Paul Merron stood leaning against the frame of a very old window.  A woman behind him, sprawled on a bed, was giving birth.  Laced curtains dangled in front of him.  The frills of the fancy things taunted him and left a cold feeling.
     The second day of November was warmer than the first.  Blinding sunlight poured the blistering white landscape.  The year was of little consequence, though Paul would remember this day for the rest of his life.  He appeared no more than eighteen, with a long dark mess of hair, which was presently drawn back in a tail.  The reality, however, was that this 'young man' had aged so much, even just in this last day.  He'd been alive for nearly two hundred years.  No matter the wealth he amassed, no matter the good he'd done, he was still a selfish, broken young man.  Through his un-naturally long life, Paul had grappled with his own mortality (or lack of), for a very long time.  And as he stared through the cold, poorly manufactured glass, Paul saw death.
     He saw the cold, mortal death set out before him.  And he despised it.  For so long he'd wished for death, and now it stared him in the face.  It was unflinching.  Death did not budge.  A sharp pain struck him in the chest.  A scream came from behind him.  It was accompanied by the other sounds of childbirt.
     Paul fell to a knee.  The pain in his chest was spreading.  It radiated through his left arm, now.  So this was where he was to die.  Not six feet from the woman he loved.  The child she bore was not his, but he wanted to be there through its life.  He wanted to hold the infant and watch it grow to be an adult.  
     It was in this thought of the child that he realized that this pain had come to him once before.  The girl behind him was grunting loudly, but Paul scarcely heard her.  His mind wandered to a day, nine months prior.
     She'd nearly been dead, that day, broken and bloodied.  This woman had been raped.  And Paul remembered holding her, with an intense pain in his chest.  The sorrow and pain of knowing that someone had stolen her innocence.  He'd been in love with her long prior, but in that day, he committed himself to her.  It was his fault.  He hadn't protected her.
     He might have well been the one to snatch away her innocence.  Because he'd not prevented it.  What good was this gift of long life and power if he didn't use it to protect the ones he cared most about.  His hands were clenched in fists of rage as she cried into his chest.
     Her father had disowned her.  She was with an illegitamate child.  Society spat on her.  Called her a sinner.  Called her a whore.  
     She'd been Pauls responsibility from that day forward.
     He returned to the present, with his teeth and hands clenched in pain.  His whole body felt weak, and his vision doubled.  Death stood across the way, and laughed at him.  It mocked him.  Paul had murdered the boys that raped her.  With the hands he now clenched, he murdered them.  But it brought no comfort to him.
     And now, as he struggled to breathe, he realized he was going to let her down again.  
     Paul tumbled forward, onto his hands and knees.  His entire body felt very heavy.  His forehead came down, and pressed against the dirty floor.  The sound of blood poured into his ears.  Merron clawed viciously at the floor, wanting so bad to rise.  He wanted to don his shiny armor, and take his place beside the woman he loved.  It was his responsibility!
     "A girl has been born!" Cried the mid-wife.  Paul's pain was gone.  His hearing had returned all at once, and he sprang to his feet.  He was, admittedly, expecting to stumble back down, but he would see this child if it would be the last thing he ever looked upon.  
     A mess of dark hair stuck out of a ragged cloth.  Paul moved to the child.
     He looked down, taking the child from the woman.  His vision clouded again, this time due to tears.  She was beautiful.  Staring down at the miracle, she appeared to be quite distressed.  The child fidgeted frantically, quite energetic for a new born.  Such pale skin.  Paul's hand brushed against the tiny digits of the magnificent little girl.  This was the most beautiful moment in Paul's life.  He turned, to take the child to her mother.
     His precious love stared at him with wide, pale eyes.  And Paul knew.
     "Have you decided on a name?"  The midwife pulled a blanket over the dead woman.  Paul's nostrils flared, as his lower lip quivered uncontrollably.
     "Evelyn," he managed.  The woman smiled.
     "Evie," she said.  
     "Eve..."  Paul looked down at the beloved child.
     "Are you the father?"  Paul's gaze didn't move from his child.  He turned, facing away from the dead mother.  He refused to remember her this way.
     "I am."