Where You Can Swim to Me, a misc. books fanfic

Title: Where You Can Swim to Me
Author: LindSay S.
Fandom: The Birth of Venus by Sarah Dunant
Pairing: Alessandra/the painter
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Characters are property of Sarah Dunant and not myself. Title is taken from "On Your Shore" by Charlotte Martin.
Summary: Even in complete darkness, it's possible to find the light.
Notes: Some gruesome imagery. Definitely not for the weak of stomach. Not a happy story all around.

Alone in the chapel, long after everyone else has gone to bed. For hours he's been huddled in his corner, tucked away from the rest of the world, his only company the figures painted into his frescoes, figures he's long since covered up in shame. A single candle burns in the darkness, the only source of light in the great stone room. When he looks up, the flame is obscured by the tears in his eyes, its light reduced to a muted golden haze.

It's cold. It's been days - weeks, perhaps - since he'd slipped into Hell, and where he'd expected the lick of the devil's fire, instead he was met with this cold, this impenetrable chill that seeped into his bones, into his very soul, which nothing could now remove. It's funny to him how he used to associate the cold with the presence of God, and now it's come to represent His absence. He would laugh, but the breath catches in his throat, and a strangled sob is all that escapes.

The darkness is all around him, inside him, impenetrable. He weeps in despair, implores the Heavens to reach down to him, to pick up the shattered pieces of himself and make him whole again, but he's met with only the dark. With nothing left, all hope having been abandoned, he staggers from the chapel, candle in hand, into his room. Grabbing his drawings - those grotesque sketches of bodies mangled and destroyed - and flings them into a bucket, pressing them down to make room for more. Spying the wooden crucifix on the wall, he takes it in his hands, cradles it almost lovingly before turning and hurling it against the wall, where it hits with a sickening crack and breaks into two pieces which fall to the floor. These pieces he drops into the bucket as well, and then he sets fire to the whole thing.

Once the flames begin to die down, he leaves, retreating to the chapel and locking himself inside. He looks at the walls, the tarps that cover the work he's done. The hideous black creature with the three heads which he knows is lurking on the ceiling. The creature he put there. He clutches his head and lets out an anguished sob.

"God help me," he whispers.

He doesn't receive an answer.

It's been days since he's eaten. He's barely moved from his corner at all. His hands throb, palms reduced to holes of mangled flesh. He stares at them from time to time and supposes that if his soul were to take physical form, it would very much resemble the gruesome wounds.

He hears voices at the door and folds himself further into his crevice, tucking his hands in, silently willing whoever is lurking outside to leave. A knock now, and another. He pretends not to hear, is falling back into his head, until the sound of her voice creeps in through the cracks. He's sure he must be hearing things - perhaps the Devil himself is there to torment him further - but he hears her again, and he crawls to the door, unlocking it and creeping back.

He startles her as she enters, and she drops the tray of food she's brought in with her. She salvages what she can, brandishing her sharp tongue at him as she does. By the time she looks at him again, he's retreated back to his corner, where he's watching her fearfully. He pulls back further as she approaches but allows her to crouch on the stone floor next to him.

She gasps when she discovers his mutilated palms, raw pain etched into her face, but she does not turn away. She barely flinches as she uncovers his paintings and does not denounce him as a heretic or throw him out. Instead, she hurriedly puts the tarps back in place and tells him she'll return shortly. He finds the strength to ask where she's going, and she tells him she's taking him back to her home so he can get well. Before she leaves, she reaches out to him where he stands and touches his face, fingers fluttering over his cheek in the most gentle of caresses.

The emptiness she leaves him in envelops him, and he sinks back to the ground.

The wagon ride is bumpy, and every jolt makes him moan, but each time, she's there, stroking his hair lightly, trying to bring some small measure of comfort where she can. His head is cradled in her lap, and her arms are locked protectively around his shoulders. He wonders why she goes to such trouble - any fool can see he's already lost - but still she holds him.

The air is chill, despite the blankets they've wrapped him in. With every shiver she pulls him closer, and he sinks into her embrace. He feels them stop, hears voices - her voice - but he can't find the strength to open his eyes. He huddles ever closer to her until they are finally allowed on their way. She strokes his cheek before releasing him as gently as she can and joining their companion in the front.

It is a shock to feel cold where the heat of her body had been, and he lets out a small moan that goes unheard.

There is darkness, and the red glow of coals is all around him. No matter where he steps, he can feel their searing heat. Whispers surround him, angry, hateful, hissing voices hurled at him from all around. He covers his ears, but the voices are within him, destroying him inside and out. There is a pungent, fetid odor in the air, and he turns to find the body of a man displayed before him.

In the dim light of the embers, he can just make out the slit down the torso, slicing him open, the skin of his chest and abdomen peeled back and nailed to the stone walls. His ribcage is broken open, spread wide, as if two enormous hands had reached in and stretched it as wide as they could. The hole is teeming with maggots, so many that it's impossible to see through the wriggling white mass. The arms are stretched out on either side of him, nails driven though the palms into the stone beneath. His ankles are crossed, another great nail driven through. As the painter stares in muted horror, the man blinks, rolling his head slightly in the painter's direction.

Startled, emitting a cry, the painter falls back, regaining his balance as quickly as he can as he turns on his heel and runs. He has no direction, he only wishes to get as far away from the gruesome scene as he can. He feels the coals burning, smells his own charred flesh now, but still he runs. Clawed hands tear at him, ripping pieces of his battered body away, and the blood flows like wine, black in the dim red light. The pain is almost unbearable, but still he runs, until the red glow fades and leaves him stranded in utter darkness from which a pair of eyes emerges, followed by another, and another...

With a great cry, he heaves himself out of the dream, into a setting wholly unfamiliar to him. As he lays gasping, rivulets of sweat streaming down his face, the door opens, and a woman with a face as black as his dreams lets herself in. He tenses as she approaches, but she has hands where there should be claws and offers him a pitcher of wine, insisting he drink. He shakes his head and she lets out a great huff, placing the pitcher on a nearby table. Sitting on the floor next to his mat, she takes his hands in hers, inspecting the bandages she'd placed there after cleaning the wounds. Satisfied, she gets up, telling him to keep his voice down lest he wake the others.

He lays awake long after she's left, pulling the blankets closer. Despite his vision of Hell, he is still cold.

This time, when he awakens, tormented by nightmares, she comes to him. He wishes he had the strength to tell her to leave, to not waste her time on a man who's already marked for Hell, but he can't turn her away. She's the only light he's seen in these dark days, and he craves the solace she brings.

He doesn't flinch from he touch when she lays a hand on his shoulder, when she settles next to him, back against the wall, and wraps her arms around him. The embrace is warm and gentle, and he almost starts to sob again from her touch. Her hand is strong when she wraps it around his and helps to guide the chalk around the page, coaxing out the image of the monk who had encouraged his talents those many years ago. He shudders with effort and pain when he's done, but her hands don't leave him. When he lies down, she lies next to him, pressed up against his back until he turns into her waiting arms.

Her kiss is gentle, almost chaste, and he doesn't pull away. Her body is warm, her flesh inviting, offering a redemption that, up until now, he couldn't even dream of. Something in him has awakened at her touch, and when they lock eyes, he sees it in her as well. For one night, they are one and the same, and it cannot be a sin because it is the only thing that can save him.

Somewhere, deep inside, in the furthest corner of himself, a flicker of hope is ignited.

"But I will always have my dream, where you can swim to me" - "On Your Shore," Charlotte Martin