What can I say? Nobility is stagnant, it's gone on way too long, now it's time to revive it and give it some fresh air. I'm sure you all sensed it.

To note, there is nothing here that wasn't really in the first incarnation. Everything will be more or less the same, as far as plot and characters go.

Oh yes, and there is sex in this first chapter. I figure I'd give you a break, I know you've all been crying for it, but I was mean and probably a very good writer so I didn't give you what you wanted.

So, my darlings, pop in Sisters Of Mercy's "Temple of Love", that 80's Goth classic, pull on your fishnet and don your finest lace, buckle your corsets tightly and your periwinkle boots, buff your leathers and brush off your velvet, for we begin again and I want you all at your best.

Some glad morning when this life is o'er,

I'll fly away;

To a home on God's celestial shore,

I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

When the shadows of this life have gone,

I'll fly away;

Like a bird from prison bars has flown,

I'll fly away (I'll fly away)

Just a few more weary days and then,

I'll fly away;

To a land where joy shall never end,

I'll fly away (I'll fly away)

I'll fly away, Oh Glory

I'll fly away; (in the morning)

When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,

I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

May. Still cold. Still wet. The morning mist clung to my skin and clothes, especially here, so far up above their sleeping heads. Here, it was much easier to ignore the voices that chattered down below, and I could be alone with my pigeons.

I had tied a sack of bran to my belt, as was my custom, and just before the first rays of the sun touched the clouds, I had picked some high rising tower where I knew they'd be. They cooed and chirped about me, pecking the bran from my outstretched hand, shifting about on my shoulders, and one swayed contentedly on my head. Of course I couldn't see them, the velvet blindfold that she had made for me snug over my ruined eyes, but I could sense them, I could feel their downy softness somehow in my mind. I suppose they were grey.

Slowly, very slowly, so as not to disturb my friends, I rose. My knees cracked as I stood. She was calling me, pulling that string that joined our minds, and I knew that dawn was fast approaching.

The wind whipped about me as I lifted from the ground, arms opening, a multitude of soft grey wings beating at the air, releasing me from their hold. There was a sensation of travel, the wet air slipping softly over my face as I sought her out, and finally I found her, her pulse in my ears.

My feet touched the ground. I must enter the house quickly, I could feel the first rays of the sun at my heels. The door knob was cold in my hands, the door swung open for me, and I was inside. The house was quiet, still, save for the breakfast being cooked in the kitchen. I was home.

The house was dark, the velvet curtains drawn tightly over the windows. I could smell Victoria's perfume wafting in from the parlor, where she would be reading The Divine Comedy once again, or perhaps Milton this time. Dear, sweet Victoria, who has put up with the both of us for so long.

I made my way to the kitchen, trailing a hand along the wall, counting the steps. The sound of sizzling bacon grew louder, but the smell faintly revolted me. I knew she was there, though, so I went to stand behind her, trailing my fingers through her white-tea colored hair, smelling her shampoo. I softly planted my lips against the bare flesh of her throat, feeling for a moment the artery beating against my mouth, but I did not break the skin.

"Bacon?" I whispered.

"Victoria likes it." Dominique said, leaning back into my chest. Of course, Dominique had been awake the whole night with me, but before she went to bed every morning she cooked breakfast for our nurse. It really was kind of Dominique to stay up nights with me, for my sake alone.

The table was set around me, and Victoria soon set down her book to come and eat with Dominique. My place was not set, but I sat with them anyways. I liked hearing them cut their food, swallowing it between gulps of orange juice or tea. I did not speak, content simply to listen. That was always the way with me. Victoria asked Dominique the usual questions about her night, and Dominique answered softly but always with kindness and absolute honesty, and they spoke of when Dominique would next go on tour, and Victoria would ask how the translation of my latest poem was going. Dominique would answer, "yes, very well, though it is hard sometimes to communicate his feelings into such a language as English, so sometimes I try in French, which works better in most cases, but I would like our American audiences to understand me as I sing for the most part."

Ah, those poems. It seemed a form of therapy for me. Perhaps I should try dictating one to Dominique before we retired? I was not very tired, after all.

I helped clear the plates from the table—this always bothered Victoria, but Dominique never stopped me. I would do anything to feel helpful around here, and blindness was not really too much of a hindrance, not these days anyways. Dominique knew how much I wanted to feel needed, she knew how competent I was. So she let me.

"Well, I'm going to bed, then. I'm quite tired, so good night, Victoria. Andrei, you may join me as soon as you wish." And Dominique left Victoria and I to ourselves, the kitchen now clean. So much for poetry. Oh, these mundane little things that had become the ticking clock of my life.

I began to make my way towards the bedroom, but Victoria stopped me before I could leave the kitchen with a simple request: "Andrei, do you think you might have time to speak with me in the salon?"

Speak? What was this about? I changed my angle slightly and made my way towards the parlor, feeling for the overstuffed red velvet couch against the wall. Victoria's pointy lace-ups followed me there, and I felt the cushions depress under me as she sat on the opposite side of the couch. I sat still, waiting for her to charge me with whatever pressing subject she had to talk about, and I tried to feel at ease.

