Herbert returns

by Gigantisch Romantisch

Herbert returns from a long trip abroad, but he doesn't seem to be the same young man that left. Graf von Krolock worries that something bad might've happened on his travels... but he can't fathom how bad until it's too late.

A resonating thunder that could only come from the forceful closing of the front gate awoke the count from his slumber. The fire in the hearth was hardly more than a few glowing embers and he realised he must have been asleep for longer than he thought wise. His eyes felt gritty and his neck stiff from the unnatural position.
With a barely stifled groan he lifted himself from his favorite chair. His back creaked when he stretched and he winced. This winter it was worse than ever.
Someone must be at the door. No, not anymore, the door was closed now. Someone was inside. The main gate had been used last for the delivery of his son's new bed. The last ball had been three summers ago, to send Herbert off on his journey to "see the world". Without his boy a ball seemed pointless and the count never bothered to put one together again, not until Herbert would be back.
Herbert should've been back, long ago. The old fear gnawed at him and he pushed it away with a force fed by anger. How dared his boy to leave him alone for that long, alone in a drafty castle with no one to light the dank halls with his beaming personality? The servants had dutifully washed the drapes and fluffed the decorative pillows, but no matter how bright the colors, they lacked the shine their decorator lent them.
In a pace that many would think distinguished but few would recognise as pained he descended the main stairs.
The first his eye fell upon were three manservants dragging an amount of coffers and chests out of the way, enough luggage for a moderate to large party.
Surely not his younger brother had arrived with his family? Not without warning, not at all, judging by the last fight they'd had. Not in this weather.
"Vati!"
Herbert's voice was deeper than he remembered and the count scolded himself for losing himself too often in memories of the silver bells of his childlike laughter, back when his mother was still alive.
His boy stepped into his line of vision before he had time to turn around and the old count felt his breath catch in his chest.
Perhaps his voice had not changed, the rest of him had. For the first time the count noticed he had to look up ever so slightly to meet his son's gaze, the eyes that were the purest blue he'd ever seen. His mother's eyes. They were set in a face smooth and pale, with pronounced cheekbones and cheeks hollower than were etched on his memories. Herbert never had been even remotely chubby, but now he was positively gaunt. Yet he seemed to radiate an almost feverish lust for life.
"You look…" He faltered, utterly surprised by his lack of words to describe the son he secretly thought had died. Months ago he'd had a dream so vivid it had haunted him like the memory of his beloved's death. Herbert had appeared at the foot of his bed, clearly visible despite the solid darkness of the bed chamber. He had looked deathly pale, both in pallor and garb, save for the crimson that streamed from his neck down his shirt front.
"Ich liebe dich, vati." The voice was filled with more emotions than the count could discern and sent shivers down his spine and tears to his eyes. He reached for his son, but the image faded and he touched only the thick velvet curtains enshrouding his bed.
Alone. He had thought he would be alone for the rest of his life, despite a castle full of servants and a county full of subjects. He hadn't left his chambers for a week, hoping death would claim him, too. At last he came to his senses, dismissed it as a dream fueled by a lonely Vater's heart and kept on hoping for Herbert's return.
A hope that turned out not to be in vain. Overwhelmed he threw his arms around his boy, pulling him closer than his protesting joints would technically allow.
"Vati!" his muffled cry came, but the count was not ready to regain his cool composture just yet. He had become sentimental, he thought as he buried his nose in his son's snowy blonde hair. He smelled different, earthy, coppery, not at all flowery like he used to, and the count abruptly let go of him, looked at him from an arm's length.
"What took you so long, son?" he demanded.
"Good to see you, too…" Herbert straightened his elaborately laced shirt and smiled uncertainly. He had not been the only one to change during the past two years and it confused him as much as it did his Vater, judging by the look in his deepset eyes. "How have you been?"
"I asked you a question," barked the count, harsher than he meant to but not apologising for it.
"I was … held up. Aren't you happy to see me?"
"Held up by what? Or… who?" Involuntarily the count peered past his son, hoping for company. None was there, not even a servant. Who had carried that luggage in? "Tell me everything." A waft of the earthy smell reached his nostrils. "After you refresh yourself."
