Dante's eyes grew heavy, his vision blurring as the life slowly drained from his body. Each labored breath was agony, a rattling wheeze that grew weaker with each passing moment. 

The eternal night was finally coming to an end. He would not meet dawn, but he would finally be released from his shackles. 

Just as darkness encroached his mind, the scent of incense jolted him back to awareness. Small hands pressed against his chest, stemming the flow of blood. Dante's eyes flickered open, meeting a pair of sharp green eyes encircled by a white wool hood. The girl's face swam in and out of focus, her features blurring with another's. For a moment, he glimpsed dark curls and soulful brown eyes.

"Victorine?" he said in a tender voice, his mind slipping back through the centuries.

Gone was the pain, replaced by a sense of wonder and responsibility as he guided Victorine's first steps into an everlasting night. Her delicate hand trembled in his, her newborn vampire senses overwhelmed by the suddenly vivid world.

"It's so beautiful," Victorine breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the dancing candlelight, the intricate details of the wooden pews, the different scented notes of the incense. 

Dante smiled, a rare expression of pure joy. "This is just the beginning, little one," he said softly. "There's so much more I have to show you."

Victorine's fingers tightened around his, her eyes shining with trust and adoration. "Will you teach me everything, Dante? About being like you?"

"Everything I know," he promised, a sensation of guilt thrumming within him because he knew it would never be enough. 

A sharp pain lanced through his chest, dragging him back to the present. The girl with green eyes was still there, her face set in grim determination as she fought to keep him alive.

"Stay with me," she commanded, her voice strong and clear.

But Dante was already somewhere else—Paris, August 24th, 1572, on St. Bartholomew's Day. The city writhed in agony, its narrow streets running red with blood as Catholics turned on their Huguenot neighbors. The air was thick with the smell of death, mingling with the choking fumes of burning homes. Bells that should have been calling the faithful to mass now tolled ominously in the distance, their solemn peals punctuating frenzied shouts and screams that echoed through the night.

Dante's form blurred as he dashed through the chaos like a wraith. His heightened senses picked up the rasp of steel being drawn, the whispered prayer of a would-be assassin. In an instant, he was there, his hand closing around a wrist poised to strike. The zealot's eyes widened in shock as Dante wrenched the blade away, tossing it into the shadows. A family huddled in a nearby alcove caught Dante's eye—Huguenots, judging by their simple dress and terror-stricken faces. A young girl, no more than ten, clutched a small wooden cross to her chest, her knuckles white with fear. 

"This way," Dante urged, ushering them towards a hidden passage. "Quickly now."

As the family disappeared into the darkness, the father turned back. "God bless you," he whispered, gratitude shining in his tear-filled eyes.

The warmth of that moment flooded through Dante, more potent than any blood he'd ever tasted. It anchored him, pulling him back to his current situation. 

Rainbow light danced across his vision as he opened his eyes. The stained glass windows filtered the moonlight, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the church. 

The blonde-haired girl had not given up. "I won't let you die," she growled, pressing harder on his wound, whispering words of some sort of spell. 

Dante gasped, the pain dragging him to the edge of consciousness. As darkness crept in, another memory surfaced, older and softer around the edges.

Warm sunlight caressed his face as he knelt in the monastery garden, his hands deep in the rich earth. The simple joy of nurturing life filled him, a contentment he hadn't known in centuries.

"Brother Dante!" a jovial voice called. 

Looking up, he saw Brother Thomas approaching, his tonsured head catching the light as he strode across the garden path. 

The man's simple brown Franciscan habit swayed gently with each step, cinched at the waist by a rope belt. In his hands, he carried a loaf of fresh-baked bread. "Come, share this bounty with me."

Dante gave him a slight smile, then returned to carefully pressing herb seedlings into the freshly turned soil. 

"You seem troubled, my friend," Brother Thomas said, his voice gentle. "What weighs on your mind?"

