Vernacular

I do not know what is becoming of me.

I can remember a time when I used to be the pinnacle of quiet splendor. My finery was always elegant, yet humble, and my speech sounded poetic, even to my ears.

But, as of late, I am failing in seeing these things any longer.

Maybe it is the countless moments I have spent alone that has has dulled my memories of who I was. For the longest time, not a soul uttered my name. It became a vague shadow in the farthest reaches of my mind, and not even I dared to speak it for fear that it would crumble to dust, impossible to piece back together. I remembered regret, and anger, and hatred, and her, and that was all.

For the longest time, I could not remember my name.

I knew what I was, but the who was lost to me.

What a miserable thing that what was. I was a perversity of nature, an exception to the constant, ever present ebb and flow of life. I was a catch in the scheme of things, and I was what sent ripples through the otherwise smooth surface that is Time. I was an entry that has surfaced in more stories, compendiums, and essays then the Archangels of Heaven itself. Countless languages and cultures have depicted me in their legends, and even legends do not paint me justly. I was a shadow that could stalk any corner, and chamber, and sliver without light, and a death worse than the longest plagues.

But what are these things without a name?

My identity seemed to die where my body did not, so maybe I should not feel as if Fate is being as cruel as I feel it is. Maybe it is due time for such things to be laid to order. When I was given this Gift, I did not feel as if I lost much. I was still able to watch my loved ones complete their stories, and I was still able to see all that I wanted to see. Gradually, I felt every minute loss, and I wondered if, when I died, I should not have thought the joys would come first, but the joys I saw were simply in preparations for the pain.

I saw the most beautiful structures crumble. I saw smiles that reduced me to idiotic smiles peel away to simply reveal the decayed bones beneath. Voices that could be sultry enough to make me weak became helpless whimpers, the result of yet another guise of Death. I saw vivid landscapes reduced to materials fit to create charcoal, and unforgettable jewels forgotten to all but me. These things that I believed would be as eternal as myself seemed to die one by one, as if to take place of the life that was meant to be lived. It was as if Fate was whispering into my ear that because of my loss, the world would feel loss as well.

As I saw these things slip away, I wished for nothing more than my name.

It was as if every single object that I had ever coveted, that ever had made a link to my essence, my name, who I was, was slowly being eradicated, just for the sake of stealing my identity.

I began to question who were the true demons of this world. Was it our kind, or the humans?

True, we were monsters, but how many of us by choice? Was our deaths no different than the rape of mortals? Than the cold murders committed on otherwise safe grounds? Were we not stolen from alleyways, crept up upon in our chambers, dragged away screaming? We did not begin this chain of violence, nor shall we end it, however eternal we are. We remain in the shadows, away from the light, away from everything.

We do not fight the wars; we defend ourselves.
We drink the blood; we do not spill it.
We do not set the night ablaze; we cherish it.
We do not stain the daylight; we hide from it.

We are absent from all moments that humans remember as inconceivable. They point the finger at us as something to blame, but in the end, what have we done but diverted their attentions from the things they truly need to fear?

And a thing without a name if nothing to fear at all.

But now, I have returned to this state of mind, and all at once, I know who I am, but what I am has become a simple word composed of two simple syllables, utterable by the smallest child and the most terrified elder.

Monster.

Was it Grace that prevented me from remembering who I was? Was this withholding of my identity, so much like the properties of alchemy I so loved such a long time a go, a matter of equivalent exchange? The pain of loss in exchange for an even deeper pain? With my name came so many shortcomings and wounds. True, I would never again allow myself to be struck down with a single blow, but even the most stalwart of beings may soon bleed enough to die by a thousand stabs.

Those wounds are multiplying.

I find myself wandering more often then walking, my thoughts consuming me in an invisible conflagration, still just as horrific. The others do not see. Not heartbroken Ava, ersatz Oliver, or the beautiful Maharet. Our kind believes that if we avoid the sight of fire, then so shall we avoid its violent bite.

I have been drowning in this flame longer then I can remember.

True, I do not fall to a cinder like all the tales of our race claims we will. I do not scream in inhuman tones of agony, I do not flail and claw at the ground, I do not gasp for air I do not need, but there is one thing they do not see.

The ones who die by the visible fire truly die.

Every time I kiss Maharet, I want to take her. I want to take her passionately, throw her upon the bed and make her want me. One would say it is because I am a monster, a demon, but, on the contrary, everyone else is the monster.

I have disproved such claims to my monstrosity by admitting that I am a monster. All the others are in denial.

I wish to take her in such a way, because I crave the connection we would share. Within our ecstasy, she would also feel my pain, my loss, my sorrow and my confusion. She would kiss me in the height of her passion, and I would feel the soothing touch of her lips and nothing else. We would be one in that moment, and for that moment, I would not have to bear these burdens alone.

I fear she would never understand that. Already, I sense she does not want me as near to her as before. I have heard the whispers in the halls, though they believe silent Aluraune does not comprehend such things.

Silent Aluraune knows these things all too well.

Maybe this flame is finally coming to some result, and it is prepared to burn down my final semblance of home. Maybe it is time for all of this sickening game to come to an end.

Maharet holds the final turn in this game, and I eagerly await her move.

Until then, I preserve this book from burning.