Into the Night [we shall wander]

[lunarcrimes]

<u>December 2nd, 528 A.D. -- Romania</u>

They said it was a miracle. How odd, how beautiful that two people should find each other in such a way. Lucian and Helena Boroi, husband and wife. Only children when they met - his Father a powerful Lord, hers a respected General. When he had first laid eyes on her, she had only been six, and he only nine. Oh, but it was love from that very first moment, there was no doubt about it. Having just come in from playing out in the rain, splashing about in puddles, he scampered into the formal drawing room of his father's castle and, covered in mud and dead leaves, scooped the little girl up and twirled her about. Never were words of greeting uttered between them - they simply laughed and beamed and ran off to play. Their fathers, noticing at once their strange connection, smiled and sat down to plan more than just military strategies. Within an hour, it was decided. Upon reaching the age of 16 and 19, respectively, their children would wed, forever joining the households as family. Though many might've found such an arrangement stifling, even insulting, the pair never seemed to mind. For years they stayed together as the dearest of friends, until the day of their wedding when, in an instant, everything changed. Lucian kissed his young bride, and love beyond that of any friendship was brought to life in a haze of passion and fire. Years passed, and though they had no children, there was no denying their happiness. Lucian, his career in the military affording him many luxuries, was able to provide his wife with the finest of manors. Beautiful clothes and jewelry, sumptuous food and wines, intricatly designed furnishings. Though they seemingly enjoyed such a lifestyle, it was always apparent that such things mattered little to them. Friends and family often stood gaping at the pair during the various galas and gatherings, for they seemed lost to the world. For hours they would dance, hand in hand, eyes not once straying from one another. And in the privacy of their chambers, in those moments when they expressed their love in the marriage bed, Hell itself would not have dared to show its face in their presence.

<center></center>

Time both flew by and passed with the slowness of a luscious dream. And then, finally, it happened. Strange, the things fate oftentimes found to throw into the world. Helena, a lovely woman of 29, was forced to leave her husband for a week. Her father having just passed on a month or so earlier, she was forced to and tend to his business dealings. Impatient was their goodbye, their heated kisses and embraces. Still, they felt no fear or pain. She would return soon, back to their home, back into his arms, and the world would once again be whole. Oh, it was such a torturous week for her husband! At 32, many found it odd that he would stand for hours at the door or window, wistfully staring off into the distance, waiting to see her beautiful face, despite the fact that she was not due to return home for a matter of days. When the letter came, the town was shocked. A group of pagan rebels had invaded Romania, taking offense in the country's strong Catholic sentiments. Helena - beautiful, divine, angelic Helena - had been happened upon by the brutes. And crucified. Her death meant to be a cruel, insulting irony in the face of God. Consumed with grief, Lucian was lost to the waking world. For days he sat in darkness, never eating, drinking, or sleeping. Merely letting the darkness absorb into his skin. Until finally, he snapped. Life came crashing down -- literally. From the balcony of their beautiful home, he threw himself off, into the air, down to the earth, ending his life in a sickeningly sharp crack of bones and blood. Just as a small carriage pulled up. Just as Helena, alive and well, stepped out. The letter? Merely a cruel joke - her business had been delayed, and she had asked her coachman, unaware of his cruel and unamusing nature, to inform her husband she would be late. When they finally pulled her away from her husband's body, it was said that her eyes glowed both red and blue. Consumed by both Heaven and Hell. Three days later, when they found her with a dagger through her heart, they said it was the ghost of her husband, having come back to claim her life so that he would not be alone in Hell. For all knew, those of suicidal whims were damned. Yet even in Hell, loved burned eternal. So fierce, so bright, and yet so dark, that even the endless source of fire and pain could not contain it.

<u>December 2nd, 2005 -- New York, New York</u>

Women stared shamelessly as he passed by. An impossibly beautiful man, ghostly white, yet crowned with curling locks of ebony. Eyes of burning amber. Dressed in black he wandered the streets, letting the rain beat upon his skin like a ruthless enemy. And yet, for those who looked closely, perhaps they would have noticed that never was his skin actually wet.

Lucian Boroi had returned to Earth. In death he had sold his soul to the devil, that he might walk again to claim that which belonged to him by right - Helena. His soul, his body, no longer his - no longer human. A creature of darkness. A demon. A monster.

Somewhere, she lived. Reborn as a mortal, unaware of her soul, her past, her true life. But Heaven and Hell be damned, he would find her. And she would be his once again.

<center>

Listen as the wind blows
From across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here
And not be satisfied
</center>

[the boulevard]

Ellen Rossi.

She'd lived an entire lifetime before this one without knowing it. Full of tragedy, full of love and excitement, full of joy and full of sorrow.

Maybe that was reason this life felt so empty...