Herbert looked at him with an unreadable expression on his smooth face, then nodded. "It's good to be home, Vater," he said softly before he stalked off to the stairs.
The count looked after him, noting the sway in his strut that hadn't been there before. His silk pants and shirt were trimmed with white fur yet didn't seem adequate to keep even a chilly spring breeze from drawing goosebumps, let alone the biting winds that howled around the towers now. The fabric was thin enough to show the rippling muscles in his thighs when Herbert ascended the stairs, one graceful step after another.
At the landing the son looked over his shoulder, down at his Vater, and smiled before disappearing in the direction of his old room. One of the servants hurried after him, groaning under the weight of the last chest on his shoulders.
The count pensively returned to his chair in the drawing room. The fire blazed anew in the fireplace and the decanter of wine sparkled in the flames. Sighing deeply he sank back into the worn leather. He realised he should be nothing less than elated that at last his son had returned, making their family whole again. Yet what consumed him was a fear so vague he had a difficult time even recognising it as such.
His son had returned, but he feared that it wasn't the same son that had left. Why would he even expect him to be? Twentyone now, a grown man, he traveled the face of the known earth for over two years. No one could stay the same person. No doubt he had endured hardships his delicate frame could hardly withstand, likely he had seen things that challenged his impressionable mind. The oldness in his eyes, the hardness, it made the count's heart bleed for his little Angel. He must have been ill, perhaps he still was, slowly wasting away, the fire in his eyes lent by an unnatural force.
The count dug his fingernails in the agepolished wood under his palms. It was no use thinking up scenarios, the only way to know what happened to his beloved was learning it from his very lips, the lips that were so rosy, almost red, like his mother's.
Impatiently he waited, then waited some more. Herbert had never been the quickest in making his toilet, but this was beyond improper. Agitated the count rose from his chair, getting angrier by the minute. How dare that insolent boy let him wait after all he'd already gone through?
"Herbert!" he bellowed and he threw open the door to his son's chambers. The sitting room was full of chests, some of them open, spilling their contents. Amidst the mass of colorful fabrics sat Herbert, stark naked, trying to decide which garment would suit him best.
Despite the blazing fire the room was still dark and chilly, but neither seemed to bother the young man, nor did his Vater's presence. Graceful as a cat he got up without bothering to cover himself.
The count stared for a long moment, open-mouthed and eyes wide, unable to turn away. He was both appalled at the sight of the protruding ribs and hipbones and enthralled by Herbert's almost unearthly beauty, his pale skin reflecting the reddish fire, outlining every little downy hair on his body.
"Vati?" Herbert raised his eyebrows, the only hair on his body that was not blonde, the count now knew, and cocked his head.
"Dress yourself and make haste," the count snapped and he pulled the door close. His heartrate slowed only marginally when he made his way back to the drawing room and he almost walked into a servant because the only thing he could see was Herbert.
The last time he had seen his son in all his glory was right after his birth and he could certainly have done with just that memory, instead of having it appended with what he just saw.
"Vati, wait for me." Herbert bounded down the stairs like a deer calf and caught up with his Vater without even being slightly out of breath.
At least he was clothed, the count thought sourly as he showed him into the drawing room.
"Just like I remembered," Herbert said contently and true to his words he sank into the counts chair, just like he had always done.
"Herbert," the count sighed wearily, gesturing to the other chair. Quietly he cherished this little irritation. Not all had changed.
Without complaint Herbert slunked into the other chair, hooking his long legs over one of the arm rests. He was wearing a pair of loose trousers and a jacket, intricately fashioned from a fabric that looked pale yellow or pale pink, or perhaps it was really just white and the fire lent it some of its color. It suited Herbert but made him look even deathlier white.
"Have you missed me, vati?" Herbert said with a cheeky grin.
The count didn't bother to answer that question. "Wine?" He already nodded to the servant, who reached for the chalices and the decanter, when the unexpected answer came.
