I have slept more soundly in these past few weeks than I have in decades, perhaps centuries. My sleep is that of love reassured, of the mutual forgiveness found when we have both wronged each other profoundly, and prevailed in the hope for a future that only immortality can bring.

Yet my sleep has been disturbed, not by dreams of moonlit romance but by nightmares of my own creating. Perhaps my mind is too cynical to basque in the newfound placid peacefulness of my waking hours. It would seem that something deep within myself sees what conscious mind cannot. I am not the sort to give much credence to twisted images formed in a fitful dreamscape. Yet some things cannot be ignored. Perhaps by recording this nightmare, it will become clear what it is my mind is attempting to tell me.

I find myself in the wings of the Théâtre des vampires, hand resting on the heavy velvet curtains that have been drawn back for the opening of the play that has already begun. Nicolas is center stage, as low bitter sweet notes sound, ringing out over a silent audience that is as enthralled by his violin as he is himself. Stepping to my place in the upstage corner, I wait for the light to raise. Wires laced about my arms, exaggerated circles of rouge painted on delicately- an illusion created by yet another illusion. I know this play well.

Step by step, ever so slowly, the pleading cries of his violin crescendo as he turns his back to the audience. From the darkness, light blazes- not from its expected place, but from behind his exposed figure. Whether is is the sun, or a foot light gone awry, I can not determine. All I can be sure of is that he is prone, he is in danger, and he does not see it.

Higher and faster, his notes rise to a fever pitch. He does not notice me, nor the light blazing towards him. Decorum forgotten, I move to rush towards him. The audience is gone, and there are only the two of us surrounded by flames which reminds me all too much of the funeral pyre in the would-be future of this nightmare.

With a start, the wires hold fast. I cannot move, and Nicolas is oblivious, lost in melodic melancholy. The moment I attempt to move towards him, I am whisked up and away, toes only touching down momentarily to perform a series of crazed pirouettes. Try as I might to cease the motions, my body is not mine to control.

I am a vampire, pretending to be human, pretending to be a marionette. Only an unseen force is holding the strings, keeping me from doing what I must, as the fire creeps closer and closer to us with each passing second. The play I had thought to be so unique, so charming is now a grotesque parody of itself.

For one startling moment he stands unmoving, holding his beloved violin by the neck with one hand, and his bow limply with the other. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I meet his eyes. The expression is not his, but a reflection of the maddened blaze that surrounds us.

Dreams have a way of taking everything we know and distorting it, creating a faux reality which plays on our deepest fears. Yet at their core, they contain an element of truth. I do not need a premonition to tell me that something will come between Nicolas and I. His vehemence towards life burns as brightly as his brilliance. I only pray I will be able to contain it before it all turns to ashes.