[lunarcrimes]

[taken from live play]

Her mother had kept a diary of all the strange things Ellen had said when she was a little girl. Four years old and talking about ancient times and her life then? It was years later when the subject came up -- her mother having forgotten all about it until Montell Williams brought it up one afternoon. She'd always loved that show and promptly called Ellen from her home in upstate Vermont to tell her all about it, even though Ellen was behind her Manhattan desk and busy with a client. It was interesting, of course, and she listened half heartedly as her mother rambled on and on about how odd it was that she didn't recall any of it and that she was going to dig out her diaries later and read passages. "I can't wait, Mom, but I have clients -- I'll talk to you later, yes I love you." And then she smiled sheepishly at the people across from her... they who had just lost dear ol' Grandma. Ellen Rossi was a funeral director in New York City, which made her services almost morbidly posh. She planned the big shindigs, when the entire city would almost certainly be congested with grief and subsequently she got invited to many a celebrity get-together as a thankyou. It was an odd profession, if nothing else, but the only thing that had ever made any sense to her was death. (Another thing that always bothered her mother.)

Three years later, she had hardly even bothered giving a second thought to all that talk her mother and babbled on about that day. She was especially not thinking about it now! Long stiletto heels pounded the ground furiously alongside the rain as she held a newspaper over her head and ducked to get out of it. It wasn't supposed to rain, she'd checked weather.com damnit! Her glasses were steaming up as she rain because of the cold that accompanied this rain and she suddenly didn't feel so much posh in her black pinstriped pantsuit as she did a drowned rat!

He knew she was there, oh yes. Somewhere on this gloriously, yet annoyingly large, vivid planet, she existed. Fresh and new. Born once again, as a Mortal - something which he could no longer claim. He had not, however, expected her to be there, in the same city, the same street corner, the same time. Fate, for all her cruelty, seemingly offered him a gift. Perhaps he should not have been so shocked - love such as theirs was something stronger than even death. Why was it so hard to believe that it would once again rejoin them with such ease? Ahh, he had to smile, seeing her sopping wet like that - she never did care much for the rain. And those glasses! A new, marvelous invention - they had not existed in their lifetime, but he remembered how she used to trip over the carpets, laughing and reaching for his hand and mumbling about her "blindness." Sometimes, when he was sad, she would pretend to smack into a wall and stumble about comically, moaning in an blatently over-done fashion. Just to make him laugh. Helena was the only person who could make him laugh like that. Suddenly snapping back into awareness, he realized with a wave of intense panic that she was making her way towards a large building, and would be lost to the crowds if he did not hurry. Long, smooth strides carried him across the street in a flash of movement to swift it impossible for the human eye to comprehend. "I must admit, I love the rain." Deep voice sliding out of the darkness like silk, accent thick with his Romanian roots, and yet his English flawless. "But it does have the tendency to chill one to the bone." He was behind her, thinking nothing of coming upon her with such stealth. But then the shielding warmth of his black trench coat was being wrapped about her body, though it was much too large, and he was stepping off towards the side so that she might get a look at him. Albeit a limited look, hidden halfway in the shadows as he was. "Permit me?" Large, stark white hand reaching out to hers, only to be followed by the quick press of his lips against the top of her wrist. Old habits died hard.

The last thing that Ellen expected on the streets of New York was anything that even remotely resembled chivalry. When a large trench coat was placed about her shoulders, she nearly had the urge to fiddle through her purse and find the mase, but another part of her was wondering if a fantasy was coming true. Every woman has it. Chivalrous stranger showing up to sweep you off your feet -- but she didn't want a creepy one and this one? He was a little off. But still, there was something familiar in the smell that suddenly encompassed her and there was something even more familiar about the way he pressed a kiss to her wrist. Peeling her hand away from him gingerly, she finally came to her senses and shrugged away his trench, even though she didn't want to. "I... thank you -- I just." Peering at him through the rain with squinting eyes, searching for some sort of recognition. He looked so familiar, maybe he was a client that she just couldn't place out of context. "Do I know you?" Her nervous habit of splaying her fingers out at the base of her neck hadn't died with time, he'd see. But this was all terribly unnerving and there was something just not right about him -- she was sure she would remember him. If not because of his odd grace but because of how amazingly handsome he was.

Something passed across his eyes when she returned his coat to him. She had always been firey, but never had she turned away from his advances or simple gestures of kindness. It was hard to remember that she was not Helena anymore. Well, she was, and she wasn't. He couldn't just expect her to jump into his arms and remember their life together. Of course, you fool. Come back to your senses. Face quickly covering any sort of dismay he may have felt, he simply bowed lightly and took the jacket from her, hooking it over his left arm. When she asked if she knew him, he couldn't help but smile, though it was unlikely she'd see it, given his half-mask in the shadows. Something which he sought to correct, a slow step [so as not to frighten her] taken out of the darkness so that he stood at his full height in front of her. "Mm, there is something ... familiar about you, I must say." Coy bastard, wasn't he? Yet nothing in his smile suggested a cruel humor, for he was not mocking her. He merely wished not to frighten her away on their first encounter in nearly 1500 years. His heart ached when he looked at her, could she tell? Trying so hard to keep the overwhelming surge of emotions from displaying on his face. Christ, she was just as beautiful as she had been then. Perhaps even more so! Everything about her was so real, so familiar, so ... crushing. Though some would say he had no soul, given his current ... state of being, he knew that to be a lie, for he could feel it bursting to escape her chest. To somehow entangle her in its warmth. "Forgive me, my manners have escaped me momentarily. I am Lucian. And you are?" In life his eyes had been amber brown. Now they were ... something else. But both sets glowed whenever he looked upon her, that would never change.