"No, thank you. You can have some if you'd like, though." He offered no explanation as to why he would decline something he had loved from a remarkably early age, and the count daren't ask. Not yet. He took the wine from the servant and sank back into his chair.
"So…" he began. "Have you eaten?" he interrupted himself.
"Do not worry about me, vati. I have taken good care of myself. I will tell you now about my travels and ease your worried mind." He said it kindly, lovingly even, but the count still felt caught and gestured brusquely.
"Finally," he said, more than a hint of sarcasm in his deep voice.
"We have all the time in the world, vati," Herbert noted airily and he dismissed the remark with a graceful gesture. A little too graceful, the count thought and he shook his head.
"The words only youth could utter in such confidence."
"Don't pretend you're an old man."
"I don't need to pretend."
Silence fell and the count averted his gaze. Something had flashed across his son's face and lodged in his eyes and he couldn't bear to see it. It bordered pity, rubbed against disdain.
"I was in Constantinopel," Herbert suddenly said, and that set off a slew of stories that the count was sure were partly made up, partly fabricated and partly lied about. But he loved the way his son told them and he listened until the weariness hiding in his bones took over the rest of his body.
"It is time for bed," Herbert said and his voice did not allow contradiction.
He would be a fine ruler, his Vater smugly thought while he got up. "You will have to tell me more during breakfast."
"We'll see. I bid you a good night, Vater." Herbert remained in his chair and the count frowned.
"Will you not retreat to your bed chambers?"
"Not just yet. I have matters to tend to, still. I will see you on the morrow, Vater."
The count couldn't find a reason to force Herbert to get the rest he didn't seem to need and left his boy in the room near the fire. In the doorway he turned around and looked at him. "I am glad you are back, my son. Promise me you will not leave me again."
The blue of his eyes seemed to light up. "Never," he promised in a voice far more solemn than ever before. "I love you, Vater."
"I…" But he couldn't say it. Not right now. Not like this. "I will see you in the morning."

The promise turned out to be rather one sided – Herbert didn't show up for breakfast, nor for midday nourishment. Afraid he would again disturb his son during an intimate moment, the count waited patiently while tending to his manifold tasks that came with the territory. It wasn't until late in the afternoon, when the sun had already set, that Herbert descended the stairs with a flair the castle hadn't seen since Countess Erszabeta. The count wondered if that was the way the noblemen in the cities behaved. He hoped so.
"Did you sleep well?" he inquired, not feeling like chastening his son right away. It must have been a long journey, he deserved his sleep.
"Like a corpse." Herbert grinned and made himself comfortable in the chair on the other side of his Vater's desk.
The count pushed the memory of his dream away. "Have you eaten?"
"I will presently fetch some nourishment. I wanted to see you first."
This surprised the count. "And why, pray tell, do you want to see me?"
"Are you happy, Vater?"
The question took him by surprise. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because I want to know," was the infuriatingly simple answer.
Several possible replies marched through the count's mind before he considered telling the truth. Something in his son's voice demanded the truth, or rather, he deserved it. It had sounded so vulnerable, so eager to please him, almost as if he wanted to make up for the lost years now.
"I have not been truly happy since the death of your dear mother," he said quietly. "But the closest I came, was when I had you near."
That answer seemed to satisfy Herbert, for a content little smile widened his mouth. "Thank you. I will leave you to your work now. I, too, have things to do." He left the room with the swagger that was becoming slightly more familiar. The count realised the earthy smell was still there, though mostly concealed by the now present flowery fragrances. Herbert was becoming himself again.
Content he set out to finish his work before dinner would be served.
Of course the cook had prepared a feast to celebrate Herbert's return, but the boy didn't seem to appreciate it. He picked at his chicken and pushed the potatoes around on his plate.
"Eat, boy," the counted urged him on. "You look like you need it." He blushed slightly, thinking about last night's scene, but Herbert didn't seem to notice. The young man stared at his plate with a longing expression on his sallow face.
"Who did you leave behind?" the count said softly, not really expecting a reply because his son seemed so far away.
"Myself," Herbert answered as softly, almost distractedly. With a start he looked up. "I mean, the… the boy I was. I'm a man now, Vater."
