**This is about five minutes after I posted the first part (again), because I’ve had all of this written out for a long time, just never got around to editing it and making it sound pretty.**

He fell through endless murky tunnels until he found himself floating in front of a large pane of glass. His reflection looked haggard and weary, his eyes hauntingly staring. His cloak was tattered, the once-fine overcoat worn. Vincent reached a tentative hand out to touch his reflection and the glass shimmered, his other self dissolving into a grassy field bordered on one edge by tress. One solitary willow grew in the center of the field, the sky above a deep, perfect blue.

Two figures appeared. Once was dressed in a long flowing ivory gown, the other in a black suit and overcoat, giving them the strange appearance of an angel and a demon. The dreamer’s eyes widened in shocked recognition as he threw himself at the glass, calling “Isabelle!” He hit the pane hard and fell back, watching the scene before him unfold, dread slowly uncurling from his stomach to force its unyielding way into his throat.

Isabelle’s chestnut hair tumbled gently to her sculpted milky white shoulders, her face the perfect oval, a touch of rose flaring from her temples to the high cheekbones. A deep brown were her eyes, their beauty to match only the jealous stars. The second figure Vincent recognized as himself - tall and muscular, but deathly pale. His pitch black hair was worn slightly long and held back loosely, as was the style. He appeared slightly nervous, blushing shyly as he gazed at his love with deep, emerald eyes.

The Vincent in the glass walked across the field, arms linked with those of Madame Isabelle Montoya. They chatted gaily about the weather and the stillness of the field, strolling to the tree and sitting in its shade. Another figure stepped out from the trees surrounding the clearing. Monsieur Depoe had just entered the scene. Horror struck again at the sight of this monster, and Vincent stepped closer to the glass.

The demonic man strode over to the tree. Vincent leapt to his feet, anger flashing across his handsome features as Depoe laughed cruelly and lifted a pistol. It flashed once. A crimson rose slowly blossomed on Vincent’s breast, terrible yet strangely beautiful, and he fell to his knees. He stared up at his murderer, eyes burning with hatred and fear, drew one last rattling breath and collapsed to the ground in a tragic heap of black and white riddled with scarlet, a delicate thread of crimson blood trickling slowly from the corner of his mouth.

Isabelle gasped in horrified shock and leapt to her dead lovers’ side. She gaped up at the monster that had killed her love, soft eyes brimming with tears as she cradled his head in her lap, not noticing the blood that dripped from the dead man’s mouth.

Monsieur Depoe laughed again then, laughed endlessly. Vincent buried his head in his hands, unable to bear any longer the sight of his broken body. The horrendous laughter ceased. He slowly raised his head to see the beast of a man holding a handful of Isabelle’s chestnut curls, her chin uplifted to the heavens. He flicked his wrist, sliding a small dagger from his sleeve to his hand, which he held to her delicate throat. She struggled weakly to free herself from his grasp but he only held all the tighter. Depoe grimaced horridly once more and pressed the dagger to her throat.

Scarlet blood spurted out of her neck, permanently staining her beautiful ivory gown a deep red, mixing with the blood of Vincent Chavier. The dying innocent’s almond eyes rolled back into her head as she slowly crumpled onto her loves’ lifeless body.

“Isabelle!” he screamed frantically through tears of rage and sorrow, throwing himself at the glass. It shattered into pieces, slashing his hands. He sank to his knees, tattered and bleeding hands pressed to his face. The blood mingled with his tears, flowing gently down his face to trickle into the eternity of darkness below him.

Vincent sat straight up in the bed, breathing heavily. The room was dully lit, illuminating the four-poster bed he now lay in. He gradually became aware of a strange coolness in his left arm, although the rest of him burned as though consumed by fever. Vincent felt the arm and recoiled when cold metal met his fingers. He felt it again, shuddering slightly, then raised it, eyes widening in shock as he saw the metal, a dull grey, the fingers ending in sharp claws.

