A letter from an ancient friend.

You would be surprised how kind the humans can be. If all you do is listen to words, you would think their entire kind was on the brink of civil war. Yet, for ten thousand winters, ten thousand springs, ten thousand summers and ten thousand autumns, I have lived on their blood without ever taking without permission. Normally I would only need to feed once a decade or so, as blood is shockingly nourishing, but given I am a mere beggar, it would be incredibly rude to take all of one's blood. I feed once a year or so, usually the hardest time of year. The hunger is a strong force, but at least for a time I can resist it. I wander neighborhoods, searching for a home. One of children, energy, happiness, life. I find the owners, the parents, and I blatantly ask for their blood. Last evenings being a family claiming to be the Cookes. Nowadays they ask if i work with the red cross, but next is usually the same. I explain I need it to live, I explain the risk of my condition spreading, the danger I am if they accept. I stress every detail of what could and likely will go wrong, the unescapable horrors of eternal unlife, the will breaking pain of the hunger, the danger I am to their loved ones. And despite all that. Once. I have been turned away once. An elderly couple who said they were taking treatments that poisoned their blood. They said one day if I came back they could give, but I declined. Every other time I have been let in. I have been given hospitality, I have met children young and old alike. I have met farmers, doctors, hunters, scientists, knights, laborours, gatherers, and miners. I have met men of peace and men of war, men of power and men of squalor. I have even met those who’ve sworn to slay me where I stand if my face ever shows anywhere near them. Yet I am welcome. I am given blood. I am given life by those wishing to take my own. I came inside and had the pleasure of meeting sir Johnathan Cooke and sir David Cooke, and their children Alex and Trevor, nine and twelve respectively. I never take enough to hurt, I never visit the same house twice, I never show my face again. I am there to survive and I refuse to take more than my sliver needed to survive. Which is sometimes a little annoying when people seem to very much enjoy giving various baked goods, and won’t take no for an answer. I can say though as time has gone on, cake has gotten significantly better. Especially cheesecake, I had no idea such a delicacy could even exist! I have nothing material, all I do is wander and survive, take in the world around me without leaving the slightest trace. So I don't have a lot to give, but I do have one, my most precious possession since my very day of birth all those thousands of years ago. Memories. I know stories and legends and myths and tales forever lost to history, sparing my singular mind. It's the one thing that can be given and kept at the same time, a thing that can be shared and appreciated by all. So that is all I leave behind. Children especially seem to like my tales. Trevor had been learning about the Roman empire, so I gladly spoke of my interactions. My stories of being there when the walls of constantinople fell, of when i met the fellow that would one day become the focus of religion world wide, when i saw the burning of the library of Alexandria, though my description of how relatively small the disaster was seemed to disappoint him a little. Little Alex was interested in the ancients, all the civilization before the pen and the paper and all written history. I told of my meetings with the aztec, the indus, the maya, the persians, and many whose names have been lost to modern history. I told of the tales that i was permitted to tell from those now called aboriginal, Indian, first nations, metis, Inuit and a thousand other names. And then I began to tell my favorite stories. I was there when the gunshots stopped and the football was brought out. I was there when peace between those in the far off lands wasn't a facade. I was there when the first blade tore the soil and made it arable. And while the big heads in government always said who is the enemy, I saw true, genuine kindness on the ground beneath the tower of ivory. But none of this matters to me, I'm just a beggar, traveling from place to place, meeting the people and seeing the sights. I bid my farewell after sharing my fair share of tales, and bid goodbye to the family. They were the sort that makes me wish I were mortal, and able to live as they do. But I cant, I have been as I am for a few thousand years too long. Oh well. The upside of living so long though is I'm never bored, I have a important job to do. I write, I write my stories, I immortalize my legends, I engrave my myths in stone and ensure that tales always have a mouth to speak them. I prepare for the day I will be found, for surely someone will want me dead. And on that day, not a single syllable of my memory will be erased when my body falls to dust. And then I drift, I gather more, and more. All the stories to ever be told. All I am is a life sucking parasite on humanity, the least I can do is ensure they are never forgotten. The sun is rising, I should rest for a little. Have a good one, and don't forget to write back.