"…I feel myself grow hot, and I see red sparks in my mind…
As I'm suffocating, I'm gradually released from the pain.
I feel something almost like pleasure spreading through my body…"

A few hours earlier than he should, the count returns for Miss Cardia.

Following her declaration of her intention to escape, he has spent all day deliberating, alone as always, over his course of action. He has no doubt as to the infallibility of the systems he has put in place; Miss Cardia is safe in her room, he's sure of it. Yet, despite this certainty, he can't help but feel an overwhelming urge to make sure his prize, pure and precious, remains intact and in his custody.

For a long time, the count manages to ignore it. After all, there is no reason for him to visit before midnight tonight. Unless he is directly commanded to do so, he will bring Miss Cardia's life to an end no earlier than the appointed time. He cannot break his word for the sake of his own convenience, lest he undermine his own trial. Still, as the sun sets and the moon rises, the count becomes more and more restless, until he finds himself pacing around the all-too-familiar sitting room.

Over the millennia, he has trained himself not to dwell too much on ifs and mights, but Miss Cardia appears to be an exception to his every rule. Justifications emerge from the mist in his head, plaguing him, overriding his every rational impulse and imploring him to visit her. There is no need to kill her yet; he need only see her safe again, and revel in her vivacity in the moments before he must put her to rest. Ironic as it seems, the count finds that he fears losing Miss Cardia too much to give her even the slightest chance of running.

The count's soft steps gain further purpose as he advances, through corridors and around corners, until he stands once more at the door to Miss Cardia's room. How many times has he lingered here, awake the latest of them all—imagining her breaths, deep in slumber, and how easy it might be to stop them dead? If only he had obeyed his orders earlier, if only he hadn't spent so much time sharpening his knives to perfect his own punishment…

Resting his hand on the doorknob, the count prepares to turn it, several coils of poison-resistant ropes at the ready just in case, but before he can convince his fingers to move, he hears the telltale click of the mechanism from the other side.

Unlocked.

The count freezes, disbelieving. No, wanting to disbelieve. He'd be lying if he told himself he hadn't suspected Miss Cardia to slip from her bonds: it had been that sixth or seventh sense, after all, which compelled him to come here in the first place.

Stepping aside, the count allows his prisoner to open the door, and then flows forward like the shadow he is, taking her by surprise. He curls around her, wordless, his arm around her throat to silence her once more. (Only once, he tells himself; he doesn't like to hurt her.) Even if Miss Cardia could scream, there would be no one to hear her. As it is, the only sounds disturbing the eerie quietude are those of effort and desperation as she struggles.

It's no use, of course. Holding Miss Cardia from behind in a tight embrace, the count allows her to exhaust herself until finally she relaxes, with the shuddering suddenness that comes only with true unconsciousness. Releasing her at last, the count carries her back to bed, resting her on her back and tying each of her wrists and ankles securely to the four bedposts.

Part of him prays that she will not wake before the time comes for her to sleep forevermore, but another part of him longs for a second goodbye. How long he stands at her bedside in silence and gazes down at her, his head full of thoughts he himself cannot discern, the count does not know, but eventually, Miss Cardia stirs.

"Saint-Germain," comes her voice, faint and slurred as though she is still half-asleep. (Good; let her dream.) "Are you going to kill me?"

"I am," answers the count softly. He must. Why does she make him say it?

"Can I have a last request?" Miss Cardia's tone is plaintive, childlike, that of a sacrificial lamb going to the slaughter. After millennia of distancing himself from all the other walkers of this earth, how has she—the one person the count can never have—captured his heart? Or perhaps it is precisely because he cannot have her that he has fallen so far so swiftly. Fate is cruel to its guardians and its victims alike.

"I can promise nothing," says the count. "And I cannot delay your fate any longer than midnight. But if your wish is within my power to bestow, then… yes."

