In my attempts to become “more outgoing” – as I have been accused of becoming more like my father with each passing day – I climbed out of my hole (left my room) and entered the kitchen to search for the newspaper. It was the usual pre-dawn routine when the Reeves are in town, me being welcomed by a nearly pitch-black kitchen, starlight dimly pouring in through the window over the sink. Usually, the smell of rain gives him away, but this time, it was the rustling of paper as he turned a page. “How do you do that?” I asked, lighting the oil lamp on the island. “Do what?” came his melodic reply as those familiar, prism-like amber eyes lifted from the pages. “Read in the dark?” “Magic,” Erik replied with a soft smile. “Anything of interest going on in the world today?” I rounded the island and sat on the stool beside him to get a better look at the paper. “Actually, there is,” he replied, flipping back through the pages to the very front. He pointed to a picture – a large photograph – of many world leaders. “There is a conference in Versailles this week. Prime terrorist-attack target.” Sometimes, with that mix of Czech and Irish in his accent, it’s a bit difficult to understand what he’s saying when he gets excited – he starts talking faster. Have you ever tried to listen to an Irish Czech when they start talking fast? It’s painful. Beautiful, but painful to someone who has only been speaking English for three years. “Speed limit,” I commented, which warranted an apologetic smile. Slower, he went on, “All these political heads in one place, plus all this rioting that's been going on lately - security is going to be tight and – oh look, isn’t that your friend?” He pointed out a redheaded youth in a dark green suit; I recognized those jaded jade eyes immediately … but where was the tall, dark-haired figure that he usually accompanied the side of? “Sydney …” “I wonder what the Brat Prince is doing in Versailles.” “Probably attempt to further world domination …” “This can’t be good,” Erik muttered. “Nothing good ever came out of the English,” I retorted with a scowl. “That’s not true. What about Shakespeare?” “… touché.” “Wait …” Erik suddenly said, looking to me with alarm. “Isn’t Jeremy in Versailles?” The realization of such things caused the pit if my stomach to grow cold and lead-heavy; I was frozen and stationary, barely even able move my lips to say “I have to go to Versailles.” Suddenly, I had mobility again, and was moving to the den for my coat and shoes. Erik followed. “But – the security.” “I have my ways.” “I’m going with you.” “No, you are not.” “Yes, I am.” He was so determined. “Someone has to make sure you come back.” Sometimes, it is impossible to argue with Erik. The train leaves this afternoon. I have left a note for everyone explaining where I have gone. I hope they understand. I hope ... I make it back ...

And so it is that another birthday has come and gone. I spent it as I wish to spend most birthdays ... alone, locked in a library, my only company as my books, my only sounds as the classical bliss escaping my earphones. I have been as this for several years. I believe the tradition was started on my tenth birthday. Seven years ... It bothers Nic; it has always bothered Nic, me being so reclusive on my birthday. I never really understood why people made such a big deal out of birthdays. Parties, presents ... I developed a theory a while back, however, because I was a clever child. On my ninth birthday, Vati and Nic threw me a surprise party. Given, it was small, as I did not have many friends back then ... actually, I rarely got out of the house, come to think of it. I saw some there that I had not seen in nearly two years, and one was a girl - and sadly, I developed my first crush on this girl, at that party, during her consoling of me after the loud "SURPRISE!" had nearly made me faint. But that night, she had to leave, returning to France. Her father worked in Versailles ... a diplomat. Their family was always moving around. And thus, I discovered why, exactly, it is called a "crush." Fairly difficult birthday. Not the worst one, but enough to bring me to hermit status each year. I think the reason why people throw parties for children and give them presents on their birthdays is to give them incentive to live another year. Yes, kids, life is horrible. There are some perks to living, but God-willing, they come much, much later. In the meantime, here is some candy and a toy airplane to make it all better. Not fond of birthdays ... at least mine, that is. I hope he can understand that ... and why I would rather lock myself in a room full of books rather than face a house full of persons making a big deal out of it being the day of my birth. Though I am seventeen now ... ... that makes me legally an adult in most of Europe - and some parts of the United States and Canada. Not that it makes much difference.

