Through the Eyes of Immortality

Make one mortal to kill the soul, for now wounds may cut the blood, cut the
flesh and break the bone. Shadow can devour what is real. Conquer the divine and make true the corporeal and you shall have answers in blood, of truth and of lie. It is not your world, and we shall make you leave, demon, fiend or of what you call yourself, this is our world now.
This is our will, so mote it be.

Chapter One.
It had been almost two hours since the sun had set and I had left my small house, my only company was that of the cool November breeze playing with my hair. I stood out on the street listening to the sound of the occasional carnage off in the distance go by before his hand came to lay to rest upon my shoulder. It was cold, unlike any other I've ever felt before but familiar. Normally I would have been frightened by his cool touch, but over the last few months I had grown accustom to him and what he was. I new that I was taught that they didn't exist as a child, that they were only stories, but what did they know? They did exist, and I love one. But I must stop here for I am getting ahead of my self. Let me start from the beginning, when I first met him.

I paused, "Are you certain that you want to do this?" I asked Duncan as he sat at his typewriter ready to type the next word that came from my mouth. "They're is really nothing to tell."
He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and stared deeply into my eyes. "Really?" he added. "Others should know your story. You can't tell me, that over the past century that I've known you, that nothing has happened? Just think about it, every one would know your name.." I bluntly cut him off.
"Every one knows my name, and most of them want me dead. Half the time now I dread waking each night." I stopped and stared back into his eyes. "Oh dear young Duncan," I laughed, as I now truly realized how young he really was, "the only ones I can call friends are you and Riccardo. If it weren't for you two I probably would have given myself to the sun years ago."
He nodded then casually asked, "Please, I may not know the pain that you've been through, but maybe if you let your story out people will understand,"
I sat down in the chair across from him, took in a deep breath and began.

My mother had died four years before the night my father went mad, I can't say if it were because of that, that he did it. All I could do was sit quietly in my room and hope he forgot that I was ever in the house. Through the walls I could hear him yelling at the maids and the smash of our fine china against the walls. My mother painted them with me when I was only six, and though it was eight years ago I could still remember it as though it were only yesterday. "Please stop." I whispered under my breath, tears streaming down my face, "Those were mothers."

It was almost ten minutes before I realized that he had left the house, leaving a silence that could be cut with a knife. I opened my door with an unsteady hand and made my way down to the main floor, barley able to see through my tears. Before I could say or do anything one of the maids came and clutched me in her warm embrace, whispering words of comfort in my ear, but I pushed her away and went to bend over to pile of smashed dishes on the floor. "Those were mothers." I whispered to my self so the maids could not hear. I picked up one of the pieces and turned it over in my hand, the colours sill as bright as when they were first painted and I stood up wiping the tears from my eyes, the shard still in my hand, and faced the two maids behind me.

"Clean this up and save the pieces, I wish to make a mosaic of them in honour of my mother." I said as I walked past them, not carrying to oversee their work as I should have and left the house, I didn't bother with a jacket even though the cool winds of October filled the night air. I didn't return until nearly sunrise, the house was dark but clean and the maids had gone to bed. Soon after I had returned exhaust filled me and I too went up to my room and slept.

This became a common scene in our house for seven nights; father would be out all day only to come home drunk. He would yell at the maids, smash dishes and anything else he could grab then stumble back out of the house only to return the next night and do the same. On the eighth night after I had eaten dinner and the maids had finished their evening clean I approached one of them and asked her to take away any things that father could break on his nightly round, but that night he never came nor for many nights to come.actuary, never.

One evening one of the maids entered the house as pale as a ghost and almost to the point of tears. She bowed her head as she approached me, and then gazed wide-eyed down into my questioning gaze.

"Mistress, your father, he's dead" she whispered.

I stumbled backwards, my hand clasped over my mouth.

"No, no, no!" I mumbled before the tears came streaming down my face. "Wh.where? Wh.when? H.how?" I was able to stammer out before I could say no more through the sobs.

