Seldom does he dream. In this half state of consciousness, where his mind wanders not for the sake of slumber and recuperation — sleep, a mere luxury to indulge but wholly unnecessary — but rather to inflict malcontent onto his person with visages. He is haunted by echoes of laughter — soft and high, the whistle of bells and trinkets. A glimpse of dark eyes, surrounded by a gossamer of curling wisp, the velveteen labials that fall pliant beneath his own. He is filled with a melancholic longing for that in which he has only sampled. This sweetness, a saccharine, cloying essence that had burrowed into his very marrows, a symptom of affecto.

He is greeted by darkness, shadows folded into the corners, the air damp with humidity. For a time, he does not move as his memories filter through his mind’s eye – a thousand lives, an eternity. A burden. Umber irises illuminate beneath the waning ray of moonlight that had stolen into his chambers. The night was disquieting, resonate with the thrum of morale est; a hundred hearts, steady and strong. Soft breathes, halted whimpers and shattered moans that penetrate the granite exterior to reach for him — an annoyance, easily dismissed.

Thick, coarse digits comb the expanse of sable tresses, his brows furrowed, and lips drawn in a pinch of disdain.

“Credula est spes improba,” comes the quiet susurrate of a dead language, fingers burrowed in the dark mane, grip tight.

“Dominus,” a word, a promise that bore no fruit.

“Dilectus,” all that he could have been, water between his fingers.

A heavy palm spreads over his eyes, and he sighs. He remains prone for a time, unwilling to move least these memories of gentle hands and glacé lips slotted against his own. He draws himself upright, with lack of nothing do and finding no respite in these musing; to mourn what once was is foolish.

Dressed in loose cloth of indigo, bare feet move over polished marble. The corridor are narrow, looming expanses of smooth stone and cultured décor fashionable during the Elizabethan era. Appropriate, he supposed, given the nature of the establishment. The manor could have easily been furbished into a cabaret. The gardens are desolate, balmy from the encroaching heat of summer solstice. Ahead, obscuring clouds of prewet persist in their efforts to shield the moon from scrutiny. And like a coy maiden, she dances beyond their grasp, peeking over rolling folds to expose all that was before her in ethereal luminescence.

He had been in a similar state before – the scene no more different then this one, though the time of its occurrence a grandeur in comparison to this period. He watches as stray winds rustle the crown of proud oaks from their slumber, to the curious eyes of an owl that peers at him from the nest of leaves.

He walks the garden path as he’d done a hundred times over, the very act itself as intimately familiar to him as the backs of his own hand. They have changed over time, of course. Gone was the color of earth tones from long exposures in deserts and hissing wastelands of sand dunes to a paler complexion. The scars remain, a canyon of knitted folds of flesh that are visible under imploring examinations. The stain of black ink has all but consumed his person, a testament to the decades of a discontent.

There are times in which he feels a sense of unease — be it in his existence or the world that surrounds him. It is true that man dies, that cities fade and principalities ebb. Vices and virtues come into play, and he had witnessed civilizations crumble under the weight of corruption and dissent sown into the bones of its people. Disdainful of his circumstances yet unwilling to change his own character. There is no betterment to be found in him, no redemption in his touch, the litany of praises he had whispers into heaving and trembling thighs – lies.

In such a state of mind, he reverts to his memories. Only there may he find some form of happiness – the word itself is alien and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. But there is no happiness in this sufferage, no peace in recollecting ghost of a lover.

It was utterly cruel to taste joy only for it to be taken away as quickly as it had been given. Yet he had done much the same to many others. Perhaps simply this was his punishment – for all the hearts that he had taken from trembling fingers, for all the lives he had consumed with nary a concern for the promises left broken in the wake of his destruction.

There is blood on his hands, and this truth is not lost on him. He is not blind to his misdeeds, his atrocities. His murders. Jino closes a hand into a fist, mouth set into a tight line as he moves through the hedge maze, the path so deeply ingrained into his mind that he need not take notice of the direction in which his feet carried him. He hears the fountain in the gardens center, the steady flow of water and a heartbeat. It calls to him, moth to flame. He closes his eyes and sees the flame of their mortality – it burns bright, a kokhav in the dark heavens and he is fascinated, morbidly.

What he finds alarms him. Teeth bared, and lips drawn back, unsettled at the sight of figure he had buried in the recesses of his mind. Hair so dark it was nearly blue, and eyes a warm shade of earthy brown. If he’d a heart, it would have broken beneath the weight of longing and confliction. He cannot bring himself to speak, though he wishes greatly to do so; to curse and demand an explanation even as his limbs go lax and he finds himself taking a step forward.

“Cor meum,” a word, never again uttered in the wake of a tragedy, barely above a whisper. “Dante.” A name, never to be forgotten.

When I first saw you The end was soon To Bethlehem It slouched and then Must've caught a good look at you Give your heart and soul to charity 'Cause the rest of you, the best of you Honey, belongs to me