Revulsion consumed him. What had that monster done? The reality hit him cruelly - he was no longer human, he was just as much of a monster as Depoe was. Self-loathing filled him. He was a . . . a machine, built for some twisted, evil purpose.

He pushed these thoughts aside, locking them deep inside, and stared again at the metal claw. An incredible strength lay dormant there. As an experiment, he gripped the bedpost and squeezed. The post shattered, a few splinters hit him, and he flinched reflexively.

He stopped examining the arm and looked around. The room he was in bore little resemblance to the one he’d awakened in earlier; it was much more elaborate, more - lived in. A plush crimson futon sat sulkily in the corner like a child’s forgotten plaything, the fabric ancient and moth-eaten. A small window took up residence beside it, letting the rich light of the full moon. Beside the bed was a delicately carven wooden washstand, the porcelain pitcher sitting placidly on it cracked with age. Vincent leaned closer and saw that the washstand was carved with more scenes of the dead and dying. He moved back quickly and continued his inspection of the room. In front of the bed was a tall ebony dresser. It leered maliciously over the room, the cracked mirror distorting the newly awakened man’s face into strange contortions. The walls were adorned with shabby paintings of long-forgotten men and women who stared sadly out at the dilapidated room as if attempting to restore some of its former aristocracy.

Vincent slid out from under the soft sheets and stood carefully, supporting shaky legs with the washstand and bedpost. How long had he slept? He slowly made his way over to the window using another post and the chair to balance his shaky legs, looked out, and reeled back in horror. The ground below the window was covered in new-fallen snow, and more was falling. The moon shone through a gap in the soft clouds, the scene before him one of wintry peace and tranquility.

He sank into the futon, right hand pressed to his forehead. This was impossible; he’d come to the cathedral in July. Another glance out the window reassured him that it was indeed snowing heavily with no signs of slowing. He looked up and around the room once more. A scrap of paper upon the ebony dresser caught his eye, and he walked unsteadily over to it. The paper was a letter, addressed to him. Vincent carefully broke the wax seal and began reading.

My dear chile - for that is what you are now, my child, it is no use resolving to hunt me down and kill me, as by the time you find this I will be long dead. Indeed, it matters not my fate, but yours. To you, as the first of my children, I convey the task of finding your siblings. It will most likely be difficult, as I have no guarantee that they will ever awaken. To assume that even you have awoken is a large step, but one that must be taken.

I am not going to waste time and parchment setting everything out for you. Quite simply, you have awoken approximately three hundred years after you first slept. It is now the year two-thousand-and thirty-eight. Doubt me? Find a villager and ask him. I assure that this is indeed true. As for your family? Gone. Dead. And that girl - what was her name? Ah, yes, Isabelle. She most likely married and forgot you entirely.

Vincent threw the letter down defiantly and shuddered. This can’t possibly be true, he thought, it’s impossible. My family? Dead? And what of . . . Isabelle . . . ? No! His gaze fell upon the mirror and he saw his panic-stricken face reflected hundreds, no; thousands of times back at him. His mind fumbled with the enormity of the thought. How was it possible for him to have slept for three hundred years? And yet the very room he was in screamed the truth of it. He looked around the room, really looked and saw what he feared most - the signs of incredible age.

For the first time he glanced down at his own clothes. They themselves were rotting, the sleeves practically falling off. He gently fingered the delicate black cloth and watched in fascinated horror as it crumbled into dust before his eyes. There was no doubt now that the letter spoke the truth. The heavy weight of depression came upon him, and he sank once more into the futon.

How long he sat there he never knew. For hours Vincent ran through all that he knew over and over in his mind. His family? Dead. His love? Dead. Everything he had ever known and loved was now gone. Any way he looked at it, all he knew pointed to two options. Find his “siblings” and assist the monstrous Depoe, or death. So it all ends, he thought, without regret, I finish this horror by my own choice.

Thus resolved, he stood and strode purposefully from the room. He passed through corridor upon corridor, heading for the hall he had first entered when he came to this demonic place.

