Tacet
Lily Severn
Silence is something you learn to live with when it becomes all you know. That in itself is painful. What is even more torturous is the silence punctuated by sound, and then the periods of time where you sit alone are almost unbearable.
He leaves in the morning, after making a pot of gentle chamomile tea and toast, watching me with emotionless eyes behind his mask, before departing shortly after. His footsteps are quiet, the rustling of his cloaks and jacket barely audible to one who has not heard them before. When I hear the door to the outside world close behind him, I wonder who he is out to seek his vengeance upon. A former government worker, now a beggar in Paddington? A doctor, who had prescribed terrible medications with side effects worse than that which they were meant to cure, who hides in a flat on Downing Street, watching old East Enders re-runs, hoping he'll drink himself to death before justice finds him?
I've seen those knives, those blades with kisses of death upon the tips, while they lie dormant. They are beautiful, silver beacons guiding the hopeful and the revolutionary toward a more enlightened future. It is as if the glinting light that reflects off of their edges is the light at the end of a tunnel, that tunnel being the dystopic world we now live in. Sutler has said many times that the trappings of old England are symbolic of a "decadent past". How decadent is war, famine, and disease? How affluent must we be when we fear for our lives while performing menial tasks?
He has taken those daggers this morning, as he has every morning. This feels no different. I shower silently, dress silently, comb my hair in a soundless chamber. The busts of ancient philosophers and the tomes of deceased authors provide me with some sense of solace, but until he returns I do not know what I can and cannot touch. I am afraid V will be able to glance upon the volumes of Wilde and Tennyson and espy my fingerprints, blowing softly and watching how the dust flits away.
And yet, why should I be afraid of this place, this underground museum of sorts that I've come to call home? I suppose I am lucky, lying here surrounded by the rich tapestries of history, when so many are suffocated by the innocent lives they lead. I am protected, guarded...invisible.
It has occured to me before that V and I can simply live our lives here, forever safe, forever cloaked against the evils of the world which we have tasted, so sourly, in our own mouths. The terror has dripped onto our lips before, and while they have never met, we have an unspoken illness between us. The tainted fragrance of a life denied, the bittersweet strength that is found in those who dwell alone.
I have watched him prepare for the life he leads so many times, I have memorized his movements. While I do not see him dress with the mask and raven tunic, I see him polish his blades in the candelight, while I read a whimsical novel, unaware of the dangers he encounters.
I have spoken to him about this before, and as usual, his answers are as veiled as his face.
" V..."
" Yes?"
" When you leave, where do you go?"
A moment of silence passed between them. V continued to polish his blade, then set it down, folding the soft cloth and putting it in the box of cleaning solvents. " I venture forth to where I am needed. Blood has been spilled that should not have been."
" So, you're a phlebotomist?" Evey laughed lightly, tucking her finger into the pages of her book and looking up.
He met her gaze, the dark pools of his eyes unreadable, untouchable. " It has been said that to live each day without a single purpose is hardly living at all. I seek that reason, that purpose. I was made to feel less than human for many...many months of my life, Evey. I was made to feel worthless. I must regain that sense of purpose to be sure I destroy the world that has sickened us, and to give it that which it has been so long denied: freedom...forever."
" But...but you hated them. You hated the people who...who tortured you, marred you. How can you give them the satisfaction of using that hatred? Why not repress it, why not simply live your life?" Evey was worried, her honey-brown eyes focusing on that cheerful mask, with the smile that had once seemed so taunting, and now seemed comforting, as though willing to share and make her see.
" Evey, I do not expect one as sweet as you to comprehend the malice and anger with which I have lived. But please, try to understand...hatred must be given a place to make its berth, or it shall cause tempests infinitely."
V stood, turning his back to her, and she admired the elegant curve of his shoulders, the slimness of his waist, and imagined the lean muscles there, beneath the black cloth and the singed skin, beneath the layers of suffering and deformity. He walked away wordlessly, putting his blades and other materials into his room, which she had never dared enter before. He returned, wringing his gloves together.
" Tea?"
There is something about him that makes me want to sit and simply...talk. To see everything he's seen, to live in each moment a she has, to feel my blood pounding through my veins and into my heart, which by turns becomes his. Through his words and his lips, forever frozen in a mocking smile, I wish to hear of the life he has led. How he finds the strength, how he has conquered his fears, the things that immobilize most of us but somehow provoke a flame in him.
Flame. How fitting.
" There was a fire..."
Oh, V. So much of you has been borne of flame and ash, of fire and pain. How I miss you when you leave; the warmth of this place is drawn out with you, like tendrils of smoke. Every sound, every mournful stroke of a piano key, every breath, every rustle of movement signifying life, disappears with you.
I stay here, reading old books, sipping cold tea, wandering about gazing at the works of Renoir and Monet, of Van Gogh and Cezanne, hoping for the moment I hear your steps, when I hear your voice, the sounds of velvet and night, of the pinpricks of stars and the despair so carefully hidden beneath layers of black.
I pray for you, I long for you. I wish for you to return safely, injured no further, burdened no longer.
The life I lead here seems so devoid of cruelty. But when the silence sets in, you have left me tortured.
Disclaimer: Any and all characters, quotes, settings, plots, etc are property of Vertigo, David Lloyd, and Alan Moore, as well as the makers of the film. No copyright infringement is intended in the writing, posting, or reading of this fic. So please, don't sue me.