This all felt very surreal, like she was trapped in some strange dream. Maybe it was a dream! And that way, she didn't know what else to do but humor it. When he stepped out of the light, something in her chest tightened, something almost threatened to suffocate the breath out of her lungs and her hand went to her heart. A sharp pain there made her wonder if maybe he wasn't some kind of angel sent to make her feel better right before a heart attack. She was under a lot of stress, maybe he was a hallucination. "Jesus." Bending, she rubbed her chest right at the angle a dagger might enter. "I think I'm --" Her hand jutted out and caught him on the shoulder and she was leaning against him, at arm's length, one hand still over her heart. But the second she touched him, it stopped. Whatever the pain was, it ceased and suddenly she was looking at him like she was electrocuted. "Lucian." Breathless.

Panic hit him like a fist when he saw the fear, and pain, in her eyes. Her small hand clutching at her chest filled him with remorse. Vividly he remembered the voices that filled his immortal ears. Death had taken hold of him a week earlier, and so he lay in his grave, rotting with the earth, but still he could hear them. Helena was dead, they said, and it was His fault. He had come back from the dead to take her into the Underworld with him. Of course, this was just foolish paranoia. Undead as he may have been, or would so come to be once the deal was struck, it was she who had taken her own life. Just as he had his. Reaching out with preternatural swiftness to embrace her, for he feared she would fall and hurt herself, a cold, throbbing hand wound itself around his chest when she looked up into his eyes. The girl was gone ... replaced by the woman he had once known. "Helena." She had spoken his name, and so he spoke hers, a sort of mutual acknowledgement. One hand gripping her waist lightly, the other on her elbow. He let go of her arm only when he was sure she would not trip, and even then he kept his firm hold on her side. "My beautiful little love." Whispered, before his free hand descended upon the warm flesh of her face, and his eyes filled with a display of undeniable, unbreakable, crushing emotion. The same touch, the same expression, that he had worn so many times when they made love.

It was her soul that ached, she knew that now. Her soul that was in a foreign body and how she got there, she knew, but how he was there... "Oh my love." She gazed back at him, memorizing all the familiar curves of his face and the angles, but things were different. "What have you done, Lucian... what have you done." Her own fingers finally reached to touch his face and she sighed. "Your eyes..." And suddenly, she was a ragdoll in his arms, the moment having passed and her body unable to cope with the stress. All of the rain and emotion was taking a toll on her and when she fainted, all of those memories disappeared back into the depths of her soul.

[lunarcrimes]

[first half taken from live play]

New York City reminded him a bit of the castles back in Romania. Towering insults to architecture looming dangerously above the earth. The people below scattering around frantically, going this way and that. A city filled with the homeless, the dangerous, the insane curling in corners and dark alleys, muttering about aliens and alcohol and Armageddon. Some things never changed. They reminded him of the old, mad Druids that would run about the forests at night, chanting loudly to their chosen deities. Would she ever remember how they used to sit together and watch those men, falling asleep to their dark songs? For a moment there she had looked at him like she knew him - Helena had come back, spoken to him, looked at him with fear and sadness when she saw the change in him. But then she was gone, and having gone limp in his arms, he picked her up gently and cradled her against his chest. Had he known where she lived, he would have returned her there safely, tucking her into her bed and then fleeing into the night. But he did not know where she resided, and there wasn't a chance in Hell he would simply leave her in the streets. And so he took to the air, moving with a quickness that allowed him to easily avoid the curious human eye. Whatever complaints he may have had with the modern world, it certainly offered many an interesting dwelling oppertunity. He had long ago secured himself a penthouse - a glorious, sprawling place, situated on the very top floor of some ancient skyscraper. Laying her into his bed, settling her against the plush silk sheets and velvet quilts, he had to fight to keep from undressing her slowly, sweetly, only to awaken her with the touch of his mouth against her neck - just as he had done so many times in their marriage. How hard it was for him to resist, to remember that this girl, this woman, was no longer his wife. Or rather, she didn't remember that she was his wife. And so he stood, like some stark white statue, in front of the huge windows lining nearly every wall of his bedroom, letting his thoughts consume him. The grief, the pure agony. Memories hit him like bricks, but it was one of cruelty that flooded his mind suddenly. The air had seemed so cold that night, almost frozen. It was December, after all. His wife was dead. His world was gone. In bare feet he padded to the highest blacony of their home. "I can never be the same. There's too much rain in my head without you." Whispered mere seconds before he forcefully threw himself into the air, plummeting to the earth with a gutteral scream. Not of fear, but of loss. Just before he hit the ground, he noticed a carriage pull into the courtyard, and a familiar pair of eyes glance up to see him. He remembered how they widened when the mind behind them realized what was going on. And worst of all, he remembered the scream that punctuated the air. Not his, oh no, but hers. A single, simple word. "LUCIAN."

