Page 8 of We Were Eternal Once

“I did not dream,” I say.

“No, and you never will again.” You close your book and stand, approaching me with measured steps. “Because there is no reason to dream anymore. Anything you can desire, it will be yours. It will be ours.”

I stand, covered with dirt. I am unworthy of you like this, making you sit in this squalid shack while I sleep. You should have temples erected to you, forget the hollow gods the people serve. If they saw you as I did, if they knew you as I did, they’d understand they put their faith in lies.

And yet they’ve no name for you, no knowledge that you exist. That we exist.

Then you kiss me and I am falling. Your lips are soft, strong. Your tongue works my mouth open to taste me, to slide along my new elongated teeth. I shudder into you, wanting to bite you, to taste you. I want to feel our dead hearts pressed against each other like the night you turned me.

Then I taste dirt, and I remember how unworthy I am.

“Come,” you say, stepping back. “I have a change of clothes, there is a river not far from here.”

I follow you through the olive trees to a river. I do not know how far we walk, my gaze eternally tracking the world around me. An errant breeze stirs the boughs above me, their whispers a new language to me. What else had my mortal ears failed to hear? What other secrets does the valley hold, the river, the world?

What is outside of the temple on the hill and the olive trees below it?

I step into the water, waiting for the shock of cold that never comes. The river washes the dirt free, and I radiate maroon. No—not maroon. The intensity of my new vision distorts colors, the mud like blood in the water.

Your hand is on my chin, forcing me to look at you. You kiss the furrow between my brow, leading me step by step into the water until it is to my waist. You stand taller, the water trailing between your legs, exactly where I wish to be.

“Let me,” you say softly. You pull my dress from over my head and throw the ruined thing onto the bank. I turn to watch where it lands but you grab my chin again, bringing my focus wholly on you.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper.

I obey. I always obey you.

“Good, psichë mou.” My soul.

Your hands explore the reaches of me—tender but firm, cleaning the last vestiges of my life. Once I emerge from this water, I will no longer be the me of before, the rat of the temple. I will be yours—your soul. I feel more and more like Melinoë with every pass of the soap. I cannot describe the smell, I don’t have the words. All I know is oil and ash, a strigil to scrape myself clean. The soap leaves my skin soft and supple, the hair on my arms rising at your touch.

We step deeper into the water until it is at my shoulders, just my head above the stream. I tilt my head back, my eyes still closed, letting the running water wash me free. We stand there for eternity it seems, your fingers cleaning the last of my grave from my face, my ears, my mouth.

Then we are on the bank, my head in your lap, my hair combed by the lazy stream. Your fingers move through the knots and brambles there, picking them apiece bit by bit. There is no hurry, there is no rush.

We have time eternal, you and I.

Your fingers massage my scalp, and I think this is the best day of my life. Was this what I missed scurrying about the temple? Is this what the rich experience? Was this the love the songs of our gods spoke of? The endless poetry and tragedies written about great loves that conquer kingdoms for the chance to gaze upon the face of their beloved.

What would I have done for you, in that moment? What would I have done for you for centuries to come?

Vienna. Paris. New York. Paris. Vienna. New York. Paris. Paris.

I am naked, the moon on my skin, the trees overhead whispering their secrets.

“The night is so loud,” I say.

“The world will be so loud,” you say. “I will teach you many things. How to quiet it, how to hunt, how to survive. But most of all, I will teach you how to live.”

I had to die to live.

I turn in your lap, my lips against your thigh. I test my new teeth against your flesh, the softest prick. You don’t stop me as I slide them into your leg, tasting the beads that collect there. My tongue laves them, whimpering when they disappear after just a few moments.

“I will show you where the vessels lie,” you say, your voice thick. I sit up to look at you, worried I’ve angered you. “Here,” you say, tracing your fingers up your inner thighs, nearing that apex I long to taste.

“A good spot to hide your bite,” you breathe, parting your thighs for me. “Go ahead.”

I lower myself once more, my gaze lingering on the prize I really want. But I want you to feel as I did when you fed from me. I want to study you the way the scholars study their texts, to know you the way the sailor knows the storms.