The maid came towards me ready to embrace me and comfort my tears, she was a larger woman and a stood a bit taller that I, and all that I could remember was crumbling into her arms after that moment. I felt as though I could live no more, that life had driven its final blow and as soon as that thought passed through my mind I felt something pulling me, drawing out to the cold night streets of England but before I could respond to this unknown calling the maid had already sat me down and was starting to recall this terrible occurrence.

"My Lady, I was returning back from the market when." she stopped and wiped a tear from her eye, "when I began to hear rumours about a murder of some kind by the tavern where your father would go. I was afraid that something had happened to him that it was he who had murdered someone in his rage, but when I arrive on the scene I asked who it was who was murdered. They told me that they didn't know and asked if I would try to help identify them. What could I have done but agreed. I don't think I was able to breath when they drew back the sheet that covered his face."

I don't think I was really listening to what she said, all I could think of was that something, or someone had been trying to pull me out of my home and to them.
".it had been a few hours before they had found his body they so they said . my Lady? Are you all right?"

My gaze shifted from the window back to her face, it was so warm and full of light even when blanketed with tears and it made me remember what my mother told me so long ago when she lie in her bed moments before her last breath. She touched my hand, pulling me closer to her face and whispered to me, death is not the end but start of life, without it life would only be existence and nothing more. Do not morn for my death but rejoice that from my death will come life, no mater how small it may seem.

I looked back at the window and rose to my feet, I could hear their voices somewhere, the maids that is, but couldn't make out what they said, I could only think about what was that sensation of being drawn towards the outside. It was like an arm grabbing hold of me, and pulling me to where ever it wanted me to go, and I did want to go. It felt as if it offered me peace from the pain I felt so deep in my soul, a chance to redeem my self, as if it was my fault. This happened to me so many times before, I would feel as though anything that went wrong was somehow connected to me, that it was my fault. This was no different, over and over in my head the thought played, it was your fault, you could stopped it, you could have save you father, now he's gone, your worthless, you have no one, your sisters gone mad, your not even close to her, your in England and she's in France, what good is that going to do, find your self a hole to cry in, no one cares any more, pathetic, you care more for your self...

I passed the corner of Hastings and Truder, nearly two miles from my home, still fighting with my continuous, but by then I had noticed the presence of another. My mother had told me that I had a gift, that I seemed to be able to sense things, like if we were being watched or followed, be it by an animal or another person, and right now it felt that there was another person following me, watching me. I looked around the streets, gazing deeply into the shadows but saw nothing. Who ever this was they were content on not being seen, and I was content with that, I still wished to be alone, and away from others who would try to comfort me, for I still dwelt in the sorrow. The seconds passed to minutes, and the minutes to hours, but the time around me stood still. I barley remember what happened after, what I do remember was that a man walked out from the shadows and I had that sensation of being drawn towards him and again that sensation of peace. Was this the man who had been puling from my home? This pale skinned man with his black hair, slightly curled hanging down to his shoulders, and his light hazel coloured eyes staring into mine. Who was he? And why did I care? I was still wreathed in my own despair to even acknowledge him; I stared up to him, but seemed to stare through him. His hand came towards me and ran gently along my hair, which had gone limp in the moist air of the night. Then with that hand, so gently nuzzled up along side my head, he pulled me towards him, and I accepted it, though I still do not know why. I stood pressed against his chest, unable to escape his strong arms, but I will never know if I could have ever escaped then for I never tried. He lowered his head and placed it next to mine.

"Shhh," he whispered, "death is hard to accept, but no mater what it will come.to most. You will live on and he will always be with you, now calm your tears and push away the thoughts that it was because of you that he died. You are not to blame."

After the come of those words I seemed to come back to the world around me backed up and stared up at him.

"How did you know that.who are you?!

"Calm yourself, I mean you no harm."