They came for me again. I had to hide, but they always seem to find me. They found me in Paris this time. I should have learned my lesson by now, not to hide in Paris. Sydney once told me that the best way to stay hidden would be in plain sight – where they would least expect you to be. They have a base in Paris. One of my favorite places in Paris is the Arc de Triomphe, a huge Gothic arch bathed in history. I frequent it often, going to the top, looking down upon the city of lights. Given, I am not one who enjoys crowds, but the arch can get a bit packed at certain times of night as well as dawn. The best time to go is 4 A.M. It is quiet. I like to sit on the ledge of the lookout. Unfortunately, one of their members arrived shortly after I did. She had followed me and contacted a few colleagues by radio of my location. That was when she approached me. I have told them time and time again that I am not interested in joining their … organization, that I do not care about the benefits and powers they possess. They seem to not understand. Being who I am, they think that I should jump at an opportunity like that. But they do not know me. The Illuminati first heard of me when I “escaped” from England and lived in the monastery with Father David. I had been quiet at first, not saying a word – I thought I would pretend to be a mute, but after a few months, I started to open up. I had not been sleeping due to nightmares and the delirium brought on by my restlessness, and finally, around dawn somewhere in my fourth month there, Father David came to talk to me, making an offer at Confession, thinking perhaps penance would cure my sleeplessness. So I confessed. And he freaked. He had to confide in bishops and cardinals. At first his colleagues all thought me insane, until he found a cardinal that believed my story. I don’t like needles, nor the sedatives that come with them. I spent an unknown amount of time going in and out of consciousness in a room that I could only assume was in some mental institution somewhere. Church leaders visited me, mostly Catholic, probing me, asking so many questions … I won’t get into it now, just that it was painful and mentally exhausting. When I finally escaped from there, I stumbled to the Theatre des Vampires – white scrubs, bandages and all. Every now and then, they were able to find me, always after the same thing … And they found me again in Paris. There was a bit of a fight. Orchid may be upset when he sees me next, but I do not trust hospitals anymore, nor could I set foot in one unless I’m willing to succumb to massive amounts of pain, and screams in my mind of the hurt and the dying. So I bandaged myself. I think I’m starting to get pretty good at taking care of myself … … really.

We spoke. We did more than just speak, but we spoke. I think I am very confused. I am worried, though, mostly – afraid, yes, because we are in the middle of quite the dilemma and I am afraid that I cannot be there to protect him from the world. The voice within reminds me that I should not shield others from the world and that I should let them experience what they do – but that does not stop my drive to protect him from harm. Perhaps it is selfish of me to not want him to die. But over the last couple of years, I have truly started listening to that voice, and I have noticed that when I do listen, he is always right. I simply choose not to listen this time. I will do what I can to protect him. On a happier note – I got a letter at school today from Danyael. I met him on my last visit to Germany. I never thought there were real people named Danyael out there with their name spelled like the angel from biblical literature, but there is … and he’s very tall. I can’t believe it, but I am actually jealous of his height. He’s a composer and he has very long fingers … I am actually rather jealous of that as well. Can you imagine the keys I could reach on the piano if I had fingers as long as his? Oh, and he can play pretty much any instrument you give him. I am fascinated. In his letter he said something about visiting the manor and wanted to know when I would be in America next. He is one of those “I have money, but I have no life so I’ll just fly by the seat of my pants” sort of people. Though I have to admit, it would be nice to talk to him again, talk about music. I’d never met anyone before that had such admiration for Wagner. I mean, sure, Wagner has some classics – but this guy knows all sixteen hours of The Ring saga … by heart … accompaniment AND arias included. I should have known something wasn’t right with him when he told me that. Personally, I’m more of a Chopin/Mussorgsky guy, but … to each his own.

I am returning to Georgia tonight. If everything goes smoothly when I arrive, I will take my usual nap and then sneak out to work behind the bar for a while. That is, until I get bored. Xander called. I wish I could get used to the phone. Takes time, I guess. She says that I have a lot of messages waiting for me when I get back. I assume a lot of them are from Father Vry – from the Our Lady of Lourdes cathedral back in Paris. I told him I was moving to America, gave him the number and address for the manor. I have forgotten to contact him, really, since moving. And come to think of it, I haven’t found a new church home since leaving Paris. No place just feels quite as right as Lourdes did. I assume I have a couple of messages from Dariath as well. I suppose I’ll see when I get there. I never really know what to expect when visiting the manor. Most of the time it’s rather high-school-like drama that I could certainly live without. Sometimes it’s as if the place drains all happiness out of its patrons – yet to some, it seems to have the opposite effect. Strange. I’ll just stick to my happy tea behind the bar and see what happens. Every night is a new night, though filled with the same routine. Speaking of routine … I should go now before my bus leaves … Wish me luck?