"Andrei...how old would you say you are?" Victoria cautiously asked.

"What point do you mean to take?" I suddenly answered, in french. French was so much easier for me than English. It did not matter that my voice was strained or gravely with disuse.

"Curiosity, I suppose...I've tried to ask Dominique her age, but she refuses to talk about it. If you don't want to answer, I won't pry." Victoria answered in English.

I considered not answering her. I almost didn't, but this conversation–and for me, it already was a conversation, given how little I spoke in a day-had made me restless, and I had not been tired before.

There was no concrete way to put my age. I tried, though. In french. Always in french. "Twenty two years. Eight hundred years. Three thousand years. Pick whichever you like. " I let this sink in. You cannot possibly know, of course, how very long that is, unless you have actually lived it. I could only speak in words, not in memories, not in hours or days, by which three thousand years had passed.

I could sense her shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with your kind's way of counting time. Could you be a little clearer than that?"

I sighed. If only it weren't day out, if only all the windows weren't shut off with black velvet for me, drawn every morning faithfully by Victoria, I would be gone from here, back to my pigeons, maybe. Anywhere but here with Victoria's probing curiosity. How could I explain my age to someone so very very young?

"Twenty two years is how old I looked when my body stopped changing, aging. In some ways, I might still be twenty two years old in mind as well." Oh, if only I could drink something cold to soothe the ache in my throat. "Eight hundred years, approximately, is how long I've actually lived in this body, though that figure could be off—where I come from, time means very little." I did not continue.

It would be several minutes before Victoria had the nerve to ask about the last figure, the last estimate. "And three thousand?"

"Three thousand is how far my memories go back."

"I'd be a fool not to believe you by now." Victoria said after a moment. "You don't waste your words on lies."

Maybe. I thought.

I waited patiently for Victoria to conclude the discussion, but instead she was working up the nerve to ask me something truly impertinent. I was suddenly very tired. I did not like where this conversation was going.

"What is it you want to ask, Victoria?" There was a little bit of menace to my words. I didn't want to scare her, but she needed some incentive, finally, to ask.

"Will you tell me your story?"

I was shocked, not so much of course that she wanted to know, but that she would even dream of asking me. And in such a manner. So crude. Even Victoria was so like today's women. No artistry to them. No charm, I thought bitterly.

What should I tell her? Of course I would not tell her my story. My history. Why should I relive something that I had put behind me? The now holds so much more promise of happiness. Even blind, impotent, scarred, and lacking an ease with the English language, this was so much better than what went before. I have privacy. I have companionship. I have acceptance. And then there is Dominique.

Dominique. "Victoria. You will never ask me to tell you this again. In the first place, I am unaccustomed to speaking of myself, much as I am unaccustomed to speaking at all. If anything is to be done on this matter, I would have to speak to my consort, for after all it is her story as well as mine. Now I must retire. Good night, Victoria. Sleep well when you do." I was gentle in my speech, but firm. I lifted from the couch, and counted the steps in my head till I reached the bedroom.

I undressed as quietly as I could. We had lived in this rowhouse for thirty years, now, I think. It was spacious on the inside, expensive to own in such a high class part of the city, but we had money now, so much of it...

Dominique had covered the walls with stately Victorian wallpaper, to match the majestic reproduction furniture. I knew vaguely what it all looked like. I could do that, if I wanted. It wasn't the same as real seeing, and it took a lot of concentration, but I did it as often as I needed to. In some ways, I could see a lot more than the average human being could ever see with real eyes in his head.

The bed was in that classic style, high off the floor, enormous, with a mahogany frame and curtains drawn across the whole affair. No sunlight would ever penetrate those curtains, even if one of the velvet drapes was pushed away from the windows. Careful not to disturb the sleeping figure, I slipped quietly between the cool sheets. I could enjoy this simple pleasure, the soft cotton rubbing across my skin. I was safe here. I could be without clothing, without that strange emotional armor, and I was accepted totally.

I lay my head against my pillow. The blindfold was still on, I usually slept in it. Dominique had made it for me, since once I had complained of the knot bruising the back of my head. This blindfold was black velvet, with little seed pearls embroidering the edge, and on either side were loops of leather thong, which secured snugly over my ears like some of those new headphones kids wear these days.

I heard suddenly shifting, and then a hand lay cool against my bare chest. "Where would you like to take it from today?" Her voice was soft and kind, and so mature. I drew her closer to me, feeling a shudder run through me as her body lay prone against mine.

"You must be exhausted. I couldn't ask it of you again..." I said quietly into her ear. I was serious. Dominique did not sleep long, her schedule ran well into the day as well as the night. I was willing even to starve, such as it could be called, for the night.

"I'm not that tired, Andrei. And I want it." Oh, those words, as soon as I heard them I knew how much I craved for her to say them. Immediately I responded, verbally and physically.

