The suns' last golden rays graced the gravestones and markers of Greenbrier Cemetery and the moon had already stolen its place in the sky as if to mock the leaving sun. The birds chirped little, the bark of distant dogs echoed gently through the great memorial park and the surrounding woods became peaceful as the gentle creatures of the night frolicked happily in their environment.
         The true beauty of Greenbrier Cemetery could only be appreciated after dark when the grass was wet and the air was cool. Highly ornamented family crypts were plentiful; some were outlined in marble and gold and others had rusted away with rain and weathered age. The grass never grew long enough for the caretaker to even consider cutting it and for all his thirty-seven years he had only saw it cut once and that was in defiance by his father who vowed that it needed to be cut.
         No lamps or lanterns lit the peaceful resting place, only the moon and sun fueled the necessary light. Great benches made of concrete and stone were scattered about the large acreage. The cemetery was a rainbow of color; almost every flower and every imaginable color bloomed or was set on the markers as gifts for the resting.
         The sun had finally given way to the coming night and hid beneath the sky as the stars forced it from the heavens. The clouds gathered slowly and their greyish, dark masses accented the moons beauty. The night was cool, the air was gentle and clean, and the land was moist with the gentle dew.
         The Orchestrator sniffed the cool air through ancient nostrils. The wind teased his black hair gently, the thick, wavy mass too heavy to be moved by the small gusts. His cold green eyes, once so full of life, stared out into the great mass he had inherited so long ago. The dead are his children and he is their keeper, or so he Ariam had told him so long ago. His skin was slightly pale, almost as if he ventured into the sunlight just long enough to prevent being the color of marble.
         He wore his special clothes that day; a beautiful black tuxedo with knee length tails, a silver rimmed top hat and the traditional black pants. His shoes were freshly shined and had it been sunlight, he was sure his reflection would have stared at him from them as clearly as a mirror reflected it. His clothing still smelled new and fresh, as fresh and new as the day Sabrina had given them to him.
         From his neck hung a silver locket and upon its front was a red rose so marvelously handcrafted and painted by an old world craftsman ages ago. With one pale hand he clung to the locket tightly while in the other hand he held a bouquet of fresh red roses that he himself had planted around his own crypt ages ago.
         He cast his glance to the north side of Greenbrier and with he moon's help, he spotted the top of the trees that surrounded the massive park. Between the trees, the moonlight brightly lit a small path. He stared for a moment before venturing forward into the moonlit trail. As if mustering some hard to come by courage, he sighed and forced himself forward.
         The Orchestrator walked for what seemed forever, yet he knew he was headed in the right direction. He had walked the path many, many times over the years and hardly needed to look up anymore to find his way. His steps had began small, like a child first learning to walk, but had steadily grown more rapid as he approached the entrance.
         The moonlight was brighter than usual, as if it were beaconing to him, just for him, to show him the way as he walked down the narrow path. He clutched the silver locket around his neck as if it were the most sacred of sacred objects and pressed forward. Finally, he reaches his destination.
         The moon's bright light accented her tombstone beautifully. Roses were planted all around and in the dark they were greyish, but he knew that during the day they were as red as her cheeks when she had smiled. He stared at her tombstone for untold minutes and fought the tears that threatened to fall. He walked to it slowly, as if afraid to disturb her peaceful sleep and fell to his knees.
         'Sabrina Lynn Rose', the tombstone read, 'Born May 20, 1788, Died August 12, 1808, Beloved bride to Michael LaSalle who will always love her'.
         The Orchestrator laid the roses aside that he had brought her, gently placing them at her head stone, and reached a pale hand to trace her name and his own.
         "One hundred and ninety years, my love," he whispered as he sat against her tombstone then, leaning his head back to look upwards. "Mother Moon led me to you once more. I buried you here so you could see her staring down to you."
         He went silent after that, as if waiting for a response of some sort. The locket he still clutched he removed from his neck by sliding it over his head and tracing the rose on its front gently. With the tip of his fingernail, he pushed a tiny petal on the bud of the red rose and the locket clicked, swinging open gently.
         On one side was a lock of her soft, red hair, still as soft as when she graced his arms when he was given the pleasure of holding her. It still smelled of the berries she used to wash her lovely hair. The other side contained a picture of her smiling. Her eyes were so seductive yet soft and tender. He thought back to how she had often changed his mind with those delicate eyes and warm smile and how she'd tease him by wildly tossing her waist length red hair back and forth.
         He studied each of these items carefully, trying to observe every detail even though their images had long since been burned into his ancient mind.
