I did not realize how unselfish his love for them was until the act was done. I knew then, that night in Metairie when he spoke to me with sarcasm glazed in sugary tones, that he would have let them grow up, grow old, live their lives, such as he himself had been denied. He loved them more respectfully, more unselfishly than I had ever been able to love him.

How he had captured me the very moment I laid eyes on him, starved and dying in the Venetian brothel from which I customarily rescued boys. I told him that very night that he would never die, that he would live forever. I knew that night that I would give him the Dark Gift. It was inevitable. It was destiny.

The years we passed before I did transform him are the purest of my existence. My fierce love of him, born and raised in that era, has not died. It has grown stronger, though for so long, until this modern era brought us together once more, we were apart. We have to learn to know each other once more.

I fight back my fear when I look into his eyes and he looks back into mine. I think we both know how easy it would be to fan the flames of the love between us, love which the very centuries could not destroy. I think we are both afraid to feel that deeply. The both of us have suffered for love, do not wish to suffer again.

And so we dance. Circling each other, predators and partners, sparring gently with words and kisses. Amadeo, forgive me the past. Take me into your future. Amadeo, child of my heart. Forgive me.