always and forever my child. He nodded and held me.  I understand now that maybe Amadeo was mad at himself at that time. Maybe he, as an artist, felt deeply conflicted about his lack of willingness to paint. Perhaps Lestat's taunt simply made him aware others had opinions on the subject. 

I refused to see my son in such pain. I held Amadeo in my arms and repeated perhaps dozens of times the words I had already said until his scowl turned into a gentle smile, and his eyes were filled with gratitude I hadn't seen in centuries. I could not love him any more than I do. 

Daniel joined us soon after, and I brought both boys back to Auvergne and away from the sun. We took a bath together in silence. Amadeo let me and Daniel wash him. I brought them to my coffin for them to sleep. I do enjoy watching the two in a locked embrace. Something worth protecting.

23 August

Ultimately, Seth turned the neurosurgeon without anyone else's consent or presence. Why bring that up to court, then? This façade of government is tiring at times.

Amadeo took a few nights off to spend with Benji, Sybelle, and Daniel. We parted with a passionate kiss. I would like to say it doesn't make me miserable, but not having my wives or my Amadeo makes nights a bit more bleak. I didn't want to paint, I didn't want to read, I idly watched Bertrand and his endless boxes, but that's all. 

25 August

Brilliant Lestat came into my room today while I was watching Bertrand and his boxes. Lestat never knocks, and it offends me a little, but I made no mention of it. Correcting Lestat in any fashion is a pointless effort. Doesn't matter. Tonight, he asked me: "Do you know why Armand is mad at me?" and of course, I would not betray my son with his true feelings, so I merely said. "Perhaps reflect on your words in the recent council sessions." "I can't think of anything." "Well, then, perhaps think harder."

Lestat then sat at my desk, and we watched the footage again. I did feel a vague sense of warmth that I did not have to explain myself. Lestat said what I thought: "What a beautiful man. The courier in charge of bringing us gifts from the modern era into our little protected paradise. Another human breaking into the sanctity of our panopticon. Where the mortals of the village seem vaguely aware, we cannot make sense of him." "And never will," I said, "for he only delivers during the day."

Lestat nodded, sighing, with a sadness in him that could only rival mine. His voice was quiet then: "You are in love with him, and how could you not? I love him too, now. For his wonder and indifference. Is this what duty does to a man?" "Sometimes." "Well, never let it do it to you while we play government, Marius."

I felt my chest burning with love. "You understand it, then. My affections for him." I needed to confirm! 

And confirm he did: "I always understand you, Marius. We both love too much, we ache for mortals like we have never recovered from being taken from them against our choice."

Wonder of a man! He didn't let me swell my heart any further. He came near, kissed my cheek, then left me to my footage in one swift fell motion. I sit here now, just as he left, writing this note. My love for Bertrand is absolutely justified. I feel justified. Oh, Lestat is brilliant.

29 August

A message arrived early at night from Pandora, inviting me to meet her in Nice. I have spent so many miserable nights in Amadeo's absence that I surmised I should go. Surprisingly, upon getting there, I was greeted by a sight I had never seen: my beautiful Pandora, wearing a two-piece bathing suit in a shade of brown that was almost black, a makeshift soft linen shawl wrapped on her waist in place of a skirt. "Can't believe it didn't occur to you to dress up for the sea. Let's go for a swim. Go buy some swimming trunks."

It had been my intention to refuse any conversation until she apologised, but I remembered Amadeo's words about her presence being worth more than pride and settled for being sensible. I can be quiet as we swim. The two of us dove into the black waves for hours in absolute silence. She found a stack of seashells before a shallow cove where an octopus hid. She collected the lot and gave me one. It was a grey-orange scallop and I treasured it immensely, like I did the rabbit bracelet. 

Once we were tired of swimming, we walked aimlessly. She reached for my hand to hold, but I pulled it away swiftly.

It isn't about pride. It isn't always about pride. Sometimes, it's about weariness, about fear. In silence, we have always worked. If I concede, she will mock me for it, and I will lose my patience, and we will fight, and we will part. It is best to keep our distance and keep said distance about two metres wide than for her to roam the world and for me to retire to my den. 

