Hawthorne,

It was death that brought us together, and soon it shall repeat. Although, I would have thought you were going to be on the receiving end of it. I lied when I told you water was my only weakness; I had another, hawthorn.

Yes, that is why I proclaimed to you that you were a man of death--your last name is the tree I am specifically weak to. Perhaps I should have listened to you and not let my guard down, but alas, it seems more people are aware of the nineteenth century than previously assumed. Damn bastards ... they were shotty at their job, the thing is halfway lodged inside my chest. It’s too deep for me to just pull out and get medical attention, they punctured a chamber and the only keeping me able to write to you is keeping the damned splinter inside.

“You’ve got an hour.” Is what Laila told me as I started my scribbling to you. She’s stern and callous as always, but even I can hence a slight hesitation in that tough wench; she’s done so much to protect me and keep me around--all gone and taken away.

As you remember, I’ve always had my fixation with death, for it felt more real than anything the world had provided me. So, to be faced with it after having met you and perhaps learning to appreciate what the times have now become ... I suppose it is what those half-rats--those “gen-Z” folk--call “cringe.” I “cringe” at the words I’ve decreed six months ago to you, but now I am robbed of the proper chance to amend myself in front of you.

Death is very real, indeed; it is a permanent, omnipotent force that is final and absolute in its actions. But it is not the only real thing in this world; that is where I have been thoroughly mistaken. Alongside the realness of mortality, comes love, but it is so discreet in its appearance that I can’t help but feel a bit miffed. At least death makes itself known and it does not take one long to process the severity of the situation imposed on them.

Not so for love; love remains hidden and it does not give the back of your skull a beating until you’ve reached the inferno and can’t climb back up.

It strikes you when you are vulnerable, helpless, and are no longer of conscious control--just as it is doing right now.

When you find me, don’t grieve. Rather, you could, but I’d prefer you don’t. Just take whatever of my paraphernalia you’d most treasure, shed your tears at home, but don’t make such a big fuss. If anything, I was already dead since my trial by water, so you’ve essentially loved a corpse for half a year, Hawthorne. You needn’t make such a fuss over a sack of rotting flesh as myself.

I am sorry I didn’t foresee it sooner, but from the bottom of my decaying heart, I love you. I’ll be leaving a poem for you as well; a lüshi, of course, as they’ve always been my favorite poems to write in all the centuries I’ve lived through.

You were a great friend, companion, and lover; I will always treasure you.

-Panteleimon Miloradovich Vysotsky

Prompt: In 1000 words or less, talk about your past regret(s).

A/N: This is written in first person perspective of my OC, Eridæus.

miir is an honorific for teacher, like sensei in Japanese.

kos is an honorific for a stranger.

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The Kaiseevee Tribe is my life-force. They are the ones who brought me into the world, and they are the ones who keep me alive. Without my tribemates, my parents, our leader, our shaman, the farmers, the gathers, the hunters; we would all perish.

And yet because I was taught this, because I was shown this; I never questioned them. I never thought to think for myself and take one, small moment to question things. When the shaman told me the thoughts I had about changing my body were whisperings of The Devil, I believed him. When I was told that I could not change my appearance, for it would disrespect the Arcana, I believed it. I believed that those thoughts of mine, thoughts that I had every right to think of, were wrong, I believed it and I shut them down the moment they crossed my mind.

I never bothered to ask, "Why? How? That doesn't make sense given how the twenty-one Arcana have benevolence towards man? Why would wanting to dress more like a man be a disrespect to my body? Why would wanting my body be 'disrespectful' if such thoughts were granted by The Arcana for me to have? Why would it be so wrong to use magic in such a way, if The Arcana gave man a free will?"

It was only until Asra-miir visited that all of these things, these little pinpricks of questions, finally came into fruition to me. That night, as he showed me a tarot reading, the pale-haired foreigner looked at me and asked, "Do you think, Eridæus, those rules you follow force you into a box?"

"A 'box?'"

"Yes, like a very small animal pen," he explained to me. "Or, a small container for items."

"...I am not sure what you mean," I answered him warily. I remembered thinking to myself to be careful, and not let his potential words of corruption and blasphemy get into my head. "They do not force me into a 'box,' they are the rules. They are the truths of The Arcana, to not follow them is to heed the calls of The Devil."