         He closed the locket and sighed, looking around at the veritable forest of flowers he had planted for her so long ago. In one hundred and ninety years not one flower had died that was planted around her, not one. He had always found that as a sign that hear beauty would truly never die and that all vampires, no matter how evil they were in their lives, always left a small token of beauty and goodness behind. This gave him hope.
         "I brought you roses. The place is crowded with them, but I know you love them. I buried you here on this day, do you remember? Besides having you die in my arms, it was the hardest thing I had ever to bear witness to." He patted the ground beside him gently, absently stroking the grass.
         "It's so lonely without you. I love you, and if you don't mind, I want to lie with you a while." He curled himself up like a fetus, drawing his knees deep within his chest as he lay atop her grave. The scent of roses filled his nostrils as he drifted to sweet sleep and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed was a single red rose lit by the wondrous light of the moon.
         "Red is for love," he whispered to her and kissed the ground. The moonlight faded as his eyes closed and peace flooded him as beautiful sleep came. The winds picked up gently but he was not cold, in fact, he was, for once, warm inside.
         'Red is for love.'
         The dreams began as they always had: The couple sat hand in hand on the muddy banks of the mighty Mississippi River and watched the ripples in the water give the iridescent moonlight a soft, gentle glow that eased their spirits and calmed their souls.
         The Orchestrator stood behind the couple, watching through teary eyes as he saw Sabrina in perfect clarity gently kiss her suitors' cheek. The gentle moonlight graced her dark eyes and red hair, how beautiful she was.
         He could not hear the sweet whisperings from one to another, but he knew them well enough by heart, for he remembered when the sight he was seeing truly happened close to two hundred years ago. The Orchestrator wanted so desperately to touch her, to feel her cool skin beneath his touch and to kiss those soft, tender lips once more. However, he could not as the dream would not allow it.
         The lovers' gazes were cast toward the muddy Mississippi waters, yet once in a while, Sabrina's gaze would turn toward The Orchestrator who stood behind them. He was not sure as to whether or not she could actually see him and he dared not move on the chance she did not and crush him even further.
         This sight pained him terribly, for he remembered sitting with her on those dirty banks. He remembered holding her and watching the moon run its course until sunlight came and they were to flee from its harmful rays. Most of all though, he remembered the most tragic event of them all: the night he promised her forever.
         The scene around him shredded away as if an animal's claw tore at the very fabric his dreams were made of and just as quickly the scenery changed. This time candle light sufficiently lit the couple and their actions as they lay happily on a massive, canope covered bed.
         Satin sheets lay beneath the couple, the dark color of black bringing her red hair and dark eyes to viverant life. White, lace appearing curtains hung freely about the sides of the bed as if to shield those inside the curtained wall were protected from the outer world and serene in their own being.
         Her hauntingly beautiful eyes plagued him as they sang with sweet joys, their dark essence so sensual and erotic, touching every nerve and impulse within him. A single stare could melt his cold insides and almost make his still heart beat once more.
         In the dream, he saw himself as he used to be: dark skinned, green eyes that could stare to the very core of what soul one had and thick black hair that hung well to his waist and was rampant with waves and curls. Sabrina often tangled her sweet hands in his dark, massive hair and would play with it for hours on end.
         The Orchestrator wiped the falling tears from his eyes quickly as if he would miss the event that would soon occur between the two lovers lying on the bed he now moved closer to. Sabrina still stared at him; he knew she could not truly see him, that his mind was tricking him, but he still mouthed the three little words that brought him comfort.
         "I love you," his mouth silently whispered as she stared. To his surprise, she mouthed it back and his eyes flooded once again.
         A terrific waterfall of rampant emotions fell from his green eyes as she turned to him that laid beside her and pulled her hair away from the left side of her neck. The man traced her neck gently, teasing it with his fingernail and she smiled, but she was ready. She wanted forever to begin that night and in its own perverse way it did.
         The dark haired man rose gently, his lips pressed to her own in a passionate kiss of emotion. His kiss lingered, but soon after moved down to her beautifully exposed neck. The vampire sniffed her aromatic scent, which still smelled of roses and berries, for a small eternity before he actually dove his teeth within her soft, silky skin. She hissed as his bite pained her for only a fraction of a second, her hair tossed back and forth as she struggled to flee the erotic passion the bite had become.
         She could feel every part of her essence alive as the vampire drained her sweet life away with those small sucking sounds, but she paid little attention to that, for when the vampire tried to feed her his own blood she refused, and the Orchestrator remembered sadly what she had said.
         "Red is for love," she whispered as she traced his bloodstained lips weakly. The vampire's eyes flooded with red tears as he had just fed, and the Orchestrator followed in suit with clear tears, yet they were the same person, the same creature, yet they were now different.