How it happened, he wasn't sure. Dawn had begun to break, and though he could survive in the sunlight, he much preferred the darkness. Exhaustion had begun to take hold of him, as had his desperate lonliness for her. Without thinking, he undressed until he was clad only in black silk pajama bottoms, and climbed into bed next to her. Although he was careful to keep his body above the covers, and hers beneath, lest she got cold. An arm thrown around her waist, his head nestled down against her shoulder, he slept. For the first time in centuries, he truly slept. Though it was his intention to wake long before she did, that had failed. For the day had passed into the night, and still he dreamt, wrapped around her body.

Caught in a world inbetween, Ellen had no idea who she was anymore or if she had ever been Ellen in the first place. Maybe she was only passing the time until some other life came along and things were better. Then again, she didn't think things would ever be better because Lucian was burned so deeply into her brain. She'd never really known his name until now, but once she learned it -- it seemed to make perfect sense. All of those dreams she'd had since as long as she could remember, all of those of terrors she screamed about in the middle of the night... they started.

Tonight was no different.
"Be home soon." The driver had called back to her and the warmth in her heart didn't grow at the mention of it. There was this deep sense of foreboding lodged in her bones; something wasn't right. Something wasn't right with Lucian. Her mind was racing to place this feeling as the carriage travelled up the gravel path. It didn't matter what was wrong with him because in a few moments she would be home and able to wrap him in an all assuring hug and things, no matter what they were, would be all better. Everything would be better. The coutyard came into view and as they rounded to park, she caught sight of her beloved mansion and the beloved balcony. But as heartwarming as it was to see, it suddenly became the most horrible sight she'd ever laid her eyes on. Lucian was flinging himself over the railing and the only thing she could do was scream. It was his name because it was the only word that came to her mind -- like somehow, her shouting to him would reverse the fact that he'd hit the ground with a sickening thud. The gore was nothing to her, the crumbled bloody form full of cracked bones was her husband. Her true love. A man that she would love even if death did them part.

As she woke up from her slumber, she didn't open her eyes because she was afraid of the reality she was about to face. Another day at work. Another day without Lucian -- and then she felt a body beside her, wrapped around her and a comforter that wasn't her own. What had she done last night? She couldn't recall. Her eyes parted just slightly, to see what nameless man she'd brought home tonight and then she sat bolt upright and pushed him over onto his back, non-too-gently, since he was alseep on his stomach. "I've finally lost it." Staring.

Monster. Demon. Undead. Someone had even called him a vampire once, which he found rather insulting, as he did not turn into a bat or drink human blood [nevermind the fact that he did actually have fangs - but like many things in his nature, they were kept hidden]. Call him what you would, the one thing he had always been was graceful. Until a small hand shoved him roughly, at least. She had startled him out of his dreams, so badly, in fact, that he bolted upright just as he was being rolled over onto his back, and promptly tumbled off the edge of the bed, landing on the floor with dull thud. "Mphm. Good morning to you, too." Though his English was perfect, his accent was impossibly heavy and thick, as it always was after he first woke up. "Or should I say, evening." Gesturing towards the darkness outside his windows, until he realized she probably couldn't see him from his place sprawled on the floor. After a long moment, he finally rose to a stand, graceful as can be - making up for that brief moment of awkwardness, apparently. Strangely colored eyes watched her silently, intensely, his heart pounding against the jail of his ribs. Of all the things he missed about her, never had he realized how much he craved seeing her rouse from those first moments of confusion that dreams always caused. "I ... did not mean to startle you." Because apparently he just remembered that she was in his loft, which would not doubt be foreign and somewhat frightening to her, and what she considered to be a strange man had been asleep beside her. "You are safe here, I assure you." He'd held her gaze much too long, never blinking, simply staring intensely. Humans tended to find it unsettling. It wasn't that he meant to do it, mind you, it was just that he ... well, he was a little less than Human. And with that came habits he had never before induldged, but now suddenly relied upon immensely. Dropping his eyes quickly, not wanting to worsen the situation any, he turned, pretending to rummage through one of his many armoires in search of a sweater. Really, he just didn't want her to see the pain flash across his face, the frustration. "Are you hungry? I could send for a late supper."

