• Her name was Alice, and she was beautiful. No, she was more then beautiful, she was beyond what mere words could ever say. Her hair, long and blacker then ink, her lips were crimson red, thirsty, her skin was clear and white as snow, colder then ice, harder then diamond. She was an empty shell though, void of emotions, of thoughts and feeling. She knew not of a summers day, or the deathly chill of winter. She knew nothing of the beauty of a rose, or the crash of the oceans waves. She knew nothing.
    The carver stood back, his eyes running over his creation, greedily drinking in her beauty, her hard stone coldness. How he longed for her, his vampire woman, his love. How he longed that her still eyes would fill with life, that her cold lips could love and her silent dreams be heard. He was so lonely, up here on his own, in his tower, spending his days creating silent figures that were his only company, his love and his hatred, what kept him sane but with every passing day silently drank away his sanity. But not her. Not Alice. In her stone coldness, there was warmth, in her unfeeling still heart there was love.
    The years passed. The carver grew old, his feeble hands unable to create, his lonely heart unable to will. But she never changed. Every day, she was there, his love, and his creation. She never changed, her beauty never faltered. And her love never ceased. It was there, alive, burning brighter then the brightest light. And even in death, she still shone, as the carver fell to his knees and looked into the cold merciless eyes of death.
    Her cold arms wrapped around him, her crimson lips whispering the words he longed to hear. A silent cry, the sound that no living soul will ever here, and then... nothing. Not the cold stone of ice, or the beating of an incomplete heart, or the light of a never dyeing love.