I have realized that … I actually prefer to be called Vincent over that of Tanager. I know, there are many whom I have introduced myself to as “Tanager” that will always call me such; it is who they have known me as for years. And yet … I decided to go by the name of Tanager because I was tired of hearing Vincent … and I didn’t want to forget Sydney. It is strange, I know. Sydney was the one who gave me the nickname. He told me about the scarlet tanager, how timid a creature it is, how shy and quiet the small birds are, and yet when they sing, they have one of the most pleasing melodies to the human ear. He chose the scarlet tanager, I suppose, not only for its personality, but also for its black and red plumage … to match my black hair and red eyes. I was … aware at a very early age that red eyes are not a common trait for homo-sapiens to possess – I have known for a very long time that there was something very different about me, about my family. My father could not even remember his own childhood up until he was eight years old … I was used to being called Vincent then. I supposed that after I was captured by the emperor, after escaping from England to find refuge in Paris, that I could never go back to the life I once knew. I decided never to be called Vincent again … I didn’t want to hear my name. I didn’t want to be reminded of what could never be again. I wanted to start over, to forget what once was and who I was – or rather, am supposed to be. So I assumed the identity of Tanager – not my real name, obviously, but one I would prefer to be called. I wanted to be reminded of Sydney, despite all he had done, because I still loved him. I started to realize after a while, of people tugging on my shirts, making comments about the largeness of my clothes, how they covered everything, even my hands – that perhaps I already had something to remember Sydney by, however painful the memories might have been when looking at the permanent reminders. There are some things that you just can’t forget, things people won’t let you forget. There is a rock group known as Papa Roach here in America, and they have a song called “Scars.” There is a line within it that says “the scars remind us that the past is real.” He is right – they do. No matter where they are upon you, or another person. But what about the non-physical scars, the ones that make you flinch every time you hear your name said a certain way. With Lotus, I suppose, I got used to hearing my name again. She refused to call me anything but. When she died, though, I didn’t want to hear it. No more Vincent – it wasn’t necessary. Then I went home to see my brother … but I found that I couldn’t do it. I thought that I wouldn’t be able to do it, after two years being separated … stepping foot in Grunsberg again. No, it wasn’t going to happen. I wrote him a letter on my way up there, and I left it on his doorstep. I’ve been writing to him ever since, but I just cannot bring myself to see him again. He is getting married this summer. I have been invited, but am unsure of stepping foot back into that life. What if I find it so tempting that I want to stay – what of my life now? Somehow … Xander and I started talking. I think it was the bottle of tequila, I’m not sure, but we got on good terms … and suddenly, I am her pet. She refuses to call me anything but Vincent … and Nicolas, my brother, he still calls me Vincent … I got used to it again. I actually … rather like being called Vincent. I think, somehow, both of my worlds are starting to meld together, all with a simple name that means so much. Sometimes I wish I could say goodbye to the name of Tanager – there are many memories associated with it that I do not want to be reminded of when hearing it spoken, even by someone dear. But I do have to get used to both, don’t I? How about … Tancent? Or Vinager? … oooh, yeah, Vinegar. Heh. Scars I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut My weakness is that I care too much And our scars remind me that the past is real I tear my heart open just to feel Drunk and I'm feeling down And I just wanna be alone I'm pissed cause you came around Why don't you just go home Cause you channel all your pain And I can't help you fix yourself You're making me insane All I can say is I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut My weakness is that I care too much And our scars remind us that the past is real I tear my heart open just to feel I tried to help you once Against my own advice I saw you going down But you never realized That you're drowning in the water So I offered you my hand Compassions in my nature Tonight is our last stand I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut My weakness is that I care too much And our scars remind us that the past is real I tear my heart open just to feel I'm drunk and I'm feeling down And I just wanna be alone You shouldn't ever came around Why don't you just go home? Cause you're drowning in the water And I tried to grab your hand And I left my heart open But you didn't understand But you didn't understand Go fix yourself I can't help you fix yourself But at least I can say I tried I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life I can't help you fix yourself But at least I can say I tried I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut My weakness is that I care too much And our scars remind us that the past is real I tear my heart open just to feel