"Monster. Devil. Stay away from me!" He'd heard that many times in his life, but never from her. For a moment she had seemed calm, content, perhaps even semi-aware of who he was. Who they were together. At his offer of dinner she had smiled, climbing out of bed slowly and walking towards him until her hand was on his shoulder, the tiniest bit of pressure against his skin used to tell him she wanted him to turn towards her. And so he did, eyes wide, lips parted in a hopeful, wondering expression. To the world he presented nothing but the image of strength. Sexuality, charisma, a dark sort of charm. His clothes were stylish to a fault, his body nothing but graceful muscularity, his face and hair perfectly kept and groomed. And yet, standing there in front of her, shirtless and barefoot, he was reduced to something quiet and vulnerable. Taking a shaky breath, he realized his hands were trembling. 1500 years of longing, of searching, and still nothing had prepared him for this moment. Up on her tip-toes, for he was quite naturally tall, she was stretched towards him affectionately, as if to kiss him. A mere inch away from his lips, something in her face changed. She focused sharply on his eyes, as if just now noticing their strange hue. And then she was paniced, frightened, screaming at him, lashing him with words he would have dismissed easily had they come from anyone else. Visibly crushed, he shrank back from her shrill tones, shaking his head and apologizing repeatedly, frantically [although for what, he wasn't sure] as he watched her scramble for the door. When he heard the latch click shut, he realized the terrible mistake she made -- it had taken him so long to find her, and now he had allowed her to walk out! He didn't even know where she lived, where she worked. If he didn't hurry, she might be lost to him again. What if he couldn't find her again, what if she--- That thought was enough for him to spring into action. Paying no mind to his state of dress he lurched out onto his bedroom balcony, only to throw himself in to the welcoming night. In a blur he was speeding towards the cruel pavement below - a good 30 stories below, at that - but unlike that day in his mortal life, he landed easily, solidly on his feet. The moment he felt the ground beneath them, he took off in a run - something much to fast for any mortal to catch sight of - and attempted to track her simply by scent. He didn't need to. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flash of her shiny dark hair glinting in the glow of a streetlight, and immediately overtook her in a dark alley. Chest pressed against he back in an instant, arms wrapped firmly around her waist, holding her tightly. Not tight enough to hurt her, or course, but there was no way he was going to let her escape. To disappear after he had searched for her for so very long. "Damnit, Helena!" It had never occurred to him that she might have another name. "Do not fight me! I don't want to hurt you--- I won't hurt you, please!" She was kicking and screaming and clawing at him, drawing blood on his forearms and hands. "Stop! Please! Please." Burying his face in the back of her neck, squeezing his eyes shut and just rocking her back and forth, gently, sweetly, as if he could will this chaos, this horrible, painful encounter to stop.

Despite his pleas, she did not cease her furious cries. If anything, they only got louder, more persistant. She kicked at him savegely, bruising his shins with the heel of her foot, causing him to wince behind the veil of her hair. Threatening him, swearing at him, hollering at the top of her lungs until a loud, booming noise sounded through the air. So dangerous, so angry, it put thunder to shame. Violently he let go of her, roughly pushing her away, before he collasped backwards to the ground, a stunned mass of bruises, torn flesh, and blood.

Her screams had alerted a nearby policeman, who came running to assist her. Unaware of the situation, he had assumed the man was trying to mug the woman, or worse. And so he shot - one, two, three, four times - without so much as a warning. Straight into the broad back of the brute. Bullets turning him into nothing more than a smear of white flesh covered in dripping red.

Lucian gaped up at Helena dumbly, as if he couldn't fathom it, this strange warm liquid leaking from his back and chest. So consumed in his attempts to calm his love, he had not noticed the telltale sounds of someone approaching. Eyes wide with obvious shock, he opened his mouth to speak, but only blood poured forth. Brows furrowing in confusion, a pained groan rumbled in his throat. Panic clear in his face, pure agony as he realized that, once again, he had lost her.

"I love you." Voice gravelly, barely above a whisper, the words were wet slick, gurgling from his mouth as if it was an immense struggle to get them out. And indeed, it was. Hand reaching tenderly for her, wanting only to know the softness of her flesh once more ...

With a desperate gasp for air, unearthly-colored eyes rolled back into his skull, and he dropped harshly against the ground.

Once again, death had won.

<center>It?s all over
It?s all over now
The seal is broken
Creatures spoken now

I hope you come up
To heaven right now
It?s all over
It?s all over now

Can I be changed
Or am I the same

It?s all over
It?s all over now
No room for hiding
We?re children fighting now

And I hope you come up
To heaven right now

It?s all over
It?s all over now
Can I be the same

The rain is falling
The rain is falling now
Today we?re leaving
Our souls are calling now

The stars on his right
Holding seven right now
The rain is falling
The rain is falling now

Can I be changed
Or am I the same</center>

[lunarcrimes]

"You foolish, foolish man."

The voice that jarred Lucian out of darkness was a cruel, albeit irritatingly familiar one. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Lucifer." Rising to a sit, a pained groan escaping his lips, he shot a dark glance towards The Fallen One. "You might've warned me that bullets were an issue."

"Do not blame me for your lack of awareness, Lucian. You've walked the earth for nearly fifteen centuries, and always you were able to avoid any sort of threat mankind might have offered. You were simply careless this time. That is hardly my fault."

Lucian sighed, both in annoyance and resignation. "Must your presence always be such a pain? Ah, nevermind that, I don't give a damn. Now, I must go back---"

"Impossible."

Having come to a full stand, Lucian turned sharply towards the angel, eyeing him heatedly. "What did you say?"

"You heard me perfectly well," Lucifer replied with an amused snap of his serpent's tongue.

"We had a deal! You can't---"

Taking a dangerous step towards the man, Lucifer hissed savagely. "Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, Lucian. I made you what you are. You came to me in death and I was kind enough to strike a bargain with you. But you knew the rules - in the event of your immortal death, you belong to me." A short pause as both men came eye to eye, neither afraid nor willing to back away. "Well, my friend, you are dead. The contract is terminated. Accept your fate. She is lost to you now."

