Treize: Jaune
Who knew how long she sat there, not saying another word or letting another tear fall; how long after the teacup had smashed that Lady Baizen left her, or that Dorota entered the room and tried in every way possible to encourage her mistress to merely raise her head. Blair knew not what she felt because there was no person, no character in any novel or opera or play who understood how she felt in those long, dragging moments – she barely understood it herself. It was as if the core of Blair were not a living, beating muscle, but instead a delicate glass which had been empty her whole life until the worst of all happenings had began to fill it up with the belief that happiness was possible. It had overrun, and now it had shattered also. Yet it seemed that the pieces did not pierce her heart or, if they did, it was with such delicacy that death first crept, then came upon her slowly and finally consumed her whole.
No breath.
No feeling.
No flame.
"Miss Blair..." The hem of Dorota's black skirt nearly touched the tea stain as she knelt, trying to look up into the hidden face as she conveyed her message. "Miss Serena is here, and she bring –"
"Him." It came out in a monotone.
"I can send away, or –"
"No." Blair rose from the chaise, then began to mechanically tuck back a stray curl of hair and rub the gooseflesh on her arms. "Ask Hazel to lay a fire, Dorota. Send them in."
Serena was haunted by the image that greeted them as she and her unlikely ally entered the drawing room – indeed, she doubted she would ever be able to forget it. On one side of Blair loomed the great fireplace, setting her left side aflame and painting arms and neck and dress and hair and eyes saffron, umber and sienna; on the other was the pale coloured panelling and Blair's hated portrait, bathing her in the softest of pearly blues. She looked like some immortal creature trapped betwixt fire and ice, and Serena ached in the knowledge that it was so.
"Serena." Nothing of Blair moved, save her mouth. "I would a moment alone with Lord Bass."
"Of course." The Vanderbilt diamond flashed in the firelight and Blair's eyes flashed towards it, but in a moment it and the slender hand and the willowy, heedlessly graceful body attached to it were gone. Blair focused on Chuck, and felt the world shake as he looked back at her.
"I know you come to spread slander regarding my fiancé," she said aloud. He started.
"I intend to speak nothing but the truth."
"Truly?"
"Truly." Chuck took a few short steps towards her, confused by the hard look he continued to receive even as it seemed that he would trip upon her skirts. The room was hot, the combination of fire and greatcoat an unpleasant one; he flushed. "That which I came here to tell you I doubt you already know: that your fiancé Marcus has lain with his stepmother, and that the child she carries is his and not his father's."
Blair bit her lip as she had been doing all day, and it glowed redder than hot iron. "I see. And you seek to destroy me with this?"
Chuck balled his fists. "I wished to inform, to save any pain or slander you would receive by proceeding with a sham of a marriage to a man who is near enough committing a cardinal sin!"
"Save me pain. Save me slander." Her laughter rang out, high and empty. "What care you for my feelings, my lord? For who it is that I esteem, and who condemns me? What care you for me at all, save my use to give you pleasure?"
"I care!" He persisted, but so did she.
"What care you?" Blair repeated, stalking away from Chuck and down towards the great window where she could see the street and its busy, bustling parameters. "You do not love me. You will not have me. You do not seek any union of you and I save that of the flesh. You torment me with your presence! You seek to ruin my reputation!" Her voice had risen to a shriek, and she whirled and advanced on him once more. "What care you for me: Chuck Bass, seducer of women, begetter of bastards and breaker of my heart!"
He thrust the box into her hands because he did not know what else to do. For a moment it looked as though Blair would fling it from her, and then she pulled back the lid and stared.
"White gold," Chuck said softly. "And diamonds. I thought..."
His voice trailed away, and Blair ran her finger delicately across the beautiful, intricate detailing of a necklace she had never seen a match to. A row of sparkling lilies which seemed to burst into bloom in her hands; an exquisite, heavy heart as a centre piece which was cool on her hot skin and dazzling to the eyes. It had to be the most glorious of its kind she had ever seen, and certainly the most expensive.
But then, she had no doubt he could afford it.
She thrust the box back at him. "Take it away."
"No."
"I don't want it."
"You will keep it."
"I'll throw it away," she threatened, her tone as petulant as that of a child. "I'll have it smashed. I'll have it melted down and wear the diamonds on my wedding day!"
There was pain, sudden and blinding as Chuck gripping her jaw with one hand and pulled her towards him. The box clattered to the floor as his mouth found hers and she gasped, moaned, clung to him and felt her body bow backward with the force of the embrace. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her mouth and jaw line, but Blair cared nothing for that; the delicious flame of that one forbidden night in the carriage had come upon her once more and seized her in its grip, made her vengeful and hungry for the agony of this kiss. Chuck sighed as her tongue seared across his lips, plunging his free hand into the dark mass of her hair and pulling free the pins to crush a waterfall of sweet scented curls in his fist. Eyelashes brushed his skin as her nails dug into his shoulders with such a force that he could feel it even through greatcoat, frock coat, waistcoat, shirt, all; she was a comet in his arms, a meteor, burning up and branding him irrevocably.
When they finally subsided, their foreheads were pressed together, both dewed with sweat.
"Can you say it?" Blair murmured, her mouth swollen and throbbing. "Can you say it now?"
And all the darkness in the world seemed to descend upon them in that pause. Her hands found his shoulders once more, and this time she pushed so hard that he staggered.
"Well done, Chuck Bass," said Blair Waldorf, passing one hand over her mouth. "I congratulate you, for I truly believed that you could uncover my better self. Now, however, I see differently."
She looked like a goddess to his eyes – half aflame, blind with hatred. He made a small movement towards her, but she stepped smartly back.
"I see differently," she repeated. "I see clearly. You thought to find my secret, to unwrap me like a gift and know me better so that you might understand why it is that being without me hurts you. I told you that you had broken my heart and you looked after me where I stepped, and I became engaged to another man and you engaged your spies in the hope that, in my despair at your revelation, I would turn to you. And you were right – my old self would have." Blair shook back her hair, and the perfume of it assaulted Chuck once again. "But by the end of tonight the old Blair Waldorf will be dead and buried, with no hope of a resurrection." She swept a deep curtsey. "And I have you to thank for the awakening, my lord, and for clarity, desire; all."
And now that goddess had become a monster.
"Good day, my lord," Blair said merrily, and then glided from the room like a sylph. As Chuck turned, it was to find Serena – who had clearly been eavesdropping – standing in the doorway, face pale beneath that bright hair.
"What have you done?"
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"Blair!" The fish gulped as his fiancée entered his study, the smile on her face blinding above a gown of bright yellow satin. "Why are you here?"
"Just to see you, my lord." Blair's smile gleamed yet brighter. "And to have a question answered."
"Which is?"
"Oh..." She traced one slim finger up and down her bare arm, cream against pale against snow. "It is nothing serious." Her gaze flickered up at him from beneath dark lashes. "It is only a trifling matter; a qualm I have as to how your title will pass down, you understand, the line of succession in our marriage."
"The line...but Blair, surely –"
"As I said, not serious." Then the smile snapped off like a candle snuffed out. "Merely that I was wondering who would inherit first: my son, or the bastard you begat on Catherine Beaton?"
If you murder me now for the cliffie, then Chuck and Blair will never get it on Victorian style. Just saying.
Happy chapter present, everyone.