The breaks are the Latin verses of Genesis 4 : 1-16, the story of Cain and Abel. This is a 'day in the life of', I suppose, of Count Hargreaves. ; This is quite seriously the first fic I've written for this fandom, and hopefully not my last!
It is nothing new. The moments pass, the hours fade, and the days continue.
Factum est autem post multos dies ut offerret Cain de fructibus terræ munera Domino. Abel quoque obtulit de primogenitis gregis sui, et de adipibus eorum: et respexit Dominus ad Abel, et ad munera ejus.
Riff knows Cain's schedule like he knows himself- he will rise at precisely seven-thirty, and assist him in his morning bath. He will choose his clothing, and each day, a new, crisp shirt.
Cain does not need to tell him- his manservant is already across the room, his hands reaching out to gently smooth his shirt against slim shoulders. They tug at the back of his shirt, gently, and Cain feels a fingertip at his back.
He does not speak.
Ad Cain vero, et ad munera illius non respexit: iratusque est Cain vehementer, et concidit vultus ejus. Dixitque Dominus ad eum: Quare iratus es? et cur concidit facies tua?
Breakfast is generally a quiet affair; Miss Maryweather's eyes are at an undigified droop, her clothes immaculate but her yawns immense. Cain frowns- it is not befitting of a lady bearing the Hargreaves name- but still, nary a word.
Riff stands at Cain's side, and beckons to a maid for more tea- Keemun, prepared exactly to Riff's specifications. Brewed for seven minutes, with only a gentle twist of the leaf to produce a smooth flavor and a slight bitterness that is soothed by the milk near Mary's teacup.
There is a gentle orchid fragrance to the drink, and Cain recognizes that smell; fruity and smooth. He drinks it, with his eyes trained on his butler- Count Hargreaves, of all people, knows what kind of death a gentle, flowerlike poison can herald.
By now, Maryweather's eyes are alert and open; mentally, she clucks- such behavior at the breakfast table.
nonne si bene egeris, recipies: sin autem male, statim in foribus peccatum aderit? sed sub te erit appetitus ejus, et tu dominaberis illius. Dixitque Cain ad Abel fratrem suum: Egrediamur foras. Cumque essent in agro, consurrexit Cain adversus fratrem suum Abel, et interfecit eum.
London streets are clogged with carriages and busybody horses, with their impatient riders and women's laughter. Cain's hat and cape are clearly visible, and people give him a wide berth on the cobblestoned streets- his stride and strength betray his status.
He does not lock eyes with anyone. But his face still attracts attention, and Riff walks behind him; three steps behind, always three steps behind. Never in front of his master.
And a trained eye is always at his back, at the cape, coat and waistcoat that cover a crisp, white shirt- and Cain suddenly stops.
Et ait Dominus ad Cain: Ubi est Abel frater tuus? Qui respondit: Nescio: num custos fratris mei sum ego? Dixitque ad eum: Quid fecisti? vox sanguinis fratris tui clamat ad me de terra.
There are wenches about, with thick makeup and tacky dresses, tawdry manners and howling laughs. The men tuck their hats down, under arms or secured upon heads, but Cain's curiosity is worn like his top hat: broad, flashy and first.
Cain cannot deny that ash-blonde hair, nor the sharp, gleaming gazes of eyes at the windowsill. But it is just a simple girl, with long blonde hair and caramel eyes.
Count Hargreaves breathes a sigh that does not go unnoticed by his manservant, and continues.
Nunc igitur maledictus eris super terram, quæ aperuit os suum, et suscepit sanguinem fratris tui de manu tua. Cum operatus fueris eam, non dabit tibi fructus suos: vagus et profugus eris super terram.
Four thirty-five is the beginning of afternoon tea, with the clotted cream and jams that Maryweather was so fond of. The china has never made a sound since she had learned proper tea etiquette- and Cain could not say he missed the continuous clinking noises.
The fresh scones had disappeared, and two hours had passed by, with talks and Maryweather's laughter.
Dusk begins to fall.
Dixitque Cain ad Dominum: Major est iniquitas mea, quam ut veniam merear. Ecce ejicis me hodie a facie terræ, et a facie tua abscondar, et ero vagus et profugus in terra: omnis igitur qui invenerit me, occidet me.
Evening has set, and brilliant washes of color slowly fade to indigo on the Hargreaves Estate. Candles are lit, and Maryweather's nightgowns had recently taken on more layers, as Cain's warming pans were doubled.
The Estate was cold at nights, with the wind howling in the streets of London, and the moon illuminating everything- and nothing.
Cain's dreams are plagued with memories, but they are not whole; they are fragmented, pieces of memories that do not match up into the story of his lifetime. It is as if he is looking inwards from someone else's perspective; faces are blurry and voices are muted.
And a lonely hand reaches out for-
Dixitque ei Dominus: Nequaquam ita fiet: sed omnis qui occiderit Cain, septuplum punietur. Posuitque Dominus Cain signum, ut non interficeret eum omnis qui invenisset eum. Egressusque Cain a facie Domini, habitavit profugus in terra ad orientalem plagam Eden.
Daybreak.
The curtains are opened, and it is Riff's face that first greets him with the morning light. The last remnants of his dreams disappear, and Cain has nothing but the sweet traces of nostalgia and sadness to sustain his memory.
It is nothing new. The moments pass, the hours fade, and the days continue.