Still, my pulling away made her laugh. "You are so predictable," she said. It sometimes feels like she doesn't see the truth and instead assumes foul play. I drew in, walking side by side so the two metres may be gone. Tonight, it seems, she understood, so we walked side by side, hands full of seashells, as we watched the moon reflected on the water. She parted from me at her hotel and didn't invite me in. 

29 August (cont.)

Finally took off the silver rabbit charm bracelet. Scared I might damage it since going to the sea wearing it, but also think it's about time. I don't think she will ever apologise for the situation at Rigoletto. Note for future reference: in a velvet drawstring purse in my enamel jewellery box.

30 August

A message arrived, from Bianca, finally thanking me for having helped her with the solicitors. We texted for almost three hours. She seeks to buy property elsewhere in France. Talking with Bianca is always easy. 

31 August

Discovered Bertrand moved to Saint-Étienne and will no longer do deliveries in our area. A big-boned man replaced him, and I hate him.

1 September

In an awful mood. Don't want to write.

5 September

I would have wanted to die during the summer. Of old age, if possible. Maybe in my late sixties. Doesn't matter. I'm being foolish.

8 September

Received a message from Avicus tonight: "Do you sometimes think of how things might have turned out differently if I had not left with Zenobia and got separated from you and Mael?" Unfortunately, I have been having horrible nights with little patience and a sour mood so my response was less than polite. I still gently reminded him Mael is probably alive and that to continue crying is to waste tears. Have not received a reply so far.

9 September

This façade of government will falter one night, and I often bet who will cause its expected downfall. My mind often circles to it being Lestat, but in all honesty, it may be me. I am tired. I am tired, and like in those hours we all thought he was gone, I fear the horrible knowledge that in his absence, I will step up for duty if it is thrust upon my shoulders. I cannot escape from facing another two thousand years of duty. I would lose my lovers, I would lose myself, I would lose my books. Horrible thoughts, I have been having horrible thoughts. This is all pointless.

10 September

Ran out of red ink for my fountain pen and realised I am out of stock and the brand no longer exists. There hasn't been a decent red ink supplier since the early 1800s. Need a new supplier but is there even a point? Everything crumbles eventually. Will be using black ink in the meanwhile.

10 September (cont.) 

I hate black ink.

11 September

Bought eighteen different red inks and fountain pen sets. Bertrand didn't deliver them. It was the horrible, ugly man, big-boned man. And none of them is the same shade. The red doesn't match. This journal is ruined. I barely feel like writing in it.

19 September

Might as well start a new journal.

20 September

Started a new journal, but still don't feel like writing.

20 September (cont.)

Discovered through Daniel that Amadeo ate the big-boned delivery man. I burned in disgust. Told Amadeo he should not kill mortals for petty reasons, for boys must be taught better. He seemed dejected, wide-eyed and with a speeding heart. He said nothing. 

21 September

Secretly happy, the horrible man who replaced my beloved Bertrand is gone. Secretly happy that Amadeo ate him. I cannot love Amadeo more than I do. Two souls could not be more similar. But I cannot let him know after scolding him for the death. The paradox of parenting is that one must seek the betterment of their child even if one would act far more shamefully otherwise. I want to paint him massacring that damned man. 

22 September

Saw the Gladiator II trailer and was nervous to see they will be exploring the story of Emperor Caracalla. If they don't adapt Geta the usurper and Julia Domna into it, I will be sorely disappointed. I have left this comment in about 18 articles and Reddit posts. Some people replied, but I don't feel like replying.

This red ink is too light.

27 September

Have been painting obsessively for a few nights, but now it's faded completely. Now, I would like to see a painting of Amadeo as a little fawn boy with a little lute, rosy nipples, soft boy tummy, but this painting doesn't exist, and if I want to look at it, then I shall have to make it, and all this dichotomy leaves me in a foul mood. Why can't my art materialise just because I want it? No, I have to make it. I don't want to make it, I just want to gaze at it, delight me in it. This is not fair. Art is not fair to the artist itself. I want my Amadeo little fawn boy painting! But it doesn't exist and it's all on me to ensure it does. Everything falls on my shoulders. It's always been so, and will be even for the smallest of my pleasures! Who can make Amadeo little fawn boy painting but me?