I am trying to discover my purpose in life. Why am I on Earth? Me? Was it a punishment that the soul within this shell had accumulated through past atrocities? Sydney would say “yes.” But I? I am not quite sure. My life, everything in it, is complicated. My father – I know it is not his fault, but yet he passed it on to me in his death. Within me now is a very confused, troubled, and tormented soul, meshed with that I had within my childhood. There is me, and there is me, and together we are me. One is me, and another is much older and knowledgeable than I, yet we are one. Family legacy, I suppose, though unsure as to why it could not have been my older brother, as he is, in fact, the first heir. But circumstances of the quickening are understandable. I was the only one there to accept – and the emperor knew this. He had killed my father because it was he who wanted to receive my family’s legacy – but he had not known of my presence. Thus began a year of physical and emotional torture within the walls of a living Hell. It wasn’t until a month after his passing that I understood why my father used his last breath to offer an apology to me. I have been cursed. Never will I know love, true love, with happiness and security. Always will the emotional instability and pain exist; the loneliness will never be quenched. Whomever I love will die, either physically, or within. Such is the case with everyone. No, it is not my own fault that all my relationships end in misery – I do not psychologically tell myself this when entering into it – but when each ends as prophesized, I can only accept it as evidence of the inevitable. I know now why a piece of myself was cast from Heaven, falling from God’s grace, though it was God’s Will for him to do so. Someone must challenge the minds and souls of those roaming on this planet, to be the great adversary, to have them choose between Him and something else … and though that something else is not what He wishes, oh no. He desires praise from all living things. However, here I exist, to carry on His Will, to test those presently existing, so that they may understand the truth behind their reason. I do as He wills my legacy to do, and yet He turns a blind eye to me, and curses my kind. This burden would never be light, and this I know. I can offer fleeting satisfaction to desires within a lustful heart, grant petty wishes to others with greedy eyes, but I cannot offer a true gift to one with an honest soul. I am surrounded by those who want me, desire me – my acceptance, my body, my knowledge. And yet I am not allowed to want another back, to love another, else misfortune befall them and myself. Sydney nearly murdered me, trying to make it look like a suicide. Lotus … did, just that, killed herself. Anne married another for it simply was not meant to be. And Orchid … Orchid … I seem to only cause him pain. When I became Xander’s pet, I saw it as an opportunity … to use it as an excuse to pull away. Perhaps he would find someone else and forget about me, all the pain I had caused … I cannot begin to count the number of times I had apologized in my mind to him. And I wonder … have I ever told him, outloud? Have I ever told him, with my mouth, how sorry I am for this distance, and a dream that could never be … That is what makes it a dream. A beautiful dream, but a dream nonetheless. I thought for a while I could try to fill the void in my life with fleeting pleasures. Perhaps enough of them will stop the emptiness, even for just a limited while. He still doesn’t know … I don’t really know how to tell him … why I am the way I am. I am still me ... within me ... but I don't want to be me, I just want to be Me. Searching for me, Vincent

Explanation: This is a journal for one of my roleplay characters. Please, just sit back and enjoy the ride.

I have never been truly well with beginnings. Some things just happen, and are meant to happen lest they refuse to exist. My name is Vincent Kelgar Steinway, my family’s namesake from a famous line of instruments, but most known for pianos. Many know me as and call me “Tanager,” however – and I am certain as the pages progress in this journal, the reason behind such a “pet” name will be revealed. My mother was the Countess Emma Steinway of the Grunsberg Manor in Grunsberg, Germany. I currently reside in Savannah, Georgia, USA – though I do travel for schooling to various places. I honestly have no idea why I am writing because I have always made it a point to write only what people will read. I do not think anyone will read this, but there may be a slim chance that something may occur, as with Anne Frank, in which the whole world will read my journal someday. How do I begin after I’ve already began? I’m never quite sure of myself in these circumstances. I suppose that is one of my biggest flaws. And in not understanding how to begin, my endings are always torrential. I think my English has greatly improved in the last three years, however, even after living in France for over two years. I have always been able to read and write it better than speak it. There was a time that I could not speak even one sentence without making some sort of grammatical error. And yet here I am, sixteen years old, having spent almost my entire life home-schooled, now attending public schools in Georgia, Japan, and France, speaking English quite fluently. Who would have thought? Like I said, not good with beginnings, so I think I will end it now and progress on within the middle entries of this book of thoughts. Signed, Vincent