Once, long ago, he had thought he could never experience a wave of pain greater than that of the fires of hell that had coursed through him during his conversion. Now he knew that the flames that had burned away the last remnants of his mortal existence were nothing when compared to the pain that he had felt twice since then, to the pain he still felt now.

Didyme.

It was strange how her name was constantly in his mind. Once a heartbeat had set a rhythm through his body, now her name had taken the place of his pulse. One could time his existence through the number of times her name crossed his mind. It was always there even when he was involved with other business.

Opening his eyes he stared at the bed that was laid out before him. It was a grand, ostentatious thing big enough to hold an orgy of bodies. The dark mahogany wood that made up the intricately carved posts, headboard, and footboard were smooth with age.

He had not lain in this bed in more than a thousand years.

At first it had been impossible to resist the pull of burying his face in the feathered mattress and sheets as he tried to catch the last remnants of her scent, but then her scent had faded away and there was no reason to continue that unique form of torture that he had devised for himself.

There was no use in lying in the bed anymore. It was not as if it had ever been used to sleep. Some might have argued that there was no need for him to keep the bed at all, but he kept it as a tribute to her in the same way some people kept photos or other mementos to remember loved ones that had passed on.

He kept this bed to remember. Sometimes, standing there as he was, he could remember the way that their limbs hand tangled together, pale flesh against pale flesh, ebony hair tangled with locks the color of fire…sometimes standing there he could almost feel her again, feel the passion that they had once shared. Even now, after so many centuries without her, he yearned for that touch, that heat. But, as he stood there now, the physical desire was not what was on his mind.

His eyes drifted to his hand again and he closed his eyes, remembering that day when she had slipped her fingers into his. It was the day that had changed his eternity. She had become the hunter and he had become her prey. A bond had formed that day that he would not see the equivalent of in a millennium. It had formed as soon as she had taken his hand in her own.

He still remembered that he had not cared where she led him, where they went; all he had cared about that day was that he was with her and that he wanted to know more about the glorious creature who had ensnared him like a fly in a web.

She moved gracefully, tugging at his arm, as she wove them through the throngs of people leaving the market place. Not once had he asked where she was leading him. Truth of the matter was he had not cared.

When they had finally reached the outskirts of the market and were running, well, running at her pace, she had turned around and laughed. It had been a carefree sound that had been so filled with joy. Her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes had sparkled, and several strands of her beautiful hair had escaped from the ribbons that had held it in place.

He had been mesmerized.

At one point he had wanted to stop running at the slow human pace that she was dictating and he had wanted to take her up in his arms and race off at the speed that only one of his kind was capable of, but he had not wanted to frighten her.

When they reached a road that led to the outskirts of the vast city, he had barely noticed and just continued to watch her, he had barely noticed that she had slowed her pace so that they were walking, but he did notice that her hand had never released his own.