Before Lucian could so much as open his mouth to speak, Lucifer was gone, his soft laughter echoing through the dark stone halls.

It was over.
It was done.
He had failed.

Oh, how he had tried - not even death had been able to stop him! He had scorned God, sold his soul, allowed his body to become something entirely beyond humanity. He had done it all for her. And now? All was lost. Because of his own carelessness, he would be forever denied the one thing that had ever mattered to him.

With a furious cry, Lucian Boroi threw back his head and screamed.

<center></center>

But if ever there was a lesson to take to heart, is was that love should never be underestimated.

[lunarcrimes]

[taken from live play]

Everything about that night was burnt so firmly into her memory now, it was sickening. The way the air smelled, the way the blood pouring out of his mouth sounded, the way his skin felt so sickeningly cold and soft when she scooped him into her arms and screamed. Something inside of her had snapped since then, she didn't know what it was and she didn't know how to change it back. His sudden appearance was like opening a floodgate and suddenly her real life was getting blurred into some dream life she'd created and even therapy wasn't helping. Her therapist was at a loss for what was going on and what to call it -- it wasn't a psychotic episode because she wasn't delusional. It was interferring with her everyday life but she was trying to get rid of these memories she had that weren't her own.

And then someone mentioned reincarnation and then it got worse. The dreams happened everynight, every time she napped, every time she closed her eyes practically! Even while she was walking, images would snap in front of her eyes that made no sense. Especially when she was in the park, taking a shortcut to work.

...So, it was time to take a break. Stress was getting the best of her, she reasoned, and the trauma of seeing someone die in your arms. That was all! Just a little rest would help, so she took a leave of absence and three months later nothing was changed. She wore less color now, more black, and was in a constant state of depression. She was greiving over losing him a second time but she couldn't recall ever losing him in the firstplace. But the pain was there and she sobbed, every night she sobbed, over him. In an effort to get her mind off of the trauma, she took walks. Tonight she was prowling the streets, her scarf practically wrapped around her head, her hands in her pockets and the snow falling serenly in big puffy white flakes.

Time in the Underwold passed with the slowness one would expect from eternal damnation. A day felt like a year, a month felt like a millenia. How odd to think of such things, that he had lived for nearly 1500 years. ...Then again, perhaps lived wasn't really the correct word. At first he let the misery consume him - out of his own foolishness, he had lost the immortal life he had maintained for over 1400 years. So caught up in keeping her with him, so determined not to lose her once again, he made a fatal a mistake. And it was over. Done. He was dead, condemned to Hell, while she walked easily through the waking world. She was lost to him once again. What was the point of anything? Best to accept the swallowing darkness, lie down and admit defeat. Which he did - wallowing about, speaking to no one, never so much as lifting an arm in an attempt to find a loophole, a way out. Perhaps, for the first time, he truly was dead.

Lucifer had always been the arrogant sort. Though he was not exactly what the bible and other various writings of the world proclaimed him to be, he was indeed a cruel creature, with an intensely mockish side. It was nothing out of the ordinary for him to come to Lucian's side, snickering darkly at the man's obvious defeat, and lashing him with bitter words. Still, Lucian did nothing. Until one day, The Fallen One went one step too far. "Honestly, Lucian. Moping about like this, all for one little whore. You had her once, and you lost her. You almost had her twice, and yet again she was the death of you. Perhaps I should send word up to the living world, tell them to be done with her, and just send her down to me. Perhaps she'd enjoy endless damnation with you---" As it turned out, it was to be Lucifer's arrogance that was the death of him. With a speed, strength and fury that he never knew he possessed, Lucian shot up out of the dark, hands wrapping around his enemy's throat. No words were exchanged, no deep meaning was passed through a simple glance. The only thing that existed in that moment was the dark fire burning in the Demon's eyes, the insane ease to which he put an end to the most ruthless creature in the universe.

When all was said and done, it was shock that overtook him. It seemed impossible, all of it, that he could take such a life so easily. But he was not given time to properly analyze it. Sounds everywhere, the screaming and wailing of his fellow damned. No doubt they felt the loss, the death. The Underworld was being turned upside down, forever changed, all in the space of a precious minute. They were hunting him, weren't they? Seeking vengence against the one that killed their ruler. And so he fled, never knowing which way to go, and yet somehow he made it. Away from the darkness, from the screams, the hunters. He left it all in the dust, for he was something ... different. Once he had been a man. And then a demon. And now? Now he was something else. Something ... stronger.

A week had passed since his escape, and finally he decided it was time to find her. There had been who happened upon him, of course. Many who sought to kill him, but they were destroyed easily. He barely had to lift a hand to dispatch them - something that he had never been able to do until as of late. Alas, there was no time to think of that now. Again, he was shocked by the ease with which he found her soul, simply reaching out into the endless night with his own, until recognition and love flooded his heart. It was a matter of minutes before he was there, in the park, hidden away in the darkness. Watching her from his position behind a tree. "I defied both Heaven and Hell for you." A voice, yes, His voice. But never was it spoken, oh no. This time, it was simply in her mind.