The main hall of the cathedral had changed little over the past three hundred years. The walls were still covered in depictions of Hell, the carven demons leered just as evilly, and the candles flickered with the same strange ghostly light. Vincent strode to the middle of the room and stood there, gazing around. Yes, this was the perfect place to end what had never really begun. The despairing sinner drew his pistol and held it to his head.

He took one last breath and pulled the trigger. The demons around him seemed to lean in closer, eager to grasp the soul of this fellow damned as his lifeless body crumpled slowly to the floor. The rest, except for the clatter of the pistol, was silence.

. . . My head . . . what happened? . . . Depoe! And . . . Isabelle . . . the room of demons . . . am I . . . dead?

Vincent slowly opened his eyes to see the stone of the cathedral floor; his heart wept, the chilling emptiness of despair filling him as he lay, longing to die. At length he reached up to feel his head. Fresh blood met his fingers, still gently pulsing out of the wound. He grimaced but continued to fell around until he pressed something hard and wet. With a sickening feeling, he realized he was touching his own skull. Strange, it felt like new skin was forming over the hole. He sat up slowly, engulfed by pain.

Shouldn’t I be dead? I just shot myself . . . He shook his head gently and stood up, pushing aside the pain, but his knees buckled and he promptly fell over. Vincent moaned softly and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the paintings of Hell. Gathering strength, he sat up again and looked around. Blood covered the floor where he had fallen the first time. He slowly tried standing up again, and this time his knees held.

Vincent looked at himself. Blood was spattered along his overcoat, or what was left of it, and all down his new arm. He brushed feebly at it and his hand came away sticky and wet. He wiped it on what remained of his pants, and watched interestedly as his right pant leg crumbled away into nothing, then took deep breath, winced slightly, and glanced around the room. As he had noticed before, nothing had changed. Nothing except for the blood and . . . - O, gods - bits of his brain that now splashed the floor.

He shook his head, grimaced at the pain, and tried to think clearly.

The letter . . . I need to finish the letter . . . Having come to this conclusion, he journeyed back through the door and into the rest of the cathedral.

Vincent found his way back to the little room he had awoken in. The letter still lay peacefully on the ominous dresser, although it seemed now to be giggling as though hiding some secret. He shook aside these imaginings and picked up the letter once again.

Ah, my lad, but enough of that nonsense, I’m sure you’ve already tried to kill yourself or some idiotic thing such as that, but I tell you, it is useless. I have put you beyond the bonds of death forever. Now that you’ve finally realized I am correct, I will explain partially what happened.

You see, my child, I have been experimenting for some time to create the perfect being. You, unfortunately, are as close as I came. Past failures aside, there is something I must tell you . . . But no, it will be much more amusing to watch you learn the truth of what I have done.

I’m sure you will try and starve yourself, so as to die, but it will not work. The hunger will force you to do some . . . interesting things. This is the order of a father to his “beloved” first born son, and therefore must be obeyed - find your siblings. After all, there isn’t much else you can do now, is there?

M. Depoe

Sudden anger coursed through his veins, fury at the liberties this horror of a man had taken with him. He would find him, destroy the bastard . . . No, he couldn’t. There was no possible way that Depoe could still be alive after three hundred years. Then again, how was it possible for Vincent himself to still live?

These thoughts chilled him, and he pushed them aside, looking at the immediate problem - clothes. He really couldn’t walk around in the dead of winter wearing merely crumbling rags. For lack of anything better to do, he opened the drawer, not really expecting to find anything, and stopped when he saw simple black cloths. He closed the drawer. Opened it. They were still there.

He hesitantly lifted the cloth on top and held it up.

Odd, he thought confusedly, running a hand down the garment. These were obviously pants, but they were much too large for him. He put them on anyway, and found himself surprised - these were actually quite comfortable! Vincent shook his head, winced slightly, and reached back into the drawer, finding a shirt, also black. He pulled this over his head and had some difficulty getting the claw through the short sleeve without tearing it, but finally, he was dressed.

Hmm. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he wasn’t wearing his boots, and his feet were covered in his own blood. He turned to look at the door and saw a set of bloody footprints leading into the room. Vincent focused again on the drawer and found a pair of gloves and some sort of shoe.

