For She Who Loved The Spring

Today, it was white carnations—pure love and innocence. I tucked them into the crook of Caroline’s arm. There she was—beautiful, innocent and very dead.

Its been quite a long time for someone like me to be grieving. My kin kept telling me that it was unnatural and very human of me. What would they know? They would never know how Caroline loved me. They would never know that in her eye I was not a sinner, not a diabolical creature—just another lost ship in the sea of doubt looking for a shore to call home. I was pardonable. I was not feared. I was not loathsome. That was my Caroline…

It was a summer night when I first met the Walter sisters. Caroline had turned 16 and her sister Selma, as always, was taking her to a party at a friend’s house. Caroline, my sweet sweet Caroline—innocent, beautiful but ever so frail. The party of two passed by me under a street lamp and my eyes met Caroline’s sweet, brown that held so much intrigue. I distinctly remember being so oddly compelled by a feeling so instinctive that it could be called hunger—but not for flesh nor pleasure—but this insatiable need to hold her close and inhale her sweet scent. I was so shocked that I lost my bearing for a split second—standing there on that street so still that I could have been a statue. I hurried to my lodgings—my heart in a frenzy—wondering how I could feel something so pure, a feeling so innocent for the first time in my long existence, for an absolute stranger who was so shrouded in the shadow of Death that I could see His hand on her shoulder. I wondered how I could be so instantaneously smitten by a girl who was already marked to be claimed by the Reaper…

My kin would have advised me to stay away from the girl. To not involve myself in matters we no longer held the right to. Affections did not keep us alive. Attachment meant peril. But I could not just leave it be. I wanted to understand what I was feeling—if feeling was possible in my existence anymore. So I frequented the town, scouted the local gathering places, listened in on the conversations to know who this girl was. On one such night time run, I ran into Caroline in a local tavern.

She approached me and started a conversation—about fashion, clothing and what not. All I could do was mumble a response or two as I sat there spellbound. She asked me to accompany her back to her house and that if I wanted I could stay the night. I politely declined the latter while taking her upon her request to walk her home. I could feel my breath catching as Caroline took my arm and smiled warmly at me. She chatted along the way to me humming to her—about her parents, sister, friends, townsfolk—how much they loved her and how much they meant to her. As we drew closer to her home Caroline fell silent. I still remember her voice cracking as she looked at me and told me that she did not expect herself to see the spring this year. And I could feel it, my heart seizing in pain for her. It was then I acknowledged that I was in love with Caroline Walter.

Our kind had never revealed ourselves to humans. Blinded by fear and deafened by old superstitions they feared us. Nachzehrer, vampir, strigoi—many such terms for my kind. We stayed in shadows, fed in shadows, existed in a sort of impasse and fled when humans got a whiff of our existence. We never associated with humans, never bonded with them—emotionally or physically. But that night, I found myself revealing to a wide eyed Caroline what I was. My eyes were begging for her to not run, to stay and not look at me like I was a damnation, a blight, something so abhorrent. My pleas were heard when she took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes and whispered to me that I was beautiful. For the first time in centuries I wept that night. I wept for the life I lost, for the deeds I had done and moreover I wept for Caroline. As she held me in an embrace, for the first time in my this altered, wretched existence—I felt forgiveness.

We met frequently after that—taverns, orchards, at my cottage—she would lie on my lap and listen to my stories of a bygone era. She would ask me all about my people. Though discretion was our second nature, I found myself being like a babbling brook at her voice. She would laugh and I would tell her that I loved her and we would kiss. We held hands and when passion took over we would make love. Those were the best nights of my awfully long existence. And she was my only love.

If the townsfolk were noticing two young women spending too much time together—they were not making it obvious. Selma looked happier now that her sister was happy. Caroline was my salvation and I revelled in her love and attention. But I could feel the Reaper tightening His hold on her as days passed. It was a cold winter night when I felt His scythe too close for my liking.

That night—our last night together—Caroline was wearing a white dress with so many layers and a fur coat to keep her warm. We spent the night in my tiny warm cottage. That night we were both silent—her eyes sad. I wanted to kiss every inch of her—so that was what I did. Her hair so soft and mellow wound in my fist, the tender flesh kneaded by my fingers, her whimpering sighs and then needful moans filling me with a fire that burned inside me with such passion, such intensity that I fell all over again in love with this sweet little innocent girl who gazed up at me with her doe eyes. We held each other in a naked embrace while I whispered to her what she meant to me and she looked at me, completely disarming me when she said that she knew she was going to die soon. As it was my duty to the one I loved—I offered to turn her and stay with her for an eternity, which she lovingly declined. The love she received—she told me—was enough for a lifetime and that she was sorry to leave me alone. That was my Caroline—considerate even in her pain.

I walked her home that dawn and met Selma at the gates. She smiled at me—a small sad smile. The winter was in its last legs but Caroline was about to leave without seeing her favourite spring…

The next few days Caroline did not come around. I visited her home each night where I saw her through her window, surrounded by her weeping family, while a lonely raven cried at the highest branch of a tree stripped to nothing by the brute force of the winter. Wretched bird. She laid there with her eyes shut, so still, so beautiful, barely breathing, her once ruby red lips now pallid. On the fourth night, Caroline opened her eyes and gave her family a tired smile. She whispered something to Selma who looked so solemn and about to breakdown in tears. She kissed the cheeks of her Papa, Mama and held her maid’s hands and smiled. Then she slowly turned to the window to smile at me and she slowly shut her eyes. That was the last day of Caroline Walter, my one true love.

Her funeral and wake were held the next day and I visited the grave that night. I had found a Blue Bell flower deep in the forest at the first thaw of winter—defiant and wilfull it bloomed as if it was challenging the cold. I had scooped it up for her who loved the spring. It was the talk of the town that Selma was looking for a sculptor for the gravestone. That night Selma found me, wondering if I were any good. Of course I was—over all these drastically long years it was one of the skills I had acquired to pass time. So I made a sculpture for the grave—life size and doing justice to her beauty. Selma was so moved when I installed it on her grave the next night—on the condition that she would never reveal the sculptor to anyone. In return for the work all I asked for was her permission for me to visit Caroline.

With Caroline gone, I had no more reason to be near human settlements or walk the dim lit night streets. I could not enjoy the air thick with drunken excitement from taverns. So I moved my cottage deep into the forest and immersed myself in gardening and learning how to grow flowers even in cold harsh winters. It was difficult back in the 1860s compared to modern times, but I had not missed a single day. For all I could do in this eternity was to remember her. So I decided to show her spring everyday. Everyday, one flower for my love who loved the spring so much, but perished in the winter. One flower for the one who forgave my existence and had granted me a love larger than anything. One flower for my salvation, my home. One flower a day for my Caroline.

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Inspired by the Tumblr post on top. Thanks to the users who made the post. Thank you Mr. PJ for your motivation. This is a fan fiction of sorts.