The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
By Matthew Arnold
Damien Seward kicked a small stone down the road, watching as it hopped its way along, before falling in one of the many large cracks in the pavement. The port city had been long-abandoned and destroyed, the towering home that the Seward fortune once built now in pieces along the beaches, among the rubble of old shops and homes, and floating still in the sea. His home was gone, as was his family and fortune. He was not alone, but it definitely felt that way.
His long coat fluttered in the wind that blew through the dead city, from a poison water that had blackened with pollution, from the rusted machines and shattered corpses that stood vigil over their own lost souls.
"This is our home; our sanctuary," his uncle had told him in his youth.
Some sanctuary this is now, the boy thought, a grim smile appearing and fading with the memory. Memories of abusive caretakers and a genocidal ideology, all kept alive by the spoils of slaughter. The Seward family was gone, and Damien acknowledged that this may not be an entirely bad thing. After all, his father and uncle had even tried to kill him during his time in Hell.
As he stepped over the debris, Damien saw heirlooms and trinkets, most of them old swords and guns, which had long turned to rust. "Decay" was the word that kept sliding through his head, as he observed the gutted carcass of his old home. He was unsure if he should feel heartbroken or relieved. So much gluttony and decadence. He was a changed man now; and what he once was disgusted him. He had vowed to make up for past sins, but he was having a difficult time finding a place to start. Wandering gave him chances to help some people in need; a blind man who needed healing, a widow who needed comfort. These helped, but Damien couldn't help but feel the need to do more. He stopped to observe an old set of rifles; their steel was now brown and coarse, their wood blackened and cracked. He took a deep breath, sighing at the sight.
"They were good weapons, in their time," said a voice from behind. It was a deep, rough voice - one of an older man. Damien turned to look at his sudden guest; a pale man, with black and unkempt hair, though short enough to be managed. He wore a black coat, a fine black suit and red tie underneath. His sunglasses reminded Damien of John Lennon, though he was fairly sure that Lennon had returned to Earth and began touring in Sweden at the time.
"Can I help you?" Damien asked.
The man scratched his chin. "I'm not sure that I am the one who needs helping," he replied. He walked forward, a slight smile appearing on his face.
"Do you know who I am?"
Damien took a moment, but shook his head. He had never seen the man before, as far as he knew.
"Your great-grandfather did," the man nodded, looking around at the devastation. "As did your grandfather and your father. The latter two did not know me personally, but your great-grandfather did. He tried to kill me."
Damien blinked. "You're a vampire? A werewolf?"
"The former," replied the man. "A very, very old vampire. Your great-grandfather, his friends, and his mentor stopped me from spreading vampirism to all of Great Britain. Then they cut off my head and destroyed my home with explosives. It was not the first time my head has been removed, mind you; the first time was the Turks, on Christmas Day of 1476. Sultan Mehmet held my skull in a glass case in his private quarters. He would take his women in front me and curse my name as he did. He was readying for a conquest in 1481, but by that time my body had snuck its way into the palace and I became whole again. Shortly after that, I poisoned him with my own blood and watched him croak."
"You... Are Dracula."
"I would have been surprised if you hadn't guessed, after hearing all of that," the old vampire said, letting out a chuckle. "Yes, yes, I'm that old beast your family has branded as their mortal enemy for some generations."
Damien shrugged. "You seem fine to me."
"I've had time to get over my more violent urges. Your friend, Crowley, helped me at times."
"I could say the time thing."
"Then I suppose we're at an understanding, Dr. Seward."
"I'm not a doctor."
"Ah. Sorry. Your great-grandfather was one of the most talented medical men of his age. As was his old friend, Professor Van Helsing."
"So," Damien said, scratching the back of his head, "What are you doing here?"
"I've come for you, Mr. Seward. Not to fight you, but to work with you. For years, I've been wandering through Earth and Hell, atoning for my past sins by helping those in need. A knight errant, of sorts. I have lived a long life, and seen many things; I have many contacts, and they have told me of you and your own struggle with the demons of your past. We appear to be in similar situations; powerful beings of inhuman nature, searching for a way to help others and wash our hands of our previous misdeeds. My long life of seclusion and isolation has led me to do desperate things in order to find companions - friends. At times, they have harmed others and myself. Now, I have come to offer you a chance to join me in my journey, and for me to join you in yours. We can find purpose together."
"I... I'm not sure what to say," Damien replied.
"I've grown accustomed to silence, Mr. Seward."
"Damien."
"Sorry. Damien."
The boy smiled. "Well. I suppose it's a long road."
"Longer than any that you've traveled before, I assure you."
"Then let's start walking."
And so they began to walk.
In life, there are times when we must push through the horrifying; times were simply waiting is not enough. Positive thinking and productive action must be taken in order to keep yourself in touch with yourself and others. It is easy to fall into depression and hopelessness; anyone can tell you that, but only those who have survived it can make you understand what it is like. Not only can depression be Hell, but life in general can be Hell. Nobody chooses to enter the world, it just happens. Perhaps life is a test, one we must pass in order to accomplish some kind of otherworldly goal. Maybe there is no meaning, and we're all accidents of nature. Maybe it just doesn't matter. But there is one certainty to life; you walk your own road. And you choose who walks with you or how fast you walk. You choose when to stop walking.
We all walk roads, and some of them are cracked and poorly maintained. But some of you have helped me see that the cracks can be jumped over or fixed. And I'm grateful. Some roads will split, some will cross again. But no matter what, it is clear to see that the roads you travel will be great ones.
Whether you like it or not.