Disclaimer: I don't own Sanctuary or its characters, I just play with them. My words, however, are my own.
Author's Note: There's a great deal of dispute about the true effects of Absinthe. I went, for impact purposes, with the more poetic version. Feeling dark this week. Enjoy, and please review. Peace: NCS
Wednesday, April 24, 1889
(Copyright 2010, NoCleverSig)
"After the first glass you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not. Finally, you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world."—Oscar Wilde
April 24, 1889
Helen Magnus sat in the parlor of her father's home, the late afternoon sun casting a reddish-orange glow on the small stemmed glass on the table beside her.
She wrapped her fingers firmly around the heavy crystal, twisting it to and fro in her steady hand, watching as it glistened in the fading light of day. Helen's father, Gregory, was in Sussex. The servants let go for the night. She was purposefully alone. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of the mantel clock. Her hair was undone, cascading freely down her white dressing gown in golden curls that spilled over her shoulders, breasts, and back.
The sun was low, almost set. Helen wondered if Oscar Wilde would be proven right tonight. Was there no difference between a glass of absinthe and a sunset? And what if those glasses were laced with laudanum?
She would soon find out.
Helen took the bottle of emerald liquid, poured it into the crystal cup, and began the ritual, La Louche. She picked up the small, silver spoon perforated with tiny holes and suspended it over the rim setting a single cube of sugar neatly in its center. Then she took the carafe of water she'd prepared and poured it slowly over the crystalline object, allowing the sweet mixture to drip into the bright green spirit below turning it a milky jade and filling the glass to its brim. Finally, Helen opened the vial of laudanum, hesitating only briefly as she placed one, then two drops, into the murky drink.
This was not her first glass of the green fairy. She had shared several with Oscar and friends before, including The Five, as a means of expanding her consciousness. But this was the first she had laced with laudanum and the first of three she planned to consume this night. A small dose added to the alcohol could be…mind altering, she hoped, numbing the pain that still clung to her like a shroud. Too large a dose and she would die.
Both outcomes seemed equally appealing to her on this day, Wednesday, April 24, 1889.
One.
After the first glass, you see things as you wish they were…
She was liberated. Rather than dulled by the alcohol, Helen's senses were heightened, so clear, in fact that the entire room shimmered in light. The sunshine, the patterns on the wall, the colors of the cushions emerged in rich and perfect clarity. Oscar was right. There was no difference between a sunset and the green drink. Both bathed the world in a stunning aura of red and gold, casting a perfect luminescence on her surroundings. Helen could smell every scent…the cedar of the wardrobe, the pink roses on the table, the lingering odor of bread wafting in from the kitchen from this afternoon's meal. Her body tingled and teased as tiny bubbles played up and down her skin, like John's hand lightly stroking her arm, making her smile at the sensation of it. Tonight, it was all possible. The mysteries of human evolution could be revealed to her. The whole world stood illuminated before her!
And he was there, sharing it with her. Her lover, her friend, her partner, her husband. They'd married today, a Wednesday. Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all. Her dress was white with an intricately embroidered bodice and adorned with pearls, a gift from John. She left that morning for the church in a carriage pulled by a grey horse and smiled at her husband to be, a gentle smile, his long brown hair tied back, his face neatly shaven. On her finger he placed a simple gold band, JD & HM, April 24, 1889, engraved inside.
They returned home in a carriage pulled by white horses, John giving her a chaste kiss when they were hidden from the crowd, a promise of things to come. Her father had arranged a breakfast for their guests, and she and John greeted each of them, Nikola, Nigel, James, others wishing them congratulations on this their special day.
The breakfast over, the fruit cake cut, the guests departed, they changed into their travelling clothes. Gregory and James, John's Best Man, escorted them out. James accompanied them to the train station to help with their luggage, and they left for their honeymoon in Scotland, eagerly awaiting the night….
Two.
After the second, you see things as they are not...
The knock on the door shook her. She rose to greet him, feeling as though she was flying. Had she ever been more vibrant, more alive?
She opened the door and welcomed him. "John!" she gasped. "It's James, Helen," he responded, confusing her. She ignored him, grabbing his warm, soft hands and leading him into the house and back with her to the parlor.
"You came. I'm so glad you came!" she beamed at him. He smiled back. "You know I would return, love. I promised you. For all eternity." She reached up and kissed him. He hesitated, trying to push her away, then gave into the kiss, conceding. "Helen?" he asked pulling away from her, looking at the table, eyeing the glass, the bottle, the spoon, and lifting the vial to his nose, "What are you doing?"
"I'm loving you," she answered him, wrapping her arms about his neck and pulling him down into a deep and passionate kiss, as full of hope and promise as the day their lips first met. He hesitated, shocked at her boldness, trying to pull away, but she drew him deeper, opening her lips to him thrusting her tongue into his mouth, begging him to respond. She could feel him give in, envelop her in his arms, and return the kiss with equal ferocity.
He knelt in front of her now, holding her hands. His skin was so warm, so soft, his eyes so pure. When had she sat down? She didn't remember. "Helen, you aren't yourself, my dear. Let me help you," he pleaded.
She laughed. "John…I'm always myself with you." And she slipped out of the chair to kneel on the rug beside him.
"Make love to me, John," she asked, her fingers tripping over his vest, his shirt, trying to work the buttons free, he fighting with her hands. "Helen, no…. You don't know what you're doing."
"I want you," she whispered into his ear, her cheek nudging his, her lips, her teeth nipping, sucking, her tongue teasing his ear.
"Helen…."
"Please," she begged. "Please…"
He grabbed her face with both hands and plunged her mouth with his, then moved a hand to her head, digging it into her hair. She threw her arms around him and pulled him down on the rug atop her, unbuttoning the top of her gown as he traced his tongue over her teeth, her cheeks, their tongues finally tangling together.
She pulled her hands free and found his front, working to unbutton his pants, to grasp his erection, to set him free, to set herself free.
He moved a hand to her gown, easing it under her dress, skimming over her soft leg, moving up to her warm thigh, pushing her gown up and out of the way…
God, Helen, no! He pulled back, leaving her cold and empty. Not this way. I won't have you this way!
She stared at him, her pupils wide, the lights flickering around her. His face changed back and forth from John to James and back again.
"James?" she whispered.
Three.
Finally, you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world.
She laid on the rug, curled on her side, silent, tears trailing down her cheeks. James sat up beside her, his arms on his knees. He gazed straight ahead, not at her, and drew a trembling hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, his breath shaking.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she cried softly.
After a moment, he turned and looked at her. Her golden curls swirled around her, falling into her eyes, her face, which was still flush from passion and drink. Her gown remained unbutton, her breasts pressed against one another, forming an enticing, dark line. He looked away.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be him, Helen," James said sadly.
He reached out blindly for her hand and found it, squeezing it tight. She returned the embrace, holding on even tighter in return.
They remained that way for a time on the floor of her parlor on this day, Wednesday, April 24, 1889.
END