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One hundred years, and Wind was very alone. And tired of it.
He tried, for a while, to fit in with the humans. He acquired some nice clothes and an enrollment at a boarding school for younger boys a few decades ago, but he couldn't hang around for more than a handful of years, because normal boys aged and grew up into adults. It got tiring, doing the same thing over and over again on a three-year cycle. Wind hadn't tried that in some time.
He caught a ship back to America about five years ago and walked from New York to Georgia, playing the part of a vagabond kid wandering far from home. He fit in all right with a few of the other runaways, but he always felt scummy when he drank blood from kids, even if they didn't remember it and he was careful, so he always left them after too long, too.
Wind looked too young to own land or money. He couldn't just stop into a bank to set up a fund. He'd once managed to scrape enough money together to pay a human man to go set up a trust fund, so he’d have money in the country when he needed it, but those tended to require meetings and upkeep. The once-extensive vampire support system across Europe was utterly gone. Wind knew that some younger-looking vampires had once surrounded themselves with adult humans for this reason, but he didn't really know how they managed that. He didn't have a chance to ask before the majority of vampires across the globe were murdered.
Orange firelight from the last Consortium headquarters far above Wind’s head danced on the surface of the still lake. Wind dug his toes into the rough sand and watched the reflections as the fire burned down the remnants of the building. Gentle ripples brushed foam over his feet, washing away dried blood and soot.
Wind expected to feel free. Mostly, he just felt sad. He didn't know how to find any of the other surviving vampires, though he'd kept his eyes and ears open. Maybe none of them had made it to America yet.
Probably a good thing. The whole civil war business was awful right now.
When the sparks died down, Wind heard a whump somewhere behind him. With a frown, he turned around, only to see a man in the tall grass, groaning.
The sharp smell of blood alerted Wind to the man’s injury. The man had luck on his side—two hours ago, Wind might have attacked him for his blood, but now he was entirely sated on Consortium agent blood, the last in the world. (He desperately hoped that was true.) Had he been injured in a battle somewhere nearby? Wind couldn't hear anything.
Wind scrambled over the rocks to get closer. The man wore slacks and a shirt with buttons, a different style but not wholly unfamiliar. Gray shot through his blond hair, but the most distinct feature was his eye patch.
“Sir?” Wind said, kneeling next to the man. He smelled human… probably. “Sir, where are you hurt?”
The man opened his eyes and gave Wind a grim smile. He pulled his hand away from his stomach, showing the dark, growing spot of blood. From his mannerisms, he appeared to be resigned to death.
Wind had seen a lot of death in his life. He himself was dead, if he wanted to get technical about it. He'd seen people succumb to sickness and hunger and injury. He'd caused plenty of death, and even when he felt it was justified…
He never got used to it.
“Don't move,” Wind told the man. “You'll be okay.” He reached over to pull open his shirt and inspect the wound. It was difficult to see, but it didn't really look like a musketball wound. He frowned in confusion, but maybe this man was a victim of a bar fight or something. It didn't really matter.
The man patted his arm. “I will be. I don't die here.”
“Well, at least you’re confident.” Wind pulled his suspenders off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt.
“What are you doing?” The man asked, his eye glazing bit by bit, moment by moment.
“Bandages.” Wind ripped his shirt in half along the back. He knew it would be mostly useless at this point, but he couldn't not try.
A part of him that he’d tried so hard to shove down perked its ears up. He couldn't stop himself from asking. He didn't know this man, but the way he seemed so… ready for death… the wound in his side…
“Sir, I can—I can save—”
The man’s laughter cut him off, quite rudely, if Wind was being honest. The laughter turned wet, though, and then into coughs. Wind pressed a portion of what used to be his shirt into the man’s side.
“What's so funny?” Wind bit out.
“You just finished killing a whole building full of people, the last of that vengeance quest, and here you are trying to save a stranger’s life.”
Wind paused. “How do you know that? You're one of them.” Stupid. He should've watched closer for escapees.
“No, no. Not with the… what did you call it? The Consortium?”
“I never said that to you.”
The man waved a hand. “Not recently, no. I just…” He paused, panting. “...need a moment to breathe. To build back energy.”
Wind shook his head. “You'll need more than that, I'm afraid.”
“What year is it?” the man asked suddenly, though blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
“Eighteen fifty… something, I'm not sure.”
“Huh. That's pretty far.” The man laid his head back and looked up at the last sparks and the stars. “You look the same. Though I guess that isn't a surprise.”
“I'm confused,” Wind said.
“It's all right. You seem sad.”
Wind shrugged and inspected the man’s face. Nope, not familiar at all, though he'd met a lot of people over the years. He could've forgotten. “I'm old and alone. Haven't been on a ship in… too long, I guess.”
“Things get better,” the man insisted, entirely unsurprised by Wind’s blatant words. “I don't know when, but I know they will.”
Wind continued to press down on the bleeding wound and listened to the ravings of a dying man. “I'd like to believe that.”
“They do.”
The two of them listened to the gentle lake and the bright crickets and the crackle of low flames for what felt like hours, the air chilling around them. Wind listened to the man’s heartbeat slow and slow and slow. The flow of blood began to thicken.
“That’s about enough,” the man said, then pulled something from his pocket with slow, sluggish movements.
A rock? No. Blue, varnished ceramic, poked through with several holes. The man dragged it to his lips, and though the first note is weak, it made it clear what this was.
An ocarina.
Wind leaned back, abandoning his efforts to stanch the flow of blood, and listened to the song. As the man continued to play, his breath became… stronger. Wind heard his heartbeat pick up again.
The man sat up after two repetitions of his melody. He offered Wind a smile, then poked aside his turn shirt to show a bloodsoaked but unbroken stomach. “See? I'm fine.”
Wind stared. “What are you?”
“Human.”
“Forgive me if I don't believe you.”
“I have to get back.” The man climbed to his feet, crushing more of the tall grass. “But thank you for allowing me to sit here for a time, and I apologize for worrying you.”
Wind stood too, shirtless now in the chill. He scowled. “I'm confused and I would very much like answers.”
The man played another melody on his ocarina, something shorter but somehow more powerful. The breezes picked up, and he lifted a hand to wave at Wind. “You'll get some in, oh, fifty years. See you then.” The man disappeared.
Wind stared at the empty spot, frustrated, but… maybe a little hopeful, too.