Ellen, or Helena, or whatever her name was now, was staring up at the snow falling down. This was going to be the kind of love story that went down in record books -- like the Bible. But she didn't know that yet, all she knew was that the inebbable feeling of loss was suddenly ebbed and she felt like a weight fell off of her shoulders in the most wonderful fashion. Before she even heard him, she was looking around, searching for something. "Lucian." The words actually escaped her mouth and then came the voices. "I defied both Heaven and Hell for you." Only it wasn't normal, yet it sounded normal, and she was at a loss as to what to make of it. But the moment she heard this, proverbially or whatever it was, she was breaking into a run at the tree that he hid behind. "Lucian don't leave me." Clinging to him like she had so many years ago, clinging to him without his armor on this time, live body against live body and she was burying her face in his neck. "Promise you will never leave." Where the hell had she learned that language?! She had no idea, but she had, apparently. Old Romanian, Latin, whatever the hell it was -- she was speaking it to him and suddenly didn't feel very much like herself.

He hadn't expected her to find him so easily, to come running to him. Although, to be honest, he hadn't expected ANYTHING that had happened within the past three or four months. None of that mattered, though, because she spoke his name, was in his arms, and the words that poured out of her mouth were no longer the words of this new world. No, America was gone from her voice and speech. She was Helena again, at least partly, and when he heard the familiar language that he had not spoken in centuries, a warmth filled his heart that he could not even attempt to describe. "My sweet love. My little love." Delighting in the sound of his own voice, in the fact that he could finally use his native Romanian tongue, and she seemed to understand. Ah, but he so adored calling her his little love - he had ever since they were children. On that first fateful day when they met, he had scooped her up and spun her about, before leading her out to the gardens to play. She had tripped over a branch, fallen to her knees, scraped the tender skin. Though she cried for her father, he hushed her gently, washed away the blood and dirt, bandaged her up, for she was so much smaller than he, and he felt unbearably protective of her. That did not change as they grew into adulthood. He was extremely large for their time - Hell, he was considered large even now! - having been blessed with an impressive height and muscular, impossibly strong body from a very early age. And so he smiled upon her size, how easily she fit into his arms, how tiny she was compared to him, and it became his favorite nickname for her. "Hush now. All is divine. I'm here now." Smoothing his fingers through her hair, careful to never tug or pull a single strand. Large palm cupped her cheek, turned her face up to his. For the longest moment he just stared at her mouth. Entranced. Lost. And when he finally leaned down to brush his lips against hers - just the tiniest little kiss, so soft it was barely felt - he knew, without a doubt, that he had not made a mistake. Damnation was nothing compared to this. To her. And the fact that this was their first kiss in nearly 1500 years.

Helena, she was just Helena right now, kissed him. No, she didn't just kiss him, she practically tried to suck out his soul! Her hands worked furiously through his hair and she drew herself so tightly to him that it was difficult to see where she began and he ended. "Oh Lucian, I love you so much." She still felt so tiny compared to him, because she was, and so wrapping herself in his coat and against his chest wasn't really something odd for her. "Can we stay together this time? Forever this time, please, forever..." That's when the tears started. The tears for him that she had cried so many times before mixed with new tears at the relief of being in his arms. He wasn't dead. He was here. He was standing here -- if in an altered form or not, she didn't care. It was the same soul. It was Lucian and his desperate love, the kind she reciprocated so easily. He wasn't the only one who would have braved heaven and hell for love. "I won't let you go now that I finally have you again. I promise." Shivering against him, teeth chattering, she promised him things that she probably couldn't keep. But oh, she was going to damnit!

It was such an intense relief to have her there, with him, promising the world, though it was unlikely she could ever truly understand just what it meant. Ahh, but she was shivering, and that protectiveness took hold of him again. She was wrapped in his coat, and his arms, tucked tightly against him, and so he had no fear of taking to the wind. There was not a chance in Hell he'd let her fall, and what with his newfound strength and reflexes, he was more than confident in their safety. Jumping easily from rooftop to rooftop, until he had once again found his flat. Though he didn't much feel the cold, he wasn't about to let her freeze. Slipping in through the large windows, he set her down gently, moving away just long enough to shut the windows. Once the latch clicked shut, he was sweeping his coat off of his shoulders in one grand movement, draping them over hers immediately. And then he was holding her arms in his hands, guiding her to sit on the bed with him. A long moment passed before he spoke, as if he couldn't decide upon the words. "Darling, do you know ... where you are? What happened?" Not sure just exactly what she knew, or felt, or remembered, he decided to carefully question her, lest he frighten her terribly.