"I know it's impossible," begins Miss Cardia, her eyes fluttering shut as she turns her face away, and the barest hint of a blush tints her cheeks pink. "But all I've ever wanted was to touch someone, and be touched." She fidgets, but forces herself to lie still almost immediately, evidently sensible of the futility of motion. "But… I also don't want you to melt."

At Miss Cardia's words, the count's heart—if indeed he can be said to have one, after so many centuries of masochistic massacre—aches sharply. How can she speak so sweetly, so considerately, to the man who will murder her tonight? He doesn't deserve it.

"Your poison will not cause me any lasting harm, Miss Cardia," whispers the count, tugging off his glove and removing his hidden blade, and leans over her to caress her face. His skin stings and smolders instantly, and Miss Cardia flinches, gasping. He withdraws his hand to show her his blistering fingers, already healing over.

"Saint-Germain," she murmurs, her two-toned eyes fully alert and glimmering in the moonlight. "Please…" Her voice breaks, her entire body twitching in some impulse made impossible by her bindings. "If I'm going to die, I want to know… whether you really… love me."

The count stares down at her, and though Miss Cardia holds his gaze, he finds that he cannot hold hers. He's already said too much; he should have simply cried over her body, and let his tears speak on their own to lifeless ears. "Miss… Cardia," he says finally, turning his face to look down at her once more, and prays she understands the depth and magnitude of his regret. "Whether I love you or not, it changes nothing about your situation. Tonight, you will die at my hands."

"I don't want you to kill me before I know the reason why I have to die," says Miss Cardia, frustration sharpening her tone, "and especially not before I even know if you love me or not. Please, Saint-Germain." She is as close to begging as he has ever seen her, and turns her head to search his expression rapidly. "Tell me."

No, the count tells himself, exhaling, but her plea is too compelling. Her last request echoes in his soul so loudly that he can scarcely think, let alone hear himself respond. "Perhaps I do love you," says the count, clenching his fists in an attempt to hold together his splintering resolve, splitting in a circle of deadly branches, like cracks in ice. "But I can't show you what it feels like to be loved."

"Saint-Germain," Miss Cardia says again, her voice scarcely above a breath, and in her eyes lingers a sadness more profound than anything the count could have expected from such a short-lived creature. She is not in the least afraid for herself, but rather mourning on his behalf. "It isn't my time yet. If you're not here to offer me comfort or hope, then please… leave me alone."

The count bows his head, intending to honor her request, but he hesitates a moment too long, and can resist his own thirst for knowledge no longer. "Do you love me, Miss Cardia?" he asks, morbid curiosity overwhelming him like a sudden wave of shadows.

He realizes, even as the words leave his lips, that he has made a grave mistake. Still, Miss Cardia's response is of such dire importance to him that he cannot bring himself to leave before he hears it. However, rather than respond, she stares fixedly at the ceiling for long enough that the count can't help but wonder whether she intends to reply at all.

But eventually, Miss Cardia takes a deep breath.

"I… I think so," she says, but her hesitation is born of inexperience, not uncertainty. Bewilderment and adoration, sorrow and joy: all these precious emotions and more shine forth from her eyes, with all her strength of will. Though he asks for no clarification, Miss Cardia takes a deep breath and raises her head as much as she can to gaze over at him. "I love you, Saint-Germain," she adds, with unwarranted conviction.

The count freezes in place, seared by the fire in her eyes. His heart, trapped in an eternal winter of his own careful creation, has begun to thaw without his consent. He doesn't even need to touch her for it to melt. His composure is slipping from his grasp, turning insubstantial and weak as water.

"Don't test me," hisses the count, although he knows he has no right to be in such anguish. It's his own fault, like everything always is. Had he only left when Miss Cardia asked… had he only killed her before developing this accursed attachment… had he only slain the diseased child as soon as the order had been issued! "Please, Miss Cardia. Don't—"

"I love you," repeats Miss Cardia, more frantically now. Her voice is tremulous but truthful, as though she wants to say it as many times as she can before she can speak no more. "I love y—!"