"Then I should very much like to take it from the fount..." There was dizziness, yes, as I hardened against her, but soon that would be no more. I felt her strong legs wrap around me, her hands running up my back, saying, yes, yes, I want it, don't be shy any more, take it, as much as you need, yes, yes... She didn't shove her neck into my face, not at all, but she angled her head into my shoulder and I slowly bent to that soft white column. I kissed the flesh there, teasing her and myself. Oh, it was almost too much to bear; the strain would cause me to faint if I did not do it soon. Already swooning, caressing her cheek tenderly, I gently pierced the skin, and the walls of the artery. Immediately I drew in a great mouthful, so that she would not feel the pain of the incision.

Colors burst in the empty sockets of my eyes. I tasted her heartbeat, and drank that sweet wine of her life. It seemed that I was filled with rich red light, drawing her very soul through my mouth and into my veins, which burned with a pleasant fire. Dimly I was aware of my body moving against Dominique's, dimly I was aware of my own moans against her flesh. Then suddenly I was very aware of her hand on my organ, excruciatingly aware of her touching me there. Oh god, oh god, oh god... I was lapping at the wound now, licking away the last traces of blood even as her body miraculously healed itself. Then it was finished, the wound closed completely, and my mouth was clean of every trace.

What did it feel like? I was a mortal. I felt close to death, even if I knew it could never touch me. When she entwined her fingers into my long black hair I was her absolute slave, like I always had been. I craved her, and I tilted her back from me to kiss her mouth a little ravenously, and further back still to kiss her neck, her shoulders, her collar bones, and those small glorious breasts. Her body was solid and soft to my touch, stockier than mine and so beautifully curved, and yes, I could see it, her body was white like marble. My hands possessed her.

Oh, but it would not last long tonight, not this time. We were still so unfamiliar with each other in this way...the sheer relief of finally crossing this barrier only a few months ago had completely destroyed our patience, our self control. I knew this as well as she; as we clung to each other and held on for dear life. "Now?" I whispered a bit frantically; I needed it so badly, to feel myself within her.

"Yes, now " Dominique moaned. I felt myself enter her, I felt her clamp down on my organ even as I buried myself deeper in her. Oh, I could not last very long like this. My entire body was wound tightly like a wire, my spine a violin string about to snap. This was ecstacy, I felt as if I would take flight, I was not made to withstand pleasure such as this. Dominique clung to me, and I could feel her pleasure lighting her skin, burning it, burning her mind.

"Please, please, now?" I begged.

"Not yet " she gasped. I swallowed my mindless frustration as best as I could, but oh did I need it to end.

"Please " I cried, quickening my pace, barely able to withstand the temptation to simply force her body down on me and spill myself into her.

"Not...not yet "

I think I arched my back. I may have made a sound, not a scream, no, never a scream, but like a silent cry tearing from my throat. I did force her down on me, as deep as I could go. In that moment I heard her cry, "Now Andrei Now "

Stars burst in my skull. My consciousness was obliterated, smashed into a tiny pieces. My life was being shot from me, squeezed rhythmically in that most primal rhythm, the beat of orgasmic contractions, two sets of them working together to empty me of life.

I was floating. My skin was alive with pinpricks. Very far away I could feel Dominique disengaging herself from my withering organ, and pulling the covers around us. I felt her hand entwine in mine, and I made an effort to curl my fingers over her knuckles. It was too late. My mind was in pieces. Nothing could keep me from slipping into dream now, and I let it happen, knowing that Dominique would keep me safe throughout the night.

The next night Dominique was already at her desk, probably translating my poetry, when I awoke. I put on a black velvet frock coat, wrapping a silk scarf around my neck. It was still acceptable, though only barely, for a man to leave the house like this. I donned a pair of black jeans underneath. I wanted to look rich, for once. After all, I was going to be out in public tonight. I exchanged the blindfold for a pair of smart sunglasses which enclosed all of my eye. I did not want to have to bother with glamour tonight. No one should have to see these ravaged sockets, though.

"You're going out?" Dominique asked.

"I am going to write something for Victoria. I'll show it to you later tonight when I've made some progress."

"You need to be out to do that?"

"Not really. I'll be careful, though. If you want to find me, I'll be at the bistro."

I left the house quietly, cane in one hand, a note book and pen in the other. What on earth was I doing with a notebook and pen? Wasn't I so obviously blind?

I could not dictate this to anyone. How could I explain this? And I was ever so stumbling with my speech. I would stammer over everything.

No, better to write it, to use my other senses to see the words as I write them. It would be hard, with no end to my headaches.

Why do it at all? I could only guess as to my motives. Perhaps this would solidify the past, which I never needed to do until I stepped into this world, as solid and unyielding as it is.

For whatever reasons, I found myself pulling out a chair at the nearby bistro, ordering a coffee which would of course grow cold, and feeling the new lined sheets of paper beneath my finger tips.

And, as all fairytales must start, I began my own with those magic words:

"Once upon a time..."