This taking to the air thing was a little foreign and once they were inside, she was a bit blanched. This was all very strange, but then he was talking to her again and she was looking intensely grave. "I remember... watching you die." Swallowing hard, she couldn't even look at him when she said that. "I remember mourning and then I remember one day -- I thought I saw you. I thought you were there, I heard you begging me to come to you and that the dagger would do so I did it. I died, I think but I don't ...I don't remember how. I don't know what happened -- and then I was in this body. With this life for myself instead, a second chance but I couldn't let go of you. Of us." Finally, her eyes snapped up at him. Those same eyes she'd always had, the windows to her soul. "You looked horrible when you died, Lucian. I've wanted to tell you that for a long time... and I love you. I love you so much, I never have stopped. I wanted to tell you that too." The foreign language to Ellen slipped so easily from Helena's tongue and there was a moment where it seemed that Ellen would never be back, that woman's life and memories were gone.

For a long moment it seemed that he had not heard her, as he stared through her, lost to whatever thought clouded his mind. The gore of his death did not bother him, no, not in the slightest. And while her declaration of love warmed his heart, as it had always done, he moved away from her with a sharpness that was unlike him. At least when he was around her, for he preferred to show her only gentleness and adoration. Turning his back on her so that he could watch the New York night. He made no attempt to speak, no attempt to move closer to her, or reassure her, or whatever it was he was supposed to do at that moment. After several minutes of somber silence, it seemed he had no intention of speaking. Until a shaky breath was taken [and easily heard, what with the lack of noise in the room], his shoulders trembled, and it became quite obvious he was sobbing. Hard. Something he had only done once before, when he had received word of her "death." Before she even had a chance to speak, inquire as to what ailed him, he was flinging himself to his knees before her, arms wrapped desperately around her waist, head buried in her lap. His sobbing continued, just as hard as before, but this time it was punctuated with words so muffled and slurred with his emotions that they were nearly impossible to understand. "Forgive me, please, Jesus, Helena, forgive me, forgive---" Guilt consumed him. For 1500 years it had gnawed at his soul. In death he had called to her, directing her towards the dagger. His own selfishness, his own need for her. Oh, how pathetically weak he had been! To end the life of his love - his one and only true love, the woman he had destroyed Hell to be with. "I'm so sorry, so sorry, forgive me, God, please, forgive me, I beg of you." Fingers digging into the fabric of her clothes, his entire body racked with sobs. It was all he could think of to do, throw himself before her and beg her forgiveness, that she might understand, even just a little.

[lunarcrimes]

For the better part of an hour he had clung to her, desperate, full of sorrow and regret and love and pride and a million other unidentifiable emotions. Though she stroked his hair, cooed something words to him, told him over and over that she did indeed forgive him, nothing seemed to calm him. Not until she firmly held his face in her hands and kissed him passionately, gentle thumbs wiping blindly at his tears. She always did have such a way of distracting him from his sadness, no matter how deep and unshakable it seemed.

"Take me, Lucian." Whispered against the sensitve flesh of his neck, before she assaulted him with another round of fiery kisses.

No matter how many centuries had passed, some things never changed. Despite her new life, her new body, she responded to him the way she always had. Laughing sweetly when he playfully nipped at her fingertips, and sighing with contentment when his lips found the soft, smooth skin of her thighs. For hours - no, more like the entire night - they stayed together, bodies entwining again and again, their sighs and moans and screams and declarations of undying love being offered up to the cool New York night.

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How long he had slept, he wasn't sure. Morning had approached several minutes earlier, and though he could survive easily under the sun, he much preferred the comforting shield of night. Ah, but to wake once again as he had done for so many years back in Romania, arm thrown around his wife's waist, her body nestled tightly against his -- that was simply too good to miss. Her shoulder was covering with a smattering of affectionate kisses, before his mouth found her upper back, neck, and finally the sweet flesh of her face. Never did she stir, no matter how much he attempted to coax her into the waking world with him, and finally, with a warm, albeit resigned smile, he climbed out of bed and wandered over to his armoire.

Once dressed comfortably in dress slacks and a sweater - both black and exquisitely well-made, for old habits died hard. He never did understand the obsession with dressing down, but then, he had been raised in Ancient Romania, as the son of a powerful Lord. Dressing down was not an option he'd ever had. - he made paused only long enough to fondly run his fingers through her hair, and place another kiss on her lips. And then he was venturing out into the day, going who know's where, until night fell and he would return to her once again.

When Helena awoke, however, it would not be to his empty flat. Oh, no, absolutely not! Long-stemmed silver-white roses [they were her favorite back in Romania, and he often made it a point to send bouquet after bouquet whenever the military called him away - he just hoped she had the same fondness for them now!] filled the room to the brim. Though they slept under a lovely velvet comforter, he had been sure to drape several exotic silk quilts atop it, so that she did not get cold in the early morning chill. A satin robe of crimson and gold [he'd bought it in Morocco years ago, keeping it for the day he would once again have her in his arms and in his bed] was laid out against a chair near the bed, and trays and trays of delicious food, various juices, and fresh coffee were set all around.

On the pillow next to her, where he had slept for so long, there lay a simple note. Intricate, spiraling cursive - in their day, people wrote in nothing else - and words, of course, were in their native Romanian tongue.

I haven't left you, my little love -- I shall return in the evening.

All my endless love,
Lucian