Lunging forward, the count presses his bare palm against her mouth, and does not flinch even as his hand starts dissolving. "Enough," he growls, withdrawing his hand only as he can feel her lips come in contact with bone. Miss Cardia trembles beneath him, nodding helplessly in response, and her lips part as if she means to speak again, but anything she says will only hurt them more.

Wiping his own liquid flesh tenderly from her cheek with his other hand, and ignoring how it clings half-congealed to his glove, the count leans down to press his mouth swiftly to hers. Miss Cardia stiffens beneath him, letting out a muffled cry as her eyes fly wide, but cannot push him away. Just a taste, the count tells himself, and nothing more. An acrid taste that smarts on his tongue and makes his eyes sting. The taste of desperation.

"Does that answer your question, Miss Cardia?" breathes the count, still leaning over her, their faces no more than a few inches apart. Despite her restraints, or perhaps because of them, Miss Cardia has heated his ordinarily cold blood to an unbearable temperature. She holds a mysterious power over him which he neither likes nor trusts, but the count can no more alter his feelings for her than he can call off his mission.

"Yes," says Miss Cardia, drawing the count out of his thoughts. She stares up at him, enamored and enraptured, a pupillary night falling over her heavenly irises, born not of terror but of misguided devotion. "But if you really do love me, then… why do you have to kill me?"

The count only sighs, pushing himself back slightly to put at least a little more distance between them. Miss Cardia tries to follow his motion and sit up, but the ropes hold her back. "I've already told you. I have taken your fate into my own hands, and I can't let them have it back again. Your death will be your deliverance, and my punishment."

"Deliverance from what?" demands Miss Cardia, almost interrupting him. "Punishment for what? Please, Saint-Germain," she continues, shifting in place as though deliberately drawing his attention down to the rest of her body. No; it's more than that. A physical form is all Miss Cardia has been given in this life, and if it takes a soul to lay a soul to rest, then perhaps the same is true of—

"Tell me," she whispers. "You seem… almost like you're about to cry. I don't want you to kill me if it's going to make you sad."

The count shakes his head, stroking Miss Cardia's hair restlessly with his hand, already healed. "If I make myself miserable by killing you, will you hate me for it?" he asks, meeting her eyes in sorrowful solemnity. "Revile me, despise me—I beg of you—curse me, so that death can at least be a release."

"I can't," responds Miss Cardia passionately, struggling against her ropes for the first time since he tied her in place. Not to escape, but to embrace him, although she can do neither. "After everything we've gotten through together… after all the moments we've shared… after all the times you've sheltered and protected me…" Miss Cardia hesitates, turning her flushed face slightly away from him in modest shame. "I need you, Saint-Germain."

At her words, the count's chest and trousers both tighten in spasmodic simultaneity, and a frown flickers briefly across his face at the unexpected sensation. Something selfish, sinful, sinister has awakened deep inside him, stirring for the first time in centuries thanks to her insistence. All the count can do now is pray that he can keep it from surfacing, at least long enough to carry out his mission.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…

"Miss Cardia," is all the count can say, something dangerous flaring in his heart despite his best efforts, but she only blinks up at him in gentle innocence. She doesn't understand the extent of his desire—not devouring him, but savoring him slowly, consuming him like hellfire. Yet he feels no lust for his own pleasure, only a strange and selfless longing to fulfill her final wish more intimately still.

"Saint-Germain—?!"

The count's body moves on its own, lithe and fluid. Eclipsing her in the moonlight, arching over her on his hands and knees, he bows his head and prostrates himself before some inborn power higher than God. His fingertips curl forward, five bare, five gloved, all gripping the sheet. "Miss Cardia," he says, his voice low in his throat, his blood abandoning all thoughts save one. "You are mine—mine—and I cannot allow fate to take you before I do!"

