The hollow clink of silverware was all that could be heard in the few moments of verbal silence after the Millennium Earl finished speaking. The newest family members sat along one side of the extra-long table, which had been moved in just for the occasion. The chandeliers of the Noah Mansion glittered with candles and the gothic drapes that swathed the walls were free of the usual dust. The Noah sat across from their respective spouses, all except for Tyki, who had knocked Jasdero out of his seat so that Xanthe could sit beside him.
The Earl cleared his throat, picked up a fork, and resumed eating. The discussion was over. The plan had been announced. It was the Earl's word. His word was final, so the plan was final. At the end of the table, a cluster of wives began to chatter quietly, seemingly accepting what they'd been presented with. The Noah visibly relaxed. It would have been a shame to have had to kill one of them so early on.
Tyki reminded himself to thank the Earl later on for letting him chose his wife – he'd have lost his mind married to one of the air-headed birds flocked around the end of the table. But even as he thought this, Xanthe cleared her throat, and in a low, polite voice, addressed the plump man at the head of the table.
"Pardon me: but if I understand you correctly, sir – and please stop me if I don't – you want to drive the human race into extinction."
"That's the gist of it, yes. What a wonderful way to word it – drive the human race into extinction! Hohoho~"
"And, if I may, sir, what do you plan on doing once you all are the sole inhabitants of the Earth? I'm curious."
Silence reigned. Tyki tensed. He couldn't distinguish why her tone sent such shivers up his spine. Shut your mouth, he thought at her. Just leave it alone.
She didn't.
"The Noah, all alone with no one to entertain them; I wonder who'll survive the longest."
"Survive?" Road spat, her homework book falling to the table. Tyki felt his fingers twitch uncontrollably in his lap. He was sitting with his back flush against the impossibly straight back of the chair.
"Yes, survive," his wife continued calmly, "when no one is left for you to play with. I suppose it'll start as a mystery of sorts. Someone will go down. The others will be left to guess who the killer is."
The silence was thick, heavy. Despite the angry glinting of their yellow eyes, his family was utterly transfixed.
"But you're all killers, aren't you? So it'll be difficult to find who the perpetrator is. Until accusations start flying, because then it won't matter. It'll be all-out war – family member against family member. In the end, someone will be left on top."
Tyki felt his heart leap in his chest. He could feel it – the anger, sometimes hatred, that he stored for various members of his family. And he knew he would do it. If push came to shove, he would do it – protect himself, or what was his. He watched various emotions flit over the faces around the table. Would he instigate it? Could he begin the massacre of his own family? Could he survive all alone in the world? As if on cue, his young wife shifted and spoke once again. He'd felt her move without looking or relying on the noise. He'd felt the warmth of her skin and her voice, the cold of her eyes as she stared out at the Noah. He saw each pair of yellow, cat-eyes glare back at her, soft, pale, and small, and his hand shot out without his consent. Her fingers lay limp in his grasp, not pulling away, but not holding on either.
"On top of one, big, lonely, empty, dark world – what a prize," she mused. The other wives had ceased their chattering at the end of the table, and were staring, horrified, at Xanthe. Had she really just said what they thought she'd said? Tyki let a second pass before acting, exhaling smoke through the corner of his mouth.
"Did you know, my dear Earl, that my wife is a writer?" he chuckled, leaning forward to stamp out his cigarette. He felt a flicker of life run through Xana's hand – just one twitch, before she was still again. He cleared his throat. "She's always coming up with such fantastical situations. I'm trying to get her to write a book – perhaps make her husband some money!"
Another second passed, and he waited, dreading any response from his wife. Xana remained silent. The little circles his thumb traced on the back of her hand were as much for his comfort as for hers.
"Oh-ho-ho~" chortled the Earl, and Tyki let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Road broke into a grin.
"Write me a story, Aunt Xanthe. I want one!" she ordered. Tyki caught Xana's polite smile out of the corner of his eye. She'd said her peace. She was done. He could relax.
"Of course, Lady Road," she murmured, and reached for her fork. Tyki's back remained rigid against the chair.
"Are you insane?" Tyki roared, as soon as he had her cornered and alone. The trek from the Earl's mansion back to the Manor had been silent. Now servants were hurriedly fleeing the premises, anxious to escape the Noah's wrath. "What did you think you were doing?"
"Telling a story," she said blandly, not meeting his eye.
"Just who, pray tell, do you think you are?" Tyki hissed, gripping her shoulders tightly. Still, she refused to look at him.
"What are you going to do, my lord? Rip out my heart?"
Tyki couldn't remember moving so fast. His hand and wrist were submerged in her chest before he could stop himself. He felt the familiar chills running down his spine, felt the corners of his lips twitch. Didn't she understand? Why couldn't she understand? Xana gasped a little. He felt the throb of her heart just millimeters from his fingers. He realized that he'd never threatened her like this before, and clenched his other fist against the adrenaline still flooding his system.
"I will not be afraid of you," was all she said. Gradually, slowly, so as to decrease any discomfort, Tyki's hand slid from her chest cavity, until his palm lay flat against her stomach, right below her ribcage. He exhaled heavily and closed his eyes for a moment.
Then, in a voice that was barely audible above the roaring silence, he spoke: "You scared me, Xana."
When he looked up from his hand, he found himself drowning in the cool of her eyes, and shivered. He felt his knees wobble ever so slightly.
"They'll kill you, Xanthe. They'll kill you so fast – I might not be able to stop them."
He pulled his hand from the last layer of her clothing and dropped his head so that his forehead was pressed to hers. "I'll lose you."
The last heavy silence of the night spanned the time it took for her to reply. When she did, he felt her fingers tightening in his hair and in his collar, and felt her nose glide across his cheek.
"Thank you," she breathed into his ear. "Thank you for protecting me."
"Amada..." he managed, but was cut off by his own throat, which seemed to close up. "'Mada..."
"Hush," she whispered back and pressed her sweet lips to his.
She was stubborn, even thoughtless at times. This he knew. But she was strong, too, and intelligent. And deep down in his chest, past the fear, he was proud.