A Series of Love Letters

[dreamophiliac]

I have been encouraged to post writing here.

A character of mine wrote these love letters while I was on vacation. He was on vacation too, obviously. Anyhow, i e-mailed them to my role playing partner while i was on vacation. She was playing a Toreadore named Alessandro and I was playing a mortal named Michael her character was was in the process of ghouling.


Letter 1-

Dearest Alessandro,
My Little Demon,
My Little Angel,

Four days, or five?

My memory and reasoning are hazy since I met you at that bar, and let you led me out among the roses.

Since I let you claim me my mind fares no better. You own me as surely as I strive to own you. I covet you as surely as I strive for you to covet me.

My love for you is as boundless as anything my mind can envision, as you are as beautiful as anything my mind can comprehend. What are you really, a spirit, a monster of the old world? I think not, so often. You are a little boy, a spoiled angel, a brat with the powers of a demon.

I am your thrall.
You are my muse.
A siren.

I love my family, but even so, I was loathe to leave you for them. My beloved sisters and my brother. Our old dog by the hearth, and my father, his eyes so empty and full of need since our mother passed on.

My demon, My angel, I turn my eyes towards the east constantly, and I can feel you, pulling me towards you. I am powerless.

Love,
Michael Shepard

Letter 2 -

Dearest Alessandro:

I quote for you from a book I loved as a child. I found it today when I was searching through my old things. I write this not to make you cry, but to let you know that I strive to understand:

"It burned my eyes and pained every part of my body. It destroyed my cloak and my boots, stole the magic from my armor, and weakened my trusted weapons. Still, every day, without fail, I was there, sitting upon my perch, my judgement seat, to await the arrival of the sun."

"It came to me each day in a paradoxical way. The sting could not be denied, but neither could I deny the beauty of the spectacle. The colors just before the sun's appearance grabbed my soul in a way that nothing from the underworld ever could. At first, I thought my entrancement a result of the strangeness of the scene, but even now, many years later, I feel my heart leap at the subtle brightening that heralds the dawn."

"The sun, for all the anguish is brought me physically, came to represent my denial of that other, darker world. Those rays of revealing light reinforced my principles as surely as they weakened the tools of my youth."

You are my sun, Alessandro. As surely as I have surrendered the normalcy of my life, I have yet gained. In spte of the sorrow I feel. You are worth a thousand meaningless days, blind and stumbling through a world without compassion or meaning. Let me be your sun as well. I may sting you, but leave your eyes open to me. Remember, that blinding light is my love.

Sincerly,
Michael Shepard

Letter 3-

Alessandro,

I've been meaning to ask if there is a god.
I've been meaning to ask if you are god.
For surely, what other being could encompass so much in my eyes?

I suspect that you know nothing more than I do.
I suspect that you are not.
But I doubt myself. If I am a candle, you are a bonfire.

If you are a bonfire, my soul is kindling.
Tossed into you to spread sparks and burst into flame,
I will feed your light, your heat, and your hunger will grow.

If your hunger grows, what can I do but bow to it,
If I bow, how can I see myself reflected in your eyes,
And if my reflection in your eyes is all I have, what am I?

Your eyes encompass me.
I refuse to be your property, but I am willingly your slave.
When I return to you I will whisper into your ears.

I will whisper, 'I know I exist because I see myself in your eyes.'
I will whisper, 'I know I exist because your voice makes me cry.'
I will moan, 'I know I exist because I am tossed into you, and I burst into flame.'

I will bow, and I will rise, and I will kiss you.
Then I will look into your eyes and know I live.

Love,
Michael Shepard

Letter 4 - 

My Dear Alessandro Moreschi,

I bought you a gift, after you've read this letter, ask me for it.

The Canadian Rocky Mountains are a thing of beauty to behold. Untouched compaired to the Alps that you've most probably seen, their slopes remain covered in trees and pure snow. My family lives away from cities, about seventy miles outside of Vancouver to the northeast. My father is a wealthy man, as was his father before him. All my siblings are wealthy, and I am wealthy. I was raised in luxury, taking the dogs out into the snow to hunt, and returning home to find a well-prepared meal. People raised among the bustle of cities cannot understand this life, and cannot understand the type of individuality it can instill in a man.

I went for a walk today, and our old dog followed me until its legs gave out and I sent it home. Then I was alone in the wilderness with my thoughts. I found tracks that I would have followed in my youth, to find an elk curled up in a thick cove to avoid the blasting winds of winter. I found the olds paths I used to wander in the summer, to the rivers, to my favorite boulder where I used to sit all day in the sun and read. I found the place where I first took a woman, and I thought for a short while.