Miss Cardia stares up at the count, transfixed, as a shudder runs through her body. "Then let me be yours a little longer," she breathes, shallow and passionate, and his blood stirs more decisively still. "Let me livewith you. It's not too late for us; we can still go back." She speaks more to reassure herself than to offer genuine suggestions, like a cat purring on its deathbed—perhaps understanding the impossibility of her proposition.

"You miss the others so much," whispers the count, pushing himself back and lowering his head still further to lean his forehead against Miss Cardia's chest. "Am I not enough for you?"

The silken ribbon around her throat, black as if in mourning for herself, has no place there. The count takes the end of it in his teeth and tugs, unlacing it, and Miss Cardia inhales sharply as he throws it away. Yet she does not respond to his question; perhaps there is no right answer.

The count's fingers shake so that he cannot undo her buttons, and—overcome with a sudden, violent, and terrifyingly strong urge to see her uncovered—takes Miss Cardia's lapels in both hands and tears her shirt expertly apart. Surely God will forgive him his trespasses. The Horologium glows seemingly with a light of its own, as beautiful and as deadly as its bearer, and the count stops in his motions to admire it.

"This is why you must die, Miss Cardia," he murmurs affectionately, and traces its intricate design with his gloved hand. "Because of who you are. And since you can't alter the nature of your existence, it falls to me to end it." Miss Cardia opens her mouth, but the count rests a finger lightly on her lips. "No more questions, now," he says, pulling at the tie securing his cloak. As soon as it loosens, he shrugs it off and tosses it at the wall, but Miss Cardia is focusing on his face so intently that her eyes don't even flick towards the motion. "I can offer you only an approximation of the love you seek, but if you'll allow me, these will be your last rites."

"But, Saint-Germain, you'll… m-melt," says Miss Cardia, squirming slightly as the count carefully straddles her hips. Sitting back on his haunches, he kneels over her so closely their thighs brush. There is another stirring, stronger and more enduring this time, and a pressure between skin and clothes—a reminder of his physical form, existing far outside ordinary temporal limits and longing to be used.

"Oh, my dearest lady, I have no intention of melting," he assures her, brushing his gloved hand down the center of her body, and echoes her shiver. He is as much in her power as she is in his, after all. But the count cannot risk removing any more, lest he betray her and dissolve. His cravat, brooch and all, is the last layer he dares discard for either of them.

A single breath later, as deep as melancholy, the count slides his hand past himself, winding down between their hips. Pushing his thumb lightly into her abdomen and hooking his fingers around the curve of her pelvis, he presses experimentally through poison-proofed fabric. Even through these layers, the count can feel that Miss Cardia is already hot to the touch, damp with something more than sweat. But her gasp, so like a whimper, and the way she stiffens…

"Am I hurting you, Miss Cardia?" asks the count, as calmly as he can. Though her breath catches again as he continues feeling for the right rhythm, she shakes her head and closes her eyes as if sinking into slumber. At her tacit consent, the count allows himself a small but genuine smile, stroking her in gentle but increasingly more confident ellipses.

As he settles into the motions, watching Miss Cardia's reaction carefully, she finally relaxes. Though she twitches now and again in response to some nerve he presses, her eyes do not open to take him in. They only flicker secretively beneath their lids, and though a pronounced flush creeps across her cheeks, she does not acknowledge the author of her pleasure. What, then, is she thinking about?

"You are mine," the count reminds her, his voice husky. Though Miss Cardia's body jolts reflexively at the more aggressive motion he uses to accentuate his words, her eyes still do not open. Her unknowing rejection only serves to pique his growing frustration; the subtle friction against himself from the motions of his wrist is no longer enough. His heart beats in two places now, disparate pulses drowning out all reason, and each demanding fulfillment.

All at once, the count withdraws his hand; as his pressure relents, a frown creases Miss Cardia's brow, and she wrinkles her nose in displeasure. Her eyes might even flutter open at last, but the count is no longer looking at her; twisting around, he briefly flicks out his remaining hidden blade, severing both the ropes binding her legs. He's chosen to give her the chance of resistance, trusting in the irresistibility of the gratification he offers.

