Page 18 of We Were Eternal Once

You do not pay the man, instead you command him to forget. I was not there, you were not there—the boxes do not exist. The boxes are moved to storage, hidden amongst the traded wares of the Greeks and Romans.

I write out my notes in shaky hand, my hand cramping with effort. You trace over my words, your brow furrowed. You don’t speak as I unveil the plot that ruminated in my brain.

“You did so much,” you say.

“I wouldn’t have left you,” I reply. And now that the words are said aloud, the plan mapped out between us—I’m sick with it. What arrogance, to think I could have gone through with it. What cowardice, to pretend I wouldn’t have tried.

How could I have waited below deck, knowing you were left behind?

“It was a play act.”

“A thorough one,” you say.

You move through these plans with me, but I fear your distance. Do I imagine that you speak to me less? That you take longer to hunt, always alone? That by speaking my truth, I’ve driven a wedge between us that cannot be undone by a confession? Was I better off continuing in silence, letting the solstice slip by without boarding a ship?

These thoughts haunt me, circling through my mind without reprieve. I watch you all the closer, hold you tighter as we retire at night into our grave.

The days before the solstice are filled with excess. We feast on the humans, who are too drunk from their revels to notice. Romans and Greeks alike worship the turn of the season. War does not stop, I do not think it even slows, but for a time it is forgotten. The taverns overflow, the inns bulge with bodies.

You and I hunt separately to fill as best we can. If the journey is rough, it may take four days. Four days without food is easy for you, but I’ve never gone so long without a meal. You promise it will be nothing, that I will emerge in Rome a bit hungry but no worse off. You promise me you will keep me safe.

“I am glad you brought me into your plans,” you tell me, twirling a piece of my hair around your finger. It leaves dark grooves in your skin, the tip of your finger purple. You wind it tighter, tugging on my hair.

“I wouldn’t have left you.” It is my new refrain, my prayer. I would not have left you. You were my world, my goddess, my soul. They were thoughts, not plans.

(“You made a box. Just one.”)

As if you haven’t done worse to me.

The solstice comes, and the plan sets into motion. A silent merchant ship, a captain who prefers to leave harbor by night to avoid detection from the Romans and pirates alike. A small vessel, one that can move fast and hide if needed.

We go to our boxes and wait. With me are meager belongings: my grave dirt about my neck, a few books, items of worth when we make it to Rome. I’ve slowly collected coins and things of value for when we get to Rome. There is a long journey still, across many more kilometers to our end destination.

My box moves, jolted from its hiding place amongst the wares. Voices shout and I lurch about inside. My arms press to the cold wood, splinters digging into my arms as I try to keep from banging around. At one point my box upends, and I worry the lid will come off. My fingers curl around the latch, praying for it to hold tight.

My box lands with a thud, my entire body rattled. I pick the bits of wood from my arms and legs, willing myself to stay inside. I should eat them all for their callousness. They were instructed on the fragility of the contents, to be handled with care. Instead, they throw me around, uncaring of the precious cargo inside.

I hope you fare better. I hope they carry you with reverence and set you next to me. I strain to hear the heartbeats of the crew, counting the bodies on the ship. The ship rocks with their movement. I try to focus on my reading, but I am too impatient. Why haven’t we left yet? How long has it been?

At long last the quiet command is given, and the ship pushes off. I lurch in my box, my fingernails digging into the wood. This is it—this is the point of no return. Once we are out to sea, we are at the mercy of the crew. What if they become curious and open our boxes? What if it is daytime, and I am asleep, and they try to bring me to the deck? What if there is a hole in the box, and the sun leaks through, and I die?

All because of boredom.

But the thought of this happening to you is what sets me the most on edge. This was my plan, these were my designs. If you should die because I was unwilling to wait for the war to pass…I do not think I could survive. No, I know I wouldn’t survive. I’d throw myself into the sun after you, embracing its eternal slumber.

There is no world without you in it.

The crew is quiet as the ship cuts through the water. I sway as they maneuver. I track their heartbeats—steady, strong. A few race at first, then settle as we move deeper into the water.

I settle as the last heartbeat slows and pull out my book to read.

It is faint at first, a noise that only a vampire could hear. It’s a sluicing noise, the cutting of wood through water. Then more heartbeats than before, erratic with excitement. Is it another merchant ship passing in the night? Is it a ship of soldiers, delayed due to the solstice?

The heartbeats grow louder, and overhead, the crew stirs. They speak quietly at first, commands to lower the sails, to turn off the lights, to hide in the night. Then the words are louder, their calls frantic.

Fight them off!

Pirates? Or Roman vessels?