Asra-miir's violet eyes seemed to flicker with a sadness that night, as if he were pitying me. I only felt more defensive and confused at his expression and the silence between us before he started again, "But, if The Arcana are benevolent to man and they give you all these wonderful things, why would they suddenly put a few rules on very specific subjects, just to limit you?"

"Asra-kos," I began to re-gather my belongings and grabbed my pouch, "You should be very careful about what you are saying. I understand you are a foreigner, but those types of topics are very disrespectful to The Arcana. They are the helpers of man, to question that is to question their intent and there is only one of the main twenty-two that is valid of such actions."

"It is not The Arcana I question, Eridæus. It is the ones preaching about The Arcana that I question."

I was at a loss of words at the time, all I could think of was something about what he said kept poking at me, and I didn't want it to. I wanted to hide, I wanted to get them out of my head. Reflecting on it now, I know it was because it was a true, legitimate counter--that it was a matter of questioning what my tribe preached to me, not The Arcana themselves.

But why would I question my tribe? Why would I do the very thing that is a death sentence in Xaranya? It didn't feel right, it felt unnatural and terrifying. If I were to question my tribe, that would mean I had no one, it would mean I was completely alone. Why would I want to think about something that encouraged an element of death, my death?

As Asra-miir continued the rest of his stay on our grounds, his words never left me--no matter how much I tried. The old days of my youger years began to resurface; questioning why we followed certain aspects of our tradition that didn't paint The Arcana in the many-sided nature we preach for all aspects of life, or the frightening possibility that Asra-miir was right that those speaking of The Arcana were to be questioned.

Those two weeks were nothing but a hailstorm of emotions conflicting within me. Part of me wanted to bury it away, to shut it out and dismiss Asra-miir as a stranger who knew nothing about The Arcana, and followed a religion that wasn't true to them. But it never went away, the prodding feeling always came back to keep me up at night and I eventually realized that I couldn't hide away from it anymore; Asra-miir had a point.

It took much of my courage, but after Asra-miir offered me a position to be his apprentice in magic, I announced it to my family and the tribe. They seemed concerned, but I was able to emphasize that I wished to see the outside world and the other sides of the world. At least in this type of philosophy, they were not so constrictive.

To this day, I will always regret following into what people call 'herd mentality,' not bothering to stop and think or even bother to ask instead of obeying out of fear. I am honored that Asra-miir came to visit us, and I believe The Arcana destined for this to happen, to help me realize my blind complacency.

I will always love my tribe, and I will always be thankful to the lessons, morals, teachings, and support they've given me for a large part of my life. However, I will always be happier that Asra-miir took me to Vesvuia--where I learned I didn't need to be inside a box.

In the new period of being confined to one’s home, Lewis felt his time spent with this washed-up man who called himself “Poe” was that of a double-edged sword. Yes, getting him to still wear a mask and wash his hands despite being immune to the ongoing virus was a pain, but at least him being around the era of smallpox outbreak was at least a means of translating severity and consideration to the man. Rather, it was the fact that his knowledge and witness to the fluidity of time that seemed to be the rocky area Lewis wasn’t quite sure how to deal with.

On one hand, it was always interesting to his eyewitness accounts of the events that have occurred in years past--especially for projects; on the other, he tended to ramble on unrelated topics and then obsess over the permanence of death and how the world has lost its touch. While Lewis understood the sentiment, at times, he couldn’t help but want for Poe to talk about other subjects.

“It’s a crime, Hawthorne, a crime!” came the loud, distressed yowl from the downstairs living room.

Lewis heard the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs heading towards his room, and, groggily, checked his phone for the time.

‘For God’s sake, Poe...’ he thought to himself in exasperation and let out a small, tired groan, ‘It’s 0400, people aren’t even awake yet!’

The door opened with a loud wham as the undead Russian man stormed into his room, flicking on the light and waving the smartphone in the young man’s face with a flurry of emotions, “It’s disgraceful, Hawthorne, dis--nay! I say not that, that word is far too much of an understatement; it is a catastrophe, a tragedy, a Shakespearian play gone awry as if the man discovered the cursed poppy of fever and illusion and let eat away at his brainstem!”

