The late November air flowed around his body, hardly making a difference to his comfort. Aside from the dead leaves crushing beneath his feet, and the dark moody sky that was typical of this time of year, it could have been the middle of the summer and he wouldn't have truly been able to tell the difference. One of the many things that he had been cursed with, on a cold winter day all those years ago. In fact, as they days continued to creep further and further away from November and closer and closer to the month that followed, they moved closer to that very day, drudging that particular memory to the forefront of his mind, and was a strong motivator in the mood that had currently been pressing upon him.
Although the weather called for many to be in a mood that was similar to the one that the vampire had descended into, the arrival of one Theodore Evander Ashby only a week or two prior had sent those closest to him into a mood of ecstasy that he had quickly found he could not share, but loathed to ruin. There was nothing wrong with the child, that was the first thing that Oliver would like to make clear. He was as thrilled as anyone could be for his friends, and the child that he was perfectly prepared to dote upon whenever allowed. It was not the child that he had a problem with, but rather the world that he now represented, one that Oliver was strongly reminded he was not a part of. Not really, despite what he knew his friends, and Conner would say.
There was a time, very brief, that Oliver had been quite fond of the idea of children, or rather his own children. That had been short lived, however. Killed the moment that he realized he had no desire in the creatures he needed to help create one. Adoption, in the modern sense of the world, was not an idea that happened, and they certainly weren't ever going to give a child to a wifeless servant. A brief period had occurred in which he thought, providing he could convince Henry to see reason, he could at the least live vicariously through the family. That ended however with his own life, followed a number of years later by Henry's as well.
Oliver may have gotten up from that incident. His body may have continued to walk, and his mouth continued to speak, but he had never needed air again, nor had his heart ever taken another steady beat. In every sense that mattered to the man he had died, and he had taken that idea very much to heart in the long empty years that had followed. It was something that he had accepted, and for the most part it did not prove to bother him. It was the world he was meant to be in, the world that he deserved.
And he had forgotten. Conner had burned so brightly that Oliver had thought for a moment he could escape his world. For a blissful period, he had thought perhaps he could drag himself out of the world of the dead back into the living. Little Theodore, and his prideful parents had reminded him though that he was doing nothing more than playing pretend. Conner could not pull him from the world of the dead, but Oliver could pull him into it.
That, there, was the thought that had been pulling his mood down, dragging him away from the source of comfort and out into the cold November air. He could live in the world of dead, that was his fate, but he could not bring someone with him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't the right thing to do.
But how did you give up the only thing that you wanted? How did you give up what mattered most? Oliver did not know. He supposed he would keep walking, until he found some answer. Or until something else found him.