He carefully slipped the first glove onto his right hand and realized there were no fingers. Even stranger still, the thought struck him that this was supposed to go on his foot. These were apparently some odd form of stockings, much shorter than he was used to - sort of like gloves. He tugged the strange foot-gloves onto his feet, then turned his attention to the shoes. They were of a simple design, made out of some brittle material that laced up. Vincent put them on and tied the laces, but . . . wait, this couldn’t be right.

“Strange. . . ” he mused aloud, wondering at the way these shoes didn’t reach up to mid-calf, as he was used to; instead they stopped at his ankles. He walked amusedly around the room and nearly tripped on the bedpost.

Returning to the drawer, he pulled out a long black cloak of some kind. He grinned, finally an article of clothing he recognized. When he swung the cloak over his shoulders, however, he received a sore disappointment - it was a long coat.

“Gods!” He slipped his arms through the sleeves and glared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Good Lord, he looked like some sort of angry devil-worshiper. He glanced at the arm and was slightly pleased to note the long sleeve completely hid it from view.

Now, he thought, to leave this demonic place.

One thing stopped him - hunger. He was starved, ravenous, far more hungry than he could ever remember being, and yet the thought of food was nauseating. Vincent poked through the drawer some more to find something edible, but all he came up with was a strange black bag with more of the clothes and some strange coinage and paper inside. He picked it up by the loop on top and started walking out of the room, but stopped when he noticed two more straps, obviously meant to go over the shoulders.

Ah, of course! It’s a pack, not a bag.

He quickly shouldered the pack and made his way out of the cathedral, not once looking back at the ancient building that had been his “home” for the past four hundred years.

The man in black walked slowly through the snow-covered woods, gazing around as though he’d never been in a forest before. More snow was gently falling, and as Vincent watched the silence of the night woods deepen, he felt the heavy burden of depression lessening, comforted by this tranquil stillness, void of life.

A nagging sensation caused him to stop in his contemplation of the solitude winter gave to the forest, and he realized he was thirsty as well as starved. He leaned down and scooped up a small handful of powdery snow in the hopes it would assuage the great hunger. The cool dampness of the new-fallen snow on his tongue soothed his troubled soul still further, until he swallowed. As soon as the icy water hit his stomach, he fell forward, heaving violently.

His stomach emptied itself of the precious little that was there, but he continued to heave for several long minutes. Finally it stopped, and he lay back, arms outstretched, oblivious to the snow that was slowly melting around him. He idly wondered if his arm would rust, and decided he wasn’t going to take the chance.

Exhausted, he rose to his feet, dusting the snow off his coat and hesitantly off the claw. It burned icy cold, paining his fingers where he touched it. With a start, Vincent realized he wasn’t feeling the cold of the air - it was the dead of winter and he should have been freezing, but he only felt the soft fingers of snow brushing against his already pale skin.

He shook his head and decided to think on that peculiarity later, when he’d obtained some food, and started off through the woods again.

Delirium soon set in. Vincent had no idea where he was, or what he was doing - the only thing he could think of was the great hunger gnawing at him, and even that was unclear. Several more attempts to eat various forest items had only resulted in more vomiting, the last experiment ending in the coughing up of his own blood.

At long last, he stumbled out of the fringe of trees and across a strange road covered in a hard black substance where he collapsed, too wearied to force his legs any farther.

A man who had been out for a stroll saw him fall, and ran up to where the pathetic form lay. The strange figure in black looked horrible - his cheeks were sunken as though he hadn’t eaten in days, he was deathly pale, and his head was covered in dried blood. He leaned over the apparently unconscious man, gently calling.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

Vincent wearily opened his eyes and saw only a blurred form hovering above him. His eyes slipped closed and he sank into the dank realm of exhausted sleep he knew all too well.

Moments later, a terrified scream rent the still winter air.

Urk, I just deleted that entire thing and had to retype it. Damn these early morning typing urges! Fare thee well until next time.