By Simon Rikel
From the words of Simon Rikel, sometimes called "the penitent Gangrel," a Gangrel of San Diego, California (renowned as a pardoned Diabolist, and as one who pulled a stake from his own heart to save a friend that he gave his word to protect).
Love? Hmm. A powerful word. Perhaps more powerful than all of the words and chants of the Tremere.
Yes, I have loved. In many ways and different, but I have loved. "Strange, you say? That one from a clan of wanderers, and an outcast even among Kindred, should bond so closely to another?" But love is not always a choice. Sometimes it is; sometimes it is not. So I shall tell you about two loves.
You may have heard that I am a Diabolist. This is true. I was pardoned by the Malkavian Justicar due to the circumstances, which I shall not relate at this time. Perhaps some elder or another will share the tale. I Diablerized Selena, someone that I loved. I did not love Selena in the sexual sense, in the sense of a life partner: she was more like the sister ... well, a sister, anyways. Selena had some love for me like this, too; I should know, for she is with me now, forever.
Selena had long been a victim of certain Kindred whom I will not name. She feared often for her unlife. Yet she was also the only one I could find to assist me in a certain, rather personal quest. So I took it upon myself to become her protector: she would grant wisdom, and I would grant defense. Eventually, as days turned to months, we turned to the Blood Bond, so that I could never betray her. The Bond is not really love. It is like love, but it is a pale shadow of the true thing. But it didn't matter; to me, Selena was family, was true Kin, related now in truth by Blood, and we were sword and shield to one another.
Of course, she died. She had to. Eventually her enemies found her; even the vaunted Gangrel have limitations. Under stake and flame I was subdued, and Selena was captured in an attempt to save me. Many friends were wounded in the attempt to rescue, and it is that battle which grants me my fame; where I pulled the stake from my heart -- yes, I really did! -- when I heard her tortured screams and smelled her burning flesh. And when I rushed to her side, it was too late; and her words from her horribly scarred face: "Simon, I am dying. You must consume me."
I said, "I cannot."
And she replied, "You must. Otherwise, all that I am, all that I have taught you and all that I have learned, will be gone. You can keep it forever, and, through you, I shall pass it on." And I became a Diabolist.
(Simon sighs here, and shifts uncomfortably.)
But I promised two tales of love, did I not? The other one is love true: that fire, that passion which drives one to the depths and raises one to the heights, which can send even Kindred into the sun, the certainty that with this love all is right with the world. Her name was Castille, and she was a Toreador. I am going about this wrong. I should say: "Her name is Castille, and she is Toreador."
With Castille, for some time, we barely knew each other. It seemed that she had her own world and I had mine. But we discovered, with time, that they were the same world. It was little things, at first: the request for aid against the Sabbat, the mutual hunt for someone who betrayed us both, the lending of assistance together when the city needed us.
But it became more.
I can't say how, or when, it happened. But I came to enjoy Castille's company. And she enjoyed mine. It was so very strange! Here was someone very different from me, with interests in things I had never heard of and hobbies and habits that I thought nobody pursued -- and yet, we fit so well! Her interests became mine; her passions my passions; and ultimately, her love, as well. But ... change is the nature of things. We grew apart. It was my lifestyle most, I think; she could not live the life that I chose for myself, a penitent, a seeker, one who batters himself to pieces against the world because he feels unworthy. In a twist of irony, it was she who taught me to value myself; she taught me that I have value, by the simple act of loving me. She loved me! I meant something! But love is a fragile and gossamer thing. Torn, she was, by my self-destruction and rage; and hurt, by the failures of her own existence. At last she left. She needed room, and time, and stability. For Castille, it was time to move on.
As for me?
I have loved.
But I shall never love again.
-- From Jess Heinig
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