"Di.did I ask you if you meant me harm? I asked you how you knew what happened and who you are!" I didn't mean to yell at him, but how did he know about my father, and who was he to intrude me with his thoughts.and how did he know what I was thinking? I didn't remember ever speaking my thoughts out loud!

"I apologize if I have offended you, it just makes me so sad to see someone of such beauty suffering from such a terrible loss." His face was soft, full of an understanding that I had long waited to see on the face of another, "I am Ricardo. And though it might be out of place, may I ask what name I should place on a face of your elegance?"

I was almost shocked to hear such words from his mouth, but now knowing his name I did not quite feel the fear that I did moments before and gave him the answer to his question, though I felt that he already knew the answer.

"Isabella, my name is Isabella."

He smiled, and I just melted from its warmth.

"It is late, and those who are not welcome seem to come out and bother such woman as your self and I was wondering if I might walk you home?" he offered his arm, and I could only smile. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. Serenity filled me; I was finally at peace.

My fathers' funeral was held one week after his death. I stood at the side of his grave; my head held down. Each word the pastor said could be heard through the pounding of the rain on the dry earth but I did not listen to them. I watched as they lowered fathers coffin down into the hole. It was a bottomless hole for all I could see, filled with shadows from the ominous clouds that cried from above. I loved the rain though, and was content with its company. I let my mind drift, following the arrhythmic pounding that was its song. It was my only escape. I did not cry, for I had no tears left.

Someone placed their hand on my shoulder and whispered to me that it would be all right, and then left with the last two who had stayed behind to pay their respect. The rain had stopped. I took in a deep breath of the fresh air and walked over, between the many crosses, to the grave of my mother. There had always been a large hole in the centre of the cross in which she lay beneath, and as long as the hole had been there I had wanted to fill it, and now I could. I took the mosaic out from the pouch I had tied to my waist and unwrapped it from the silk it was so delicately folded in, and placed it in the hole. It fit. My eyes began to water, now her sanctuary was complete. I smiled as I left the cemetery; they were at peace. But I was alone.

I did not go home, the memory of them was still to fresh in my mind to again enter the place where I would once go to them. I wandered down the empty streets, my body cold and rigid from the rain that soaked me but It was refreshing, the constant drip of water from my hair, the sound of the water running along side me, racing my to the next duct along the cobbled road in which I walked, it pulled me away from what was. It must have been over an hour before I came to my senses; I rushed in to the nearest café, grateful for the warmth of a fire. My stomach seemed to moan in pain, as I sat down. I found myself an empty table by the hearth and removed my cloak; it was a better cloak than I had thought, for my clothes underneath were only damp. I hung it over a chair and moved it close to fire, hopping it would be dry by the time I left. There must have only been five or six people in the café along with me, quietly whispering the affairs of the day to one another over a pipe, the other one there was a man behind the counter wiping out the glasses while sustaining a watchful eye over his customers. The café was dark for their was no sun to light it come the afternoon, and their were no candles lit or any lamps burning to maintain any light come evening. After I had a chance to look around I almost regretted entering this place. I stood up and walked over to the man behind the counter, I was relieved to see his warm smile as I approached him.

"What might it be that I might get ya lass?" he asked with a heavy Irish accent. "We got a large assortment of some of the best coffees and teas ya could ever imagine! We've got breads and cheeses and even sweets for someone as lovely as you me dreary." He flashed a smile, and I couldn't help but smile back. After ordering I went back and sat at my table, what was I going to do?
The sun had set and everyone had left, but I still sat there in the café, sipping at another cup of tea while staring off into the fire, and the suddenness of his voice breaking the silence startled me.

"Might I join you?" He asked.

I looked up at him.

"Of course, " I paused.

"Riccardo, my name is Riccardo."

"Riccardo." I whispered under my breath. "yes please, have a seat."

He pulled out the chair, turned it around and sat down. Was he following me? And why do I not fear this stranger? I, almost feel calm in his presence, more so than I do in my own company.