Sure enough, though Miss Cardia stirs faintly, she does not try to kick him away. After a moment of still and silent relief at her acceptance, the count allows himself to fall forward with a sense of renewed urgency he doesn't quite understand. "Look at me, Miss Cardia," breathes the count, each of his hands planted firmly on either side of her head, and—with an effort, it seems—she finally stares up at him, eyes unfocused.

Heat shivers between them like sweet summer air, but even the few inches between them seem too many. The count lowers his body still further until he supports himself on his elbows. Gazing into her eyes, he rubs against her firmly from below. A surge of something like lightning rushes through his body at the establishment of an even more intimate connection, and their shared shudder becomes a powerful ripple.

Miss Cardia opens the gates of Heaven, bending her knees to grant the count access. In gratitude for her unspoken forgiveness, and in apology for all his sins to come, he trails a string of burning kisses down the side of her neck. The pain is fleeting, dissipating into prickles of pleasure despite the intensity of their friction and the danger of dissolution. But it doesn't matter anymore. In the moment, he'll do anything if it means her last moments can be spent in bliss—

Their breaths mingle together, synchronizing, becoming labored as they move against one another with increasing expertise. Miss Cardia's head turns from side to side as though she has a fever, and her few soft involuntary vocalizations are those of half-delirious ecstasy. Her gloved fingers clench and unclench like intricate leather flowers, still held in place by their ropes, but her thoughts are far away from escape.

Eventually, Miss Cardia strains against her ropes to press closer against him, her hips lifting slightly. She's asking for the end, he realizes, reluctantly lucid. His heart almost stops at the parallels of what comes next, but he dives beneath the surface again, into her welcome warmth. "Tell me… you're mine," pants the count, his mouth speaking the first familiar words it stumbles upon—by now, wholly detached from his thoughts. "Mine, and mine alone. Say my name once more, Miss Cardia… please."

Miss Cardia's lips have parted, and she is breathing just as heavily as he, or perhaps more so. The count has ensured that she is somewhat closer to the precipice, after all, restraining himself as certainly as her hands are bound. "S-Saint… Germain," she gasps, the breathless broken syllables nigh incoherent, and shudders, her head jerking aside. The count should stop and give her time, but he cannot bring himself to torture her in such a way. "I love… I am… ah—!"

A final thrust in the right place, and just like that, it's over. Miss Cardia writhes beneath the count, not in agony but in pleasure, as he sits back slowly to observe his handiwork. As she stills again, he notices that perspiration makes her skin shimmer in the light of the Horologium, still exposed by her open shirt. She exhales deeply, half-laughing, savoring a sensation the count only half understands, and refuses to share.

Thou—shalt—not…

Throbbing, agonized, he aches for release, but turns his face away, biting his tongue until he tastes blood. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction of climax. Rather, he will remain in this purgatory until all his lingering desire ebbs away, bodily and soulless. "Are you satisfied… Miss Cardia?" the count asks instead, focusing on regulating his breathing.

"Yes, my love," purrs Miss Cardia, using a tone the count has never heard on her lips before, and wishes he could hear many more times than tonight. She stretches her legs tentatively, as though unsure whether they still function normally. "Are you…?"

The count shakes his head, grateful that the darkness and his tunic hide some of his predicament. "You needn't trouble yourself with my condition," he says, contentment of another kind spreading throughout his body, and he feels himself calming down as she nods and smiles. Let her assume he feels the same; in other ways, his satisfaction is equivalent.

At least he could give her some comfort, or perhaps compensation in the end. The slumber that comes with completion is deep and comfortable; she will not awaken nor suffer through his last trial. "Sleep now, Miss Cardia," murmurs the count, closing his eyes before he can see her expression sober, and flicks out his blade behind his back: only a few moments remain. "I'll stay by your side."