So, to anyone who has me on author alert and was expecting an update of RTH...I'm sorry. :( I've been in a sort of writing rut, and with real life getting in the way (as it often does), I've had little motivation to push through it. The good news, however, is that I have a good idea of where I am going to take the story now and am awaiting just a little more inspiration before I release the mostly complete chapter 2.
In the meantime, I wrote this to relieve some stress and fulfill a wish I had of writing at least a little regarding these two. If anyone out there has it in them to leave a review, my muse would be much obliged. :)
Rated T for angst (because, yes, it does merit a T rating). :O
Drowning.
Sinking deeper into the abyss of torment and solitude, the water concealing screams that threatened to destroy a weakened façade of apathy. The water that filled his lungs with their presence so that nothing could escape from them again. The water that masked the fluttering eyelids, ebony hair, and emblematic pale skin lying beneath its surface, a visage disturbed only by the ripples cast out from crimson rose petals skimming the face of an imaginary world.
The world where the scars still burned and the tears had yet to dry. Where the pain had been a means of connection to life, and the fear refused to fade. Where death waited no further than around the corner. A place where death would have been welcomed.
And yet a faint shimmer of hope could be seen amidst the tumultuous darkness, a flurry of white feathers amidst the overwhelming number of dark. A pair of hands outstretched in reception, fingers reaching through the surrounding black.
Closer…closer….
The Earl's eyes flew open in astonishment as the hands ripped him out of the placid water, drawing him to a sitting position within the porcelain bathtub. He coughed violently, choking up the water that had stifled his breathing.
"Lord Cain!" a concerned voice cried, the hands on either side of the Earl's shoulders shaking him with enough force to invoke nausea. "Lord Cain!"
The coughing spasms continued for a few more moments before the Count managed to raise a tentative hand to the powerful ones of his servant. "Riff," he spoke in between desperate gasps for air, voice noticeably rattled and eyes downcast towards the water, "I'm fine."
Riff's hands froze on his master's bare skin, ceasing their distressed movements and lingering a moment longer before withdrawing altogether. He silently observed the erratic rising and falling of the pale chest before him, the disheveled and damp mop of black hair falling over the femininely angular face, knowing already the reasons for the Earl's anguish, unable to forget the source of the chronic nightmares as he mentally traced the wounds scarring the young man's back. Those same scars would taint the soft flesh until the day that flesh would rot, the emotional significance they held no less eternal in the tormented mind of the Count.
"Milord, I have warned you before about sleeping in the bath," Riff reached for a towel as he drew the Earl up to his feet. The boy remained silent and contemplative, allowing himself to be pulled out onto the cold marble floor and dried by his newly composed valet, the soft flickering of a lone candelabrum casting shadows upon their figures. "If you were tired, you should have chosen to go straight to- "
"I already said that I am fine," the almost hostile voice interrupted, verdant eyes turning upwards to glare into the stoic silver ones. Riff said nothing to counter his master's rudeness, seeing through the fiery gaze into the scared, pleading one lying beneath. To him, Cain's forced pretenses of control did nothing to disguise the vulnerability the Earl showed before no-one but himself. Only he was allowed knowledge of the haunting memories that still controlled both of their lives, driving them onwards in a mad pursuit of the one that had caused them. The boy would not stop until his father breathed his final - of that, Riff was sure. And as always, it was his duty to accompany his master down whichever path he chose to take, and as they had confirmed with each other time and time again, even into the 'deepest depths of Hell'.
The Earl shifted slightly under the intense observance of his servant, reaching up to take the towel with the intention of drying his own hair, shivering as chilled droplets rolled their way down the back of his neck. His hands never made it, however, as they were caught in a firm grasp. Cain blinked in surprise, golden-green eyes widening at the uncharacteristic use of force by his usually submissive companion.
"Allow me," Riff whispered, leaning closer and reclaiming the damp cloth. Meticulously, he dried the Count's hair, soft breath ghosting over the slender neck as his fingers absently began to drift down the boy's jawbone, wiping the droplets that had accumulated off with a single callous thumb.