29 September

Still haunted by Amadeo little fawn boy painting, which still doesn't exist. This is horrible. I want to paint! But I don't want to.

29 September (cont.)

Missed the Dalì sketches auction. Can't let myself miss another opportunity like this… This is preposterous.

30 September

Thorne said he finished carving me a lovespoon. I half-expected him to give it then and there, but he said, "I'll wait until you're in higher spirits." His voice had such a playful lint! Am I being dramatic?

30 September (cont.)

Ate an ice cream truck driver, and he tasted like vanilla, and I wept copiously because he wasn't even an evil man. Why did I kill him?! 

1 October

I have been awfully dramatic this entire month. Like a wailing woman, ye gods, how shameful.

Starting from the beginning.

On 31 August, Bianca returned to court and I was surprised by the suddenness of it. I greeted her with my usual calm and tender kissing. Her lithe fingers were bare, and she usually wore a diamond solitaire in the name of her lost fledgling. I made no comment on it as I kissed each of her knuckles. 

I invited her to my room to read together, and we were halfway through The Picture of Dorian Gray when Amadeo arrived. I had invited him to come to watch the footage at his leisure, and coincidently, my beloved pair of Venetian beauties found themselves in my arms. 

It quickly became a trade of kisses and caresses, of me and Amadeo repeating the same game we played with Bianca once. My son kissed her while I caressed the middle of her legs, the three of us fondling and cuddling laid atop my Persian rug. I caressed the outside of her womanly parts, rubbing the little nub with careful attention while Amadeo had his fingers inside her body. I nuzzled against her left side, my son on her right, and we briefly fought for her blood in deep bites. I let Amadeo have the biggest gulp, and Bianca winked at me amidst moans. 

We then talked for a long time until we got to the subject of the camera footage. I explained the whole ordeal, and Bianca laughed, saying it was "Typical Marius", whatever that meant. Women and their mysteries. 

The three of us laid belly down and naked on my rug while I found the footage on my Macbook. I had not checked saved footage for a while then and was eager to see what Bertrand had been up to. But halfway through it, to my sheer and utter despair, it wasn't him doing the deliveries anymore. A different man, blonde with no headphones, no music, no Rammstein, was now driving the Amazon truck. I lost all the air I didn't need. 

Amadeo seemed confused, and this turned into a fury. His whole face melted. He stood to collect his own computer and, with the swiftness of his tech prowess, informed us Bertrand had moved to Saint-Étienne ahead of his fresh start at a new university. 

Amadeo seemed furious. Bianca was trying to console me, and I could not articulate, at the time, why this situation was affecting me so much, but I stood, dressed myself and took off.

I flew around Rhone-Alps, from Grenoble to Lyon, to Saint-Étienne to Clermont-Ferrand, and only after three hours did I return to find Bianca and Amadeo sitting on my chaise longue, hands held. She had a reprimanding look on her face like that of a concerned mother, while, to my surprise, Amadeo no longer seemed angry but had, instead, the most lovely, saddest pair of brown eyes. I could not explain why I had left, but I welcomed both in my arms. Amadeo dashed for a tight embrace with furiously weepy eyes, and Bianca drew near to kiss my cheek and caress my shoulders and neck as if offering me a wife's soothing massage.

I asked both for privacy. Amadeo did not let me go, his face hidden in the crook of my neck. Bianca furrowed her brow and shook her head, "Don't make a martyr of yourself over this, Marius. The present is a gift, and we must let the past be bygones." Bianca then kissed my cheek once more before she left. 

Only after Bianca had left did Amadeo whimper: "Don't make him a vampire, sir, please?"

I could only laugh!

Oh, even now, I am laughing as I remember. How small and lovely his little plea had been! How could he understand? How could a child who so clearly thought the blood would be nothing but bliss and gifts understand how deeply I mourn every mortal that comes in contact with me and moves on? Bertrand lives on while my life was cut short unwillingly. What bliss is there in being dead, beyond a lovely pair of brown eyes staring at me, filled with offence and fear and concern and confusion?