Do you enjoy the touch of a woman as you would enjoy mine?
You should answer this question for me.

Then I turned back towards the place where I grew up, and looked at that house in the distance. Light filled the windows in the growing dusk, and a thin wafts of smoke trailed up from its chimneys. Though it holds many memories, this place that I come to for my yearly pilgrimage is no longer home. It is beautiful to me, this wintry scene, but empty. I turned away for a few moments, again, eyes searching the east, but pushed through the snow towards my old family. It was duty, not love.

Michael Shepard

Letter 5 - 

Alessandro,

I am a hunter,
I am a thief of life,
I stalk without remorse,
Or moral concerns.

This is why you desire me.
You who feast on blood and hide behind the masks of pleasure.
You are a hunter for blood, for beauty, and for life.
You go where your passions takes you, free from the chains of conscience.

Today I stalked the elk and the deer alone,
Today I plunged through the snow,
Yesterday's tracks replaced by today's.
I found a break in the river's ice, and lay in wait.

You find the place where men go to drink.
And lay in wait.

When my prey stalked cautiously from the trees,
I waited, watching for the perfect moment.
When it bowed its head to drink from icy water,
I raised my rifle, took my aim, and fired.

You wait until you find a perfect beauty,
You wait for their head to lean itself back,

I was out of practice, and my shot was not clean.
My bullet took the doe through its neck and it ran.
Doomed to die, but refusing to yield itself to me.
I followed it, calmly, following the trail of blood.

You feed neatly, the marks you leave are not in the skin,
But rather in the mind, a messy blow that inspires thoughtless, futile, flight.

I stopped to think for a few long moments, standing in the snow, Thoughtless of my crippled prey's pain.
Then, I continued after, quickly finding the poor beast
Twitching pitifully in the snow. I felt no remorse.

And you play with your toys, thoughtless of their minds,
And then, when new inspiration strikes you, you leave them, twitching pitifully.

I leveled my rifle again, and ended the hunt.
How do your games end, Alessandro?

-Michael

Letter 6

My Tainted Little Angel,

I dream of your face every night.
On your brow weighs a delicate crown of darkness,
Behind you rises a black sun,
And you sit, languidly, on a throne of onyx.

You raise a hand, a slender, perfect hand
And the dream ends, making way for more sensuous thoughts.
I hold you in my arms and kiss your naked body,
I run my hands over your perfect, pale form.

You are my child king.
You hold power over life and death.
Yet I know that without me you are helpless,
The form I hold in my arms seems so delicate, and so fragile.

I run my hands through your perfect hair.
My fingers comb it back to reveal your face.
You remind me of a doll, and I imagine that you are.
I trace my fingers over your face, your ivory skin.

I imagine that your body is no more than a puppet.
A construct of flesh and bones held up by insubstantial strings.
I reach my hands out, your body falls against mine, limp,
And I find your strings with my fingers.

On these I tug, and from above falls
The simple cross that made you dance.
Helpless, I clutch at it, weeping
Until I see you on your throne.
You sit sideways, legs thrown over an armrest,
You are hovering above the bed that I share with your puppet.
I take the doll into my arms and cradle it against my form.
It is then that I notice the strings that ensnare me, and the second cross held in your left hand.

Letter 7

Dearest Alessandro,
My Little Demon,
My Little Angel,

Eleven days, or Twelve?

With the passage of time my memory seems no less hazy, and my vision no more clear. My only comfort is that today I return to your arms. You will smile at me, and I will wrap myself around you, a slave to your every whim.

Since I left you - who claimed me - my mind has ached with greater pain every moment. You own me more surely with each passing tear I shed for want of your voice. I covet you more every time I close my eyes and see your face. You are without bounds: In your beauty, In your passion, In your hunger, And in your love.

You are a heartless angel, a helpless demon, and the only god I will ever know.

I am your sun, the only one you may ever see. The blinding light, the horrible heat, those are my love. I am fuel for the white-hot fires of your passion. The fire that consumes me, I know this, it is your love.

Before you, all past loves are without meaning.
Beside you, all past desires are meaningless.

You want me because you see your desires mirrored in my eyes, and I look back at you, and see my desires perfected.

I make you my slave. It is what you desire. I am your slave.

My demon, My angel, my travels draw me East again.

With Deepest Love,

Michael Shepard