“Poe...” Lewis drowsily raised his hand, gesturing for the vampire to slow down, “What are you on about now?”

Abruptly, Poe grabbed Lewis’ freehand and plopped the smartphone, “Do your ‘zoom in’ that you speak of, and cast your eyes upon this travesty! The nerve, the horror--do you have a rope for me to tie? A pedestal to stand on so it may tighten around my throat?”

Rubbing his eyes, and stifling one last yawn, Lewis squinted at the bright screen light and read what appeared to be a Twitter post about staying up late and procrastinating on schoolwork, “Okay, yes, so this person stayed up ’til ... 0400 playing videogames and is now having regrets? I don’t understand what you’re--”

”‘Scroll’ up as they say! Scroll through this person’s ‘history,’ you’ll see it!”

“Hah...” Lewis followed, noticing that the poster’s previous messages were repeated cycles of procrastination then panic over and over again minus the occasional complaint about dealing with the mundane aspects of finding a job and being asked to make something for themselves. “Okay, yes, so I do see that this--”

“Precisely, Hawthrone, it’s nothing more than a glorified, whiny whelp barking about meaningless nothings because the owners failed to take its muzzle and shove it into its mess to teach it discipline! Rather, whoever was responsible for this whelp, they opted to just let it mark its territory all over their precious abode, instead! What kind of age is this? I’ve never seen such foul, poorly-written, lackadaisical pieces such as this where what is considered profound--‘deep’ as you daft hooligans say--is nothing more than shallow, trite, one-offs with no format, no structure, and no prose ranting about menial pain and normal life. Do you know what a man can be doing at 0400? Why, he could be going out to tend to his garden, tend to his family, buy food, write a lushi about the seasons and Confucian philosophies, or praise what has been granted to him in life. But nay, nay these people say! There need not be a need for an insightful poem, paragraphs of a tale to simmer into the mind, vocabulary to display the education granted to society--nay! Rather, simplified, ‘short’ sentences with little depth are considered to be such high standards!”

The grin on his face widened as he snatched the phone from Lewis and tapped another area on the screen, “What was once the glory of the printing press has now turned into a hellfire of trash, avarice, and filthy swine! Whelps that were granted far too much riches, wanton, and materialism now overrun communities and mock the notion of hard work instead of seeing it as a necessity. As this new plague--”

“Pandemic, Poe, the term is pandemic.”

”--As this new plague pushes us further into self-contained isolation,” Poe continued to ramble, causing Lewis to rub his temples and sigh, “The grammar-phobic, the slothful, the will rise and soon I will be told a picture of horse dung says so much about human nature as opposed to something written properly! It’s a horrid nightmare, no wonder death seems so fanciful!”

“Poe...” Lewis took a breath of composure before staggering up and resting his hand on the vampire’s shoulder, “Yes, I understand, given your background of ... about four hundred years of history, and coming from many, many periods that could consider what we’ve got today ‘easy’ or ‘too privileged’ in comparison, it’s very easy to see how people are conducting themselves in writing or social class can be grating.”

He yawned again before continuing, “However, time changes, and, yes, given the influence of machine since then, it only seems natural things like this would happen. And while it is discouraging, there are still the few that likely still value most of the things you value.”

Lewis paused, recalling how certain things Poe had said were “off-beat” at best, “Yes, mostly. A lot of people are easily discouraged in this time period because they’ve become dependent on wearing personas--er, masks--and having approval. But I truly believe that if you keep going about your way and not getting wrapped up in all of it, not only do you spare yourself some trouble, but you stand as a figure for those in the shadows, afraid to still show those values you preached about for fear of being mocked, ignored, etc. You show them that none of that has to matter. So...”

He handed the phone back to Poe, ”...It’s not all as bad as you think it is, Poe. At least our ability to choose to write well despite the ‘cesspool’ around us is still there and nothing’s happened to take that way. ...Also, it is really early in the morning, so may I please go back to bed now?”

”...” Poe stared at him incredulously; the awkward silence hanging uncomfortably between the two before he up and announced, “I shall be going for a walk, then!”

“Okay, but--” Lewis began to raise his voice as he saw the vampire quickly heading out of the house, “But don’t forget your...”

The slam of the door cut him off, ”...Your mask.”