Second chapter. Oi, angst doesn't stop for Christmas, y'know.
Disclaimer: Not miine.
Bertrand wasn't at breakfast, of course. He never would be again. Vlad wasn't sure why that hurt so much more than knowing he'd never be in his own room again; it wasn't as if Bertrand had joined them for many meals after Sethius even before... before things had gone wrong. Perhaps, in the end, that was why; he'd driven Bertrand away in a thousand little ways before he'd driven a literal stake through his heart. His father fixed him with a shrewd look once they'd finished eating and suggested –strongly suggested – that somebody should clear Bertrand's old room out and that it should probably be the person with the key. He couldn't think of a valid reason to disagree.
It was with a heavy heart that he slid the key into the lock and turned it. The last person who'd unlocked this door was Bertrand. The last person who'd closed it behind him and locked it from the inside. The last person who'd walked in and swept the entire room with his eyes, the last person who'd leant back against the door and wondered where to start.
Vlad was glad of the solid wood at his back as he looked around him. Piles and piles of books; he'd laughed at Bertrand for it once, teased him about being boring and stuffy. Later, he'd wondered what fresh treachery could require so much research material. When Bertrand had found him searching his room, though... he'd stood almost where Vlad was now, and he'd been calm, and polite, and Vlad... Vlad had been awful to him. He'd accused him of plotting against him for no better reason than to make himself feel like he was right, and he'd seen a little of the light leave his former tutor's eyes. He hadn't even felt bad about it at the time.
Now, he stood in Bertrand's room, looking at all the things he'd treasured – not just the books, but also some weird mementoes from around the world, and Vlad was suddenly seized with a burning need to know if Bertrand had ever owned a camera. He couldn't take pictures of himself, of course, but he must have seen some amazing things in his travels. Had he ever taken a record of them away with him, or were the assortment of knick-knacks and rarities dotted around the room the only things he had to remind him of what he'd done?
It didn't matter now, Vlad realised; Bertrand himself was gone, and nobody would ever hear the story of where he'd acquired the elegant oil lamp Vlad could see in the corner of the room. This assortment of knick-knacks and rarities were all he had to remember Bertrand by, and he could hardly bear to look at them. Maybe he should just get rid of it all, as his father no doubt wanted him to. He pulled the necklace out from where it was hidden under his shirt, and blinked down at it unseeingly. At least he could hang onto this; a bit of dead psychopath. What a wonderful reminder of all the times they'd shared. He let it fall, paying no attention when the cord snagged on his collar.
He'd barely glanced at the titles of a few books before he realised he wasn't ready for this. He couldn't deal with going through Bertrand's possessions; it felt like he was rifling through the pockets of a corpse. A corpse he'd stabbed in the back.
Tears welled; he tried to wipe them away on his shirt but ended up nearly stabbing himself in the eye with the stupid bone necklace that was all he had left of Bertrand. It scraped painfully across his cheekbone – admittedly catching the tears – but that wasn't the reason Vlad stared at it for a few moments and then burst into ugly, undignified sobbing.