The Prince of Endless Years

Jean always wondered how her life might be different if she had gone with the Prince.

In the fog-draped kingdom of Eldoria, lost to history’s pages, Prince Alaric was born beneath a blood-red moon. A curse—or twisted gift—bound him to eternal youth, his body forever seventeen, though his soul bore the scars of centuries. As his royal kin faded, Alaric wove a deception: every few decades, he’d vanish, reemerging as a younger relative—cousin, nephew, brother—to hide his agelessness.


By 1975, Alaric had drifted to the small town of Ashwood, Oregon, where bell-bottoms and rock anthems filled the air. He enrolled at Ashwood High as “Simon Varn,” a junior with dark, tousled hair and a faint, old-world charm that set him apart. His classmates, caught up in disco fevers and Vietnam’s lingering shadow, saw only a charismatic newcomer. But Alaric’s curse carried a sinister edge: a thirst for blood, quenched by preying on society’s forgotten—drifters, runaways—whose bodies he left in desolate places, his heart growing colder with each kill.


Jean Hendricks stood out. A senior with piercing green eyes and a habit of doodling in her spiral notebooks, she sat near Alaric in English class, dissecting The Great Gatsby with a sharp tongue. Her sketches—dreamy, shadowed figures—hinted at her longing to flee Ashwood for an art school in San Francisco. Alaric was drawn to her fire, her restless spirit echoing a life he’d buried long ago. He lingered after class, trading barbs about their teacher’s outdated tweed jackets, sketching beside her when she thought he wasn’t looking. Jean found “Simon” odd but magnetic, his polished manner clashing with the town’s gritty edge.


One crisp October evening, as the scent of woodsmoke hung heavy and streetlights buzzed to life, Alaric caught Jean outside the school’s library, her arms full of books. The parking lot was empty, save for the hum of a distant muscle car. “Jean,” he said, voice smooth as vinyl, “this town’s choking you. School, these people—they’re chains. Come with me. We could roam the world, free. But you can’t tell anyone where we’re going.”


Jean’s eyes narrowed, her sketchbook pressed against her denim jacket. “What’s that supposed to mean, Simon? Just up and leave with you? I don’t even know you.” His words stirred her wanderlust, but the secrecy prickled her skin. Why the mystery? Why him?


Alaric stepped closer, his gaze almost too intense, like a predator sizing up prey. “Trust me, Jean. I can show you places where time stands still, where you’d never feel trapped again.” His voice was a lure, but something in his eyes—too old, too hungry—made her stomach twist.


She backed away, boots scuffing the asphalt. “No way. I’m not running off with some guy who talks like he’s in a movie. You’re freaking me out.” She turned and hurried off, her ponytail swaying, leaving Alaric alone under the flickering light. His fists clenched, the beast within him snarling, though a faint pang of something human lingered.


Jean never saw “Simon” again. He vanished from Ashwood the next day, leaving only rumors of a strange kid who came and went like a ghost. She graduated, hitchhiked to San Francisco, and carved out a life as an artist, her paintings laced with a haunting melancholy she couldn’t name. Late at night, with the city’s fog curling outside her window, she’d think of that boy and his cryptic offer. What if she’d gone? Would she have found the freedom she craved, a life painted in bolder strokes? The question clung to her, a quiet ache.


What Jean never knew was the fate she’d escaped. Had she followed Alaric, she’d have been another fleeting “companion,” her blood feeding his curse until she was drained dry, her body tossed into some forgotten ravine like the others. Alaric hadn’t wanted her heart, only her essence, a spark to stave off his endless chill. Her refusal was her salvation, though she’d never grasp how near she’d brushed with death.
Decades later, in another town, a new student named “Julian Varn” appeared at a different high school, his face eerily familiar, his smile just as sharp. Alaric carried on, ageless and ravenous, while Jean painted her visions, forever unaware of the darkness she’d outrun.