"No, my darling, I would never make him a vampire." There was, in fact, too much potential in Bertrand's life, like there had been in little Lydia's, then a free woman in the thriving Antioch, and in Bianca's lavish parlour once she was freed from her Florentine cousins. "I weep for Bertrand like I wept for Damiano and Paolo when they left for Padua. Only you have I sought to make into a vampire — for my hubris and my vanitas. Only you." I wanted him as a vampire too much to let the man in me win for once. A terrible blunder of emotion over rationale, a shame to any Roman. I could not help myself. He was meant for me.

"Is that true, Lord?" "Yes, cherub, rest at ease. I shall merely ensure Bertrand is free from ever coming near one of our kind again and will never see him again." That calmed him. He held me and said he did not wish to leave me alone. It almost felt like he loathed every time we parted from one another. But I needed my solitude, I needed it. Amadeo could not understand this; how could he ever! The boy begged for the blood! He asked me to kill him, and I did! I killed him for my vanities like Mael killed me for his… I had to kiss him and kiss him to convince the boy it was alright to leave.

Once Amadeo left me to my devices, I spent all of early September dealing with the courier's departure — painting Bertrand like I painted the boys who graduated from my school and went on to live lives full of splendour like I had once envisioned for all of them — all of us. I paid for Bertrand's studies, I sent him a five thousand euros voucher at his local Auchan, and another five thousand at his local Ikea. I listened to Rammstein obsessively and concluded I don't like it now that Bertrand is gone from my life.

For the many following nights, I wanted nothing but loneliness. I wanted to bathe in silence and try to imagine what my life might have been if I had been spared. What I could have amounted to, if I could have, at any point, made my father proud. But I couldn't fathom any more than I could in the early years of caring for the parents. Nothing means nothing. It seemed everything and anything aggravated me during those weeks. I was ill-tempered at every council meeting, snappy to all who sent me messages… How pathetic. Unfitting a proper Roman.

Then came the nights when I painted idly. Bertrand, Vincenzo, the boys, Raymond, Bianca, Daniel, Thorne and his lovespoons, Thorne as a boy trying to use a chisel, Amadeo, Pandora and Pandora again, this time with rabbits. Daniel in Rio then Bianca in her wool and denim, alone in her penthouse. Amadeo once more, like the Pietá he had been with his victim, then Amadeo again, wearing the bag Daniel got him. Daniel himself in his arms, then finally made the copy of the painting I had made of Zenobia and Amadeo, then painted Amadeo again, this time naked. Then I got haunted by an Amadeo little fawn boy painting I still haven't made. 

Endless nights passed like so before yesterday night when, at around 4am, Amadeo came to my door with Pandora at his side. I had failed to notice when she had returned. 

Amadeo handed me a beautifully wrapped box which revealed a beautiful art book on Andy Warhol's erotic drawings of his male lovers and friends. "Danny helped me pick you a gift, master… He's good with gifts." It instantly became my favourite art book. 

Looking at the pair once more, it hit me then that Pandora had come to my doors with her arms over Amadeo's shoulders like a caring mother overseeing her child. Suddenly, I could not take my eyes off them and could not contain my smile. It was such a candid scene! My wife and my son. Everything a man should want or need. 

With a raised eyebrow, Pandora sighed. "Bianca sent for me because she said you're being impossible." Ah! A wifely mutiny. Men have divorced for less. I laugh even now. "Marius, what are you doing? You're behaving in a shameful way, uncaring for the consequences in the heart of others." I don't remember what I had to say to such a threat that barely threatens. Perhaps I said nothing.

Pandora then ranted about something of little importance, but her crossed arms and resolve translated what she meant all the way from our old, fleeting time of peace: "Your hermit quietude frightens Mia, Lia and the boys, Marius. You haven't said a word in weeks." Something she might have said now or in Antioch. I ignored her as a matter of pride like I might have then.

Instead, I asked Amadeo if he'd like to peruse the artworks with me, which he agreed to with a long sigh of relief, again burying his face in my neck as if the silent nights of distance had never passed. 

I asked Pandora if she'd like to join us too, but she raised her head and then said she might, but only if I apologised for the outburst after Rigoletto. The gall of this woman! The caricature of a nagging wife.  Instead of saying I had nothing to apologise for since she started the brawl that time, I merely chuckled and said: "Well, good evening to you, then." She had the gall to roll her eyes and chuckle, too! But her smile was as lovely as it was wicked and teasing and so, so seductive. She bid us good evening, too. We bid farewell like we always do, all the way since the first night: with a wink. All in all, I'd count it as a positive interaction between us.