The count looked into his son's eyes and knew he spoke the truth. "Where is she?"
Herbert's silence spoke volumes and despite the fresh fire in the hearth the count felt cold. Every explanation seemed far fetched, ridiculous or unthinkable. Agitated he rose from his chair. "I will not tolerate this," he hurled at his son, who had at least the decency to avert his eyes. "This is not how a Krolock behaves!"
Herbert raised his eyes and what glimmered deep within them sent shivers down the counts spine. "Perhaps I am not a Krolock, then." He crossed his legs and that instant the count thought his son might not be his son, so alien he seemed in his age-old confidence and defiance.
Seconds stretched into minutes while neither moved, each chewing on his own thoughts. The count wanted to release his anger at this insubordination, but found the joy of his son's return was still stronger. With a frustrated snarl he pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the room. When he looked back, right before smacking the door shut, he saw Herbert still sitting in the same position, a small smile rippling his lips, and infinite sadness in his eyes.
Herbert did not show up for dinner that night and the count did little to hide his relief. The food was good and from the goodness of his heart, since he didn't really believe Herbert was not his son, he had some sent up to his room.
The travel must've worn him out, he told himself. He is not himself.

How not himself Herbert was, showed the following days. Or rather, nights. The young man never rose before dinner and spent all night bustling about, redecorating the castle with an uncanny speed. Every time the count would descend the stairs in the morning, something would've been changed. Sometimes small things, like the new draperies covering the far window in the hallway, sometimes large things like the carvings in the doors, which now resembled nightmarish visions.
The rate of the changes was astonishing. Herbert had to have done most of it himself, at night, because none of the servants could confirm he had workers over during the night. With the current snow storms, that would be an impossible feat anyhow. No doubt the chests he brought with him were full of rich fabrics, most of them in hues of grey and black.
When asked for an explanation, during a dinner they enjoyed together, though Herbert seemed to have lost most of his appetite, the young man waved away the question with an elegant movement of his hand. "Time for change, Vater. Those bright colors don't fit the season we're enjoying right now."
The strangest thing, stranger even than the notion that the decorations in an old and drafty castle should reflect the current season, was that Herbert seemed to really enjoy winter. The boy who huddled up in blankets as soon as the leaves dropped from the trees and suffered from dreadful shivers during the darkest months looked like he wanted to bound outside and frolick around in the thick icy white vastness outside the castle.
And the more his son seemed to enjoy himself, even going for an occasional stroll outside after dinner, the more the count felt the bitter claws of winter groping around inside him. Herbert's obvious youth didn't lift him like it used to do – it created a contrast, a gap bigger than ever.
It will be better when Spring arrives, the count told himself as he was staring into the mirror, his knuckles swollen and his face pale and lined. One thing that was left from his own younger days was his thick hair, streaked with grey now but still as plentyful as ever. It fell down his shoulders and framed his clean shaven face like the drapes in the library.
"You're still as handsome as ever, Vati."
The count whirled around, thoroughly caught by surprise. The mirror was facing the doorway yet he had not seen Herbert coming, immersed as he was looking at himself.
Now his son was leaning against the blackend oak doorframe, a smile coyly dancing around his lips. For instant it was as if his mother had risen from the dead, seducing her husband to come to her own chambers and spend the night there.
The count bit his lower lip until he tasted the earthy, coppery tones of his blood to regain some of his senses. Still he could not avoid the surge of love and longing washing through his body, awakening a primal hunger he had forgotten he possessed.
Without asking permission Herbert crossed the treshold and stepped into the room, finally breaking the spell completely.
"What ails you?" His fingers were cold as he tooks the count's hands, a soothing chill that eased the dull ache in his joints.
"Nothing you need to worry yourself about." The count suppressed the urge to snatch his hands back, and not because he disliked the soft and tender touch.
"As much as you fear losing me again, Vater, I fear losing you."
"It is not that easy to be rid of me, mein Junge." The display of affection was making him uncomfortable and he pulled free from the gentle grip, stepped backward until he felt the cool silver surface of his mirror. Herbert had always been more attached to his mother, too much for the count's taste, even, and the few times the count had touched his son was for reprimand or punishment, right up until the morning he left. This sudden change frightened him more than everything else combined.
