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“…To our love send a coffin of wood…”

Father Nicholas Mayflower Rowansburg’s hand was shaking as he filled the shot glass with his best friend in the world, Jack Daniels. It was over, he wasn’t going to live till morning and he knew that; but the funny part was, he didn’t care. Even if Lyria didn’t find him, Nicholas was determined to drink himself dead before sunrise.

Slouched on the wooden pew in the front row of the church, Nicholas glanced up at the huge crucifix in front of him. What would Jesus say? Is this really how I wanted to meet him? His eyes were deep in thought as they fell back down to the full shot glass in his hand and drifted to the half-empty open bottle in his other hand. Nicholas couldn’t help but scoff a bit at this thought, downing the shot in a desperate attempt to numb it all away. Doesn’t matter, I’m not going to meeting him where I’m going anyway.

He couldn’t force himself to look at the image of the cross again, in almost shame of his life, of his choices, and of himself. As Nicholas struggled to fill his shot again, he didn’t quite understand why he choose to be in the church. Just something told him, that’s where he should be. Already much of the bottle was gone, and the middle-age man could feel his body rebel against the poison he was feeding it. Everything was slowly drifting from his mind; reality, his brothers, demons, IDDTU, even Madeline’s face started to loose its hold on his memories. How beautiful she was, how he wished to have her hold him in her arms once more and tell him how it will be alright. Truly Nicholas was now what he feared the most, alone and there was no one to blame but himself.

About to take another shot, the doors behind him crashed open and Nicholas didn’t even need to turn his head to know who came in. It was time, his executioner has arrived and he found himself sickly looking forward to it. There was some level of comfort that he wouldn’t die alone, even if the only other company was the person who ended his tired life. The only part he dreaded was the pain that will occur before his body will give up and let him die. Nicholas knew that this end will not be very pleasant one, in a way though he did feel it was a deserving one or fitting. Glancing down at the full glass in his hand, Nicholas chuckled a bit, whispering his thoughts, “Pity…was half looking forward to a quiet end…”

Placing the glass down next to him, Nicholas heard the pounding footsteps come closer and closer. Before he could turn his head to face the apporching woman, Lyria grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. Forcing the middle-age man to his feet, she glared him eye to eye with a look that held only one intention, revenge. Without a work, the enraged vampire threw him towards the church’s alter, where he hit with a smash as the wood broke under the force.

Falling forward onto his elbows and knees, Nicholas’ back burned with the stiffing pain of hitting the alter. Moaning, he lost track of his surroundings for a moment while resisting the urge to throw up the whiskey he consumed earlier. In mid-groan, he felt the icy grip of Lyria’s hand as it clenched a fist of his hair. Ripping it upward, she caused the man to rise up onto his knees and unable to fight out of the forced position. Now stretched out, his soon felt the horrific, sickening feeling of her kicking his exposed gut before letting go of his hair to allow him to collapse into a ball on the church’s floor.

Throwing up the mixture of alcohol, bile and saliva, Nicholas’ body was uncontrollably shaking from the shock it was experiencing. It had been years since he experienced something remotely as painful, and although he could have experienced worse, nothing could come to his mind. Wondering why she paused, Nicholas glanced over at Lyria only to be greeted by her boot instead. A sickening crack and the endless stream of blood made it obvious that his nose was broken as he rolled a bit from the vigour of her kick. Even with the blood that stained the wooden floor, Lyria kept kicking Nicholas’ body over and over. Every time it was just a little bit harder than the last, and soon Nicholas prayed it would just end. That the fatal blow would happen and he could finally rest. Unable to breath out of his nose, his mouth was filling with blood as the middle age man felt the pain of having a tooth knocked out. God just let it end.

But it didn’t.

Soon Lyria appeared to grow bored at kicking, grabbing the near dead man and throwing him like a lifeless doll into the pew he was sitting at moments ago. Sliding down the bench, knocking over his bottle and glass with a crash, Nicholas yelled out blue murder as the arm rest abruptly stopped him by bluntly slamming against his lower back. Blood from gashes in his head flowed into his eyes, mixing with the tears, as he horrifically watched Lyria search for a near by iron rod candle stand. Taking the stand, she rushed him, slamming it down on his gut before taking a swing at him, knocking him off the pew and smashing the bench into several spinsters. Slamming it down several more times on his crimson stained back, she paused once more in the attack.

Barely alive, Nicholas couldn’t move even if he wanted to. Everything hurt and the mixture of blood, vomit and tears on the floor served as a reminder of his soon to be gruesome end. Laying there he just prayed once more for it to all fade away, everything, he just wanted it gone. Even Hell would be better than this, as Nicholas truly felt that moment was the worst moment in the world. Desperately struggling, he was able to move his elbows inward, giving him just enough strength to look up at his attacker once more. Glancing up to Lyria, Nicholas noticed something odd about the usually cold vampire. She too was crying.

All this time he was thinking of him, thinking of his selfish needs and wants. What would happen to him, how Madeline affected him, his wants for Madison. It wasn’t until that moment Nicholas realized that, even in his death. All he could think about was himself. Glancing down at the pool of blood growing around him from his broken nose, Nicholas couldn’t help but sob at this realization. Coughing up some blood, he muttered to Lyria without daring to look at her, “I….I’m sorry…”

Lyria’s eyes shot open at hearing him mutter those words, instantly reminded of a lover long gone. Madeline once muttered those words, years ago, when they were little girls in a world they didn’t fully understand. Dropping the candle stand onto the ground with a loud clang, she turned away from Nicholas to hide her emotions. Taking several steps to the door, she started to leave Nicholas both alive and alone.

“No…” He cried out weakly, wincing in pain immediately after. Mumbling, like a lost boy who could barely speak, he continued, “…please…don’t leave me….don’t leave me alone…” The beaten man continued his plea, reaching out a bloody hand to her as if trying to grasp her.

Lyria paused at the church’s door, touching the door as if it held some of the words she needed to say, “I won't kill you in a church; enough atrocities where committed today.” With that cold, factual response, she left him alone…near dead, bloody and lost amongst the rubble from the fight.

That was the last time Nicholas would see Lyria for several years. The next time they would be, would be the beginning of the end of it all.