         Sabrina died in the vampire's arms. She had chosen to go on to a world lit with exquisite light and untold happiness. The vampire and the Orchestrator knew she did not want to leave him behind, yet in the final moments of ecstasy she knew she could not live a life of forever.
         Again, just as the Orchestrator reached to touch her this time, the images were shredded away by unseen claws or knives. The candle light was replaced then with moonlight and a figure carrying something in its arms.
         Michael LaSalle, the vampire, carried Sabrina's body to the 'Good Place', she had called it. Here she had planted roses and other lovely flowers and at night, the moon shone brightly directly over head. He had wrapped her in the satin sheets from the bed where they laid as a make shift shroud. Sadly, he could not give a proper burial with a coffin and priest for neither were on hand.
         "I brought you a shovel," Ariam, the previous Orchestrator had spoken. These were the first words in those dreams, and in the distance, the dreamer stood watching. Listening.
         "She chose to go, Orchestrator. There was nothing I could do." Michael did not even look toward the Orchestrator, but hed his hand out for the shovel.
         Hours on hours he dug, deeper than six feet to avert grave robbers, and when the time came, he held her one last time and leaped into the deep grave. He laid her body out flat and straight and crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes fluttered open and even in death those dark eyes haunted him. He gently closed her eyes and kissed her lips one last time.
         Filling the hole commenced quickly after he brought himself to toss that first shovel full of dirt down upon her body that had not but only hours ago been alive and warm. The dreamer still watched.
         "I will not leave her, Orchestrator," he whispered as he packed the dirt with the shovel. After a moment of deliberation, the Orchestrator nodded.
         "The title of the Orchestrator is given to the one who will keep the dead and speak for them, for they are truly a choir of angels. You must be their voice as I have been for hundreds of years."
         Michael nodded and looked up to face the Orchestrator. "I want to see you," Michael pleaded.
         "No. You don't." The figure turned and walked toward where the dreamer stood.
         "Orchestrator?" Michael called.
         "My name is that no longer, for it is what I was born to. Ariam, and I will now rest."
         Michael had turned to thank Orchestrator, alas, he was already gone. He sighed, laying atop her grave as a fetus, drawing his knees deep within his chest.
         "I will be your voice," he whispered to her as he clutched one of her fragrant roses and held it over his heart.
         In the dream, he slept as the moon shone brightly over head, gracing the two lovers from the heavens themselves.
         The Orchestrator awoke quickly. The ground was wet with his tears as they had fallen even in sleep. "My Sabrina," he whispered as he kissed the wet ground. He looked up once more to heavens. The sky was turning a magnificent shade of red as the sun once again fought for its place.
         He looked down the wooded path, now lit with gentle, golden rays of the sun's first light. The dew had already began to dry and the birds had already began to chirp.
         He would not go back to his crypt this day, for eternity with him had ran its course. Finally, the sun sat directly above him and he could at last see the beautiful garden of roses. A rainbow of color graced the peaceful land and the scent of flowers hung heavily in the air.
         "I'm coming home, Sabrina."
         The sun did not burn him immediately for he had learned tolerance over the course of his years, just enough to get him to safety, however, but the only safety now was far away and his choice was made.
         The pain came for a moment, but only for a moment. He clutched the locket tightly in his hands and whispered a silent prayer. As he had them for almost two hundred years, the dead would take care of him and give them their final act of appreciation. Sabrina waited for him at Home.
         Through the smoke of his burning flesh he could see her red hair being tossed back and foth to tease him and as he died, his ancient face was able to smile one last time. She held a red rose in one hand and offered her other to him.
         "Red is for love," her sweet voice whispered as his final breath came and the sun had nothing left to burn but ashes.
         His top-hat lay amidst the ashes and beside it lay the red rose that he had held. The locket was there as well, buried deep within the grey ash and clothing that laid in a heap. I gathered his clothes and the locket to keep as a reminder that love will never die and distances can be overcome, but not without sacrifice. In the end it was worth it, I know, for when I speak with the choir they tell me of two lovers who never leave the others' side. They don't know their names, however, but the woman is said to be extraordinarily beautiful with red hair and dark eyes. The man is said to have dark skin and black hair.
         I know their names, as do the choir now, as I left a monument to the two in the middle of the cemetery. A stone rose fountain dripping red water. It is very beautiful, even if I do say so myself. Late at night, while I watch the sleepers, I could swear I see two lovers, hand in hand, sitting beside the fountain and watching the moonlight glow in the ripples of the red water.

Ariam, The Orchestrator.
August 12, 1998.