Herbert peered past him for a moment and something foul flickered across his face. No doubt he realised he looked sick. Beautiful, but sick, closer than death than when he'd first arrived. Yet everything in his demeanor seemed to contradict this. He had never been more alive.
"Good." He smiled, his teeth white and gleaming in the candle light. It erased the hollows of his cheeks and showed a few fine lines near the corners of his eyes. It made him look younger and older at the same time.
"What are you doing here?" the count finally thought of asking.
The boy shrugged, cocked his head. "I wanted to see you." His eyes wandered across the count's body, head to toe and slowly back, to clarify the definition of 'see'. "I was wrong, earlier."
"Wrong?" The count raised an eyebrow. "When?"
"When I said you are still as handsome as ever."
Both eyebrows raised now, then lowered in a frown. "Herbert…" he started warningly.
"You have never looked better." His son winked and left him with his astonishment.

A few days later the count had a servant disturb him while he was working. The woman was out of breath and clearly distraught.
"Master," she panted, "it's the stableboy." Her voice caught in her throat and she clutched her apron in both hands.
"What is the stableboy?" the count asked wearily.
"He… He's dead, sir. The stablemaster found him in the snow, frozen stiff."
"That is very unfortunate." Mostly because in this weather it would be difficult to find another stableboy, but on the other hand, the horses needed far less care than when they would be out and about.
"Sir?"
He sighed at her expectant look. "Show me." He rose from his chair and pulled his jacket straight. Then he followed the woman down the cold corridors to the stables.
Sure enough, there he was, the darkhaired boy, barely eightteen but a prodigy with horses. Someone had put a futile blanket on the slender body and the stablemaster was muttering a prayer. The gnarly man looked up at the approaching footsteps and hurriedly stepped aside for his master.
The look on the boy's dead face made the count stop in his tracks. Rarely he had seen a face so distorted, deformed by fear that it was hardly a face. This lad had not frozen to death, he knew instantly. The gash in his throat confirmed that.
"Wolves?" he asked hesitantly. Already, this close?
The stablemaster pushed the blanket down to reveal a pale chest. "I don't think wolves undress their prey, sir. Nor do they leave the snow white without a drop of crimson."
"Cover him up," the count snapped and he turned his back to the scene.
This was not what he needed. Herbert alone kept his thoughts more than occupied. Perhaps the count should have him handle this. At some moment in time he would have to rule this castle as his own. Perhaps it would take his mind off of the drawings for new, even more gruesome, gargoyles.
"Put him in the crypt for now. We shall bury hem when the ground thaws."
He left the stables, barely noticing this place had escaped his son's redecorating fury. It would only be a matter of time until every wooden surface would be covered with devils, bats and skulls. Not for the first time the count felt a fear gnaw at them, a fear of witchcraft, of satanworship. Not his son, surely, not his Herbert. Perhaps this was the fashion in the big cities, how would he know?
The thoughts swirled around in his head like the snow blowing outside the windows. He could feel the cold creep into his bones and his mind. Summer seemed to be further away than ever.
"Vati?"
He had not heard the door of his study open, nor realised it was this late. Or had Herbert finally decided to leave his bed at a more reasonable hour? With the snowstorm darkening the sky it was hard to tell whether it was early morning or late afternoon.
"What is it?" He looked up and stared.
Herbert's cheeks were rosy, his mouth glistened seductively. The blue of his eyes looked less cold and seemed to sparkle. He almost resembled the young man that had left the castle. A surge of longing swept through the count.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing. I heard about the stableboy. Isn't it horrible?" Without asking Herbert sat down opposite his Vater and crossed his legs. Something in the set of his jaw, or perhaps the way he cocked his head, stirred a malnourished suspicion that the count definitely didn't want to think about at this moment. It made him long for the past even more, now the future seemed uncertain.
"It is indeed rather inconvenient," the count concurred when he had collected himself. "Promise me you will be careful."