Amadeo read for me in my bed, and I lost myself in the cadence of his voice. There is nothing in him that hasn't been highlighted with my blood. Every aspect of him which was beautiful has become divine through my intervention. A cherub crafted by the Gods of love for me. My little love. My son.

He fell to a mortal sleep when it was my time to read for him like a boy lulled to slumber. Collecting him to my arms, he hummed lazily and lovely. I planted a kiss on his curls and carried him to my underground bed like on the night I carried him from the brothel. Asleep, he merely hummed as I put him on the soft mattress. “Undress me, master.” "No, not tonight, my love. I want to treasure you as you are, and you look lovely tonight in your loungewear. Nothing could please me more than knowing you are happy to lay in my bed to sleep and dream." "No, sir, please… It will bring me too much comfort. I need to feel your skin on mine." I could only obey, then. Happy to be a slave to his happiness. "Sir, put your mortal sin inside me." "Ah! You've spent too much time with Pandora this month, I see." "I need to feel like I'm yours once and for all." "You are mine whenever I give you my blood." "Why not both? Sir, I want you to wake tomorrow night buried deep inside me so you might know that's where you belong." 

I did not want to oblige for the mystifying of mortal pleasures, but the mourning of my lost life and the sight of what might have been a wife and a son had made me too sensible for a man's desires. With care and kisses, the moisture of blood and saliva, I slid inside his secret pleasure trove. He was impossibly tight, and memories of the past made me shiver in awareness of how a snug, tight hole drives men mad with pleasure. Every man in Rome would say that a boy's hole is meant to be shaped like a man's cock. But what pleases me the most is always his warmth. His tender five hundred years in the face of our age difference means he will always feel slightly warm to my two thousand years of death. I nestled myself inside his body, and he seemed wholly content. 

"Isn't it impressive, master? How can a body feel such indifference when the heart is so overflowing with joy? You are inside me! I'm yours… You're mine." He looked impossibly wicked and beautiful. "Let me make you mine the way I wanted, cherub." "Yes, yes, lord. Give me your fangs, which are better than a man's cock." 

I pierced his neck, letting his delectable ambrosia gush into my mouth, having my fill of his memories of our time in Venice as he swooned under me in moans and shivers. "Have mine now, fledgling. Like it was on the night of your making. Let me make you mine again in the way that matters." I let him have as much as he wanted and toyed with him by swaying my hips and rocking into his body in thrum with his drinks. My pupil quickly understood the lesson and controlled the pace at his leisure. Quick and superficial for swift pulls and going slow and impossibly deep while he savoured long gulps. His own cocklet laid flush between us, dead like my own inside him. I put him on his side and spooned him, locking myself deep in his lithe body once we were both satisfied with our little play.

"I love you, my Marius." "I love you, Armand, I will always love you."

I watched him for a long time until he had not only slept a mortal nap but until death came with its tendrils to let me see the form of this dead child I love so much. 

Only once I tired of counting his eyelashes did I fetch my phone, careful to not slip out so he may have his way. I sent my maker a message asking how he was doing, then another to Avicus, reassuring him nothing hurts like a dead fledgling and wishing the same miracle that came to pass for me and Amadeo to come for him and Mael, even if the damn druid hardly deserves it. I then conceded to send both Pandora and Bianca a message of gratitude for their patience with me these past few nights. With a heavy heart and wounded pride, I bought matching jewels for my two wives and asked for them to be delivered the following night. Love beseeches treasuring, and my wives deserve treasures when they are such treasures.

I held Amadeo in my arms, and sighed, also buying him a golden medal pendant with an engraved feather. My beloved son. Thinking it was fair, I bought Daniel a matching one and an Omega watch as a thank-you for the book. It will all be delivered by a brand new courier, seeing as Amadeo ate the previous one.

I then sent Benji a message asking for the camera to be removed.

Perhaps it is merely a season for vampire company, and it makes me wonder if every month will be as busy as these past two. Only time will tell.

Bedtime 6:11 am.