Their eyes locked for a brief moment, an unsaid understanding passing between them, before Cain gently removed his butler's hand with his own. "Your fingers are rough. Put your gloves back on." He spoke with his usual arrogance, a distinctive tone of command in his voice. "I'm going to sleep."
Riff felt the corner of his lips twitch up slightly in response, a rare hint of amusement playing on his face.
"Very well, milord. When should I come to awaken you tomorrow?" He pulled back, draped the used towel over his arm, and slipped the gloves he had shoved into his coat pocket back over his hands.
"Cancel my meeting with the Baron tomorrow. I plan to pick up Mary Weather from the train station in the morning." Cain ran a lanky hand through his hair, turning to walk into the adjacent bedroom. Riff took hold of the candelabrum before following.
"As you wish. I'll have the carriage prepared to leave early."
Cain paused at the bedside, turning briefly to gaze out the window amidst dying rays of sunlight, most of which were concealed largely by the presence of cracked but drawn curtains. He lingered absently, his thoughts drifting far away from the overly embellished casings and extravagancies passed down through his noble lineage for generations and the demons that haunted its history.
He thought of his half-sister, the former pauper he had sought to ease the burden of with affection and riches and had succeeded in nothing in the end but entangling her within the web of his own twisted fate.
He thought of the father he so utterly despised, who had sought to destroy any sense of normality to his life, and who now was striving to devastate what little happiness he had managed to grasp during his seventeen years of lonely existence.
But most of all, Cain thought of the man waiting attentively just behind him - of his loyalty, dedication, of the piercing silver eyes he felt grazing over his naked flesh and the shiver the knowledge of that sent down his spine.
Riff had been by his side as the only immovable bedrock of support from the beginning of the Earl's memories – at least the beginning of the only ones he truly wished to remember. He was the only one aware of the full extent of Cain's anguished past and how it still managed to affect him to this very day; he was the only one the Earl had ever allowed himself to, albeit rarely, put his guard down in the presence of.
He was the only one who had traced his scars, who had consoled him in his darkest hours, who had – both literally and figuratively – saved his life too many times to count. Not that Cain often felt a strong desire to live aside from carrying out his revenge, but it was easier to carry on when unafraid of being alone at that final moment. And it was precisely that lack of fear that scared him the most. Every attachment he had ever formed had ended in tragedy. Nothing escaped the curse his birth had placed upon him; so why, he wondered, would Riff be any different?
Perhaps it was an idealistic outlook, an irrational assumption, but somewhere along the way Cain had begun to believe the man when he claimed they would accompany each other until the end. Because if Riff ever betrayed him and went first, Cain was positive that he would not be long after.
A single droplet rolling languidly down his cheek snapped the Earl out of his reverie, reminding him of his nakedness and the sodden locks of hair still plastered to his forehead. He abruptly moved to slide under the grandiose bedspread, shifting the blankets so that they would cover his bare shoulders from sight before turning away from the dwindling sunlight and watchful gaze of his servant.
"Riff."
The man was unwavering in his attention to his young master, responding immediately to the statement. "Yes, milord?"
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck the hour, its laborious reminder of the passage of time left unperturbed by spoken word as the commanding sound rumbled through the walls in evenly paced strokes. Yet even after its announcement, the silence in the room remained, broken only by the faint whisper of wind outside the obscured window.
A trail of hot wax that had been sliding down the candelabrum dripped onto the gloved fingers of Riff's hand as he opened his mouth once again to confirm the Earl's acknowledgement of his response: "Yes, milord?"
Cain shifted almost unnoticeably underneath the sheets, his response unhurried and barely audible beneath the envelopment of cloth.
"Close the curtains on your way out."
The flickering candle illuminated the smallest of smiles.
"I shall, milord. Sleep well."
Oh, and yes, this is a one-shot. I don't plan on ever continuing this, but then again, you don't plan on a lot in life. ;P