"No need to fret about me, Vati. I can take care of myself."
Something in his eyes erased all doubt in the count and he found himself smiling. "That reliefs me, my son."
"Vater…" Herbert uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his face grave and solemn and more beautiful than the count though would be possible. The earthy smell, still not completely covered by the perfumes but at least more familiar now, wafted in his face. Was it his breath?
The count found himself expectantly leaning towards his son, waiting for something that would mend all his worries. Those eyes promised that.
But in an instant it was over. Without saying another word, Herbert rose graciously. "I'll see you at dinner." His hips swayed when he paraded out the room and it wasn't until the door had closed that the count released his breath.
At dinner, Herbert chattered away about his plans for the main gates and the count watched him, eating as little as his son despite the tantalizing smells. There was simply not enough room left by the fears and worries for food.
"Herbert," he cut in, almost desperately, "what happened to you?"
The young man fell silent and looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
The silence dragged on but the count was not going to break it. He kept his steady gaze on the eyes of his beloved wife, set in the face that was dearest to him in the whole world. The son radiated a strength he had never possessed and seemed ill suited to his slender frame, but the father proved stronger. Herbert dropped his gaze and carefully put his hands on the table, next to the silverware he had not touched yet.
"It was a man."
Desperately trying not to draw conclusions the count kept his face perfectly still.
Herbert looked up again, his eyes full of a resigned regret. "It has always been men, Vati."
Of course it had been. Ignoring it any longer proved impossible and memories stirred. He had always known. The longing gazes when the miller's apprentices hauled in the bags of flower. The tears he shed for the sick dogs, the lame horses. The way he clung to his mother's skirts after he'd escaped from his nurse.
"Was he good to you?" Even to his own ears the count's voice seemed strained.
"He gave me something beautiful," Herbert confirmed, calmer than he should be in this situation.
The count didn't know what else he should say. All that mattered was the happiness of his only child. Perhaps it was time for this line of Krolocks to die out, taking all their sorrows with them. His younger brother could have the castle, the county, the responsibilities.
"Vati?"
His boy sounded as vulnerable and insecure as ever and the count rose from his chair, walked over to him, needing to be near him. The glimmer of fear in the blue eyes stabbed him in the heart and he grabbed Herbert's hand, harder than he intended but his son didn't wince.
"Ich liebe dich, mein Junge."
Sooner than Herbert could reply, the count had left the dining hall and locked himself in his rooms. For the first time since his wife perished he allowed his tears to be spilled.

That night his nightmare came back. Herbert stood at the foot of his bed, glowing in the dark, pale as ever. There was no blood on his throat this time, only whiteness.
"I love you, Vater." The young man crawled towards him and the count clutched his blankets up to his chin like a frightened child. "I will never leave you again. I will take away all your pain, all your worries and fears."
The weight of his son's body on his awoke old memories of being close to someone. He threw his arms around him and pulled his boy to his breast, daring to show his emotions in this dream more than he ever would in his waking hours. The rose-colored silk felt soft and cool under his roaming hands, like the skin of Herbert's smooth face against his cheeks. The feel of his lips caressing the side of his neck sent shivers down his spine. He had never dreamt anything like this.
"Forever yours, vati," Herbert breathed into his ear. "Forever together."
One impossibly long instant nothing happened. The count was aware of every touch, every sound and fleetingly thought he had never been this intimate with his wife.
Then the serenity of the moment shattered in a cloud of pain. The soft caressing of lips had changed into a brutal piercing that took away his breath. His fingers clawed uselessly into the rockhard flesh of Herbert's back. Trying to push him away proved as impossible as moving the castle with his bare hands.
His consciousness left him before he knew what happened.

"Vati?"
Slowly the count opened his eyes. It was dark yet he could see. He could see his son, the look of worry on his softened features. He could see the rough stones in the walls, the alcoves between them, full of coffins.
He could feel, too. Feel the lack of pain in his joints, feel the void his fears, his worries and his humanity had left when they fled before the darkness. He could feel the power in his body and the stillness of his heart. He could feel the hunger.
The insatiable appetite.