Dante hesitated, unable to voice the strange restlessness that had been growing within him. "I... I feel as though God is calling me to something more, Thomas. But I don't understand what."

Thomas laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, Brother Dante. Have faith, and your path will be revealed."

After a moment of contemplative silence, Brother Thomas spoke again. "You know, that young Florentine poet who visited last month hasn't stopped asking about you. He appears to be quite taken with your tales of divine visions and spiritual struggles."

Dante's brow furrowed. "The one with the intense gaze? I remember him. Seemed to hang on my every word."

Brother Thomas chuckled softly. "Indeed. He's been writing feverishly ever since he left. I hear he's crafting some grand allegorical work inspired by your experiences. A journey through the afterlife, he says."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that," Dante murmured, his eyes distant. "My visions... they're deeply personal. Sacred, even."

"Perhaps," Thomas mused, "this is part of God's plan for you. Your struggles and insights, transformed into verse, might guide countless souls toward righteousness."

Dante nodded slowly, considering his friend's words. "You may be right, Brother Thomas. If my experiences can serve a greater purpose... well, who am I to stand in the way of divine will?"

Divine will... The thought triggered another memory, this one more recent, more unwelcome.

It was a full moon night as he strode toward the familiar silhouette of Notre-Dame Cathedral. Gargoyles leered from their lofty perches, their stone eyes giving the impression they were following his every move. With a thought, his form shimmered and dissolved into mist, reforming atop the highest spire in the blink of an eye. Far below, the lights of Paris twinkled like earthbound stars. 

This place was Victorine’s safe haven. Over 50 years had passed since her transformation, yet she remained unchanged from the night they'd met. Tonight, however, her usual vivacity was dimmed by some unspoken burden. She perched precariously on the edge, her gaze fixed on the sprawling city below, oblivious to the dizzying height.

"Victorine," he called softly, settling beside her on the weathered stone. "Is everything alright?” 

She turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears about to fall. "Dante, I... I've done something terrible."

Those words struck him with a chill. 

The world blurred, time slipping away like sand through an hourglass. When clarity returned, Dante found himself on his knees in the center of a circular chamber, his hands sticky with cooling blood.

He raised his trembling hands, staring at them in horror. Blood dripped from his fingertips, each drop hitting the marble floor with a sound that echoed like thunder in his ears.

"No… I…" he whispered, his voice cracking.

He gasped, the vaulted ceiling of the church coming into view again. The current pain in his chest was nothing compared to what he felt in his soul. 

"No," he moaned, trying to push away the hands that sought to help him. "Let me go. Let me die."

But the green-eyed girl was relentless. "I don't think so," she said, her voice fierce. "Whatever demons you're fighting, you're not facing them alone. Not anymore."

Her words, so at odds with the centuries of loneliness he had endured, interrupted his flow of memories and regret. He focused on her face, anchoring himself in the present.

The church around them had such a welcoming warmth to it. The smokiness of the incense and the smell of candle wax reminded Dante of the countless sacred spaces he had sought refuge in over the centuries.

As he lay there, hovering between life and death, past and present, Dante felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. The memories that had haunted him for so long—the joy of his human life, the horror of his transformation, the love he had for Victorine—they all swirled together, no longer tormenting him but simply existing as part of who he was.

The stranger girl's hands were warm against his cold skin, her touch a tether to the world of the living. For the first time in centuries, Dante felt a spark of something he had long thought lost—hope.

"What's your name?" he managed to whisper. 

Surprise crossed the girl’s face a moment, and then her features softened. "Rowena," she replied. "My name is Rowena."

Dante nodded, letting his eyes close. "Thank you, Rowena," he murmured, feeling the darkness enveloping him. The weight of his long existence, the burden of his regrets and sorrows, seemed lighter somehow.

For a moment, he could let go of the past, and for the first time in centuries, embrace the possibility of a future.

As sleep claimed him, a distant sound pierced through his fading consciousness—the haunting toll of a church bell, its resonance carrying a warning he couldn't quite grasp.