Little
She was his little wife and he was her husband. Married. Until death do them part.
Victoria was little. Her frame was slim. Her hands were small with long fingers. Beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. Her hands were even more beautiful (if that was even possible) when they were covered in blood. With the bright red contrasting with her paleness. Blood of the man she once was expected to call her husband. That Victor Van Dort boy.
Barkis had to take care of him. There was no other way. He was in the way and Victoria would put up a fight otherwise. The sword cut through him easily. Soon enough, his blood made a wine-like puddle around him.
Victoria knelt there, at his side, as he died. Barkis watched. The doctor was ordered for, but never came. Scared off from the horrors of the night. But Victoria stayed. They said their last words to each other in brief whispers, promising love. Promising to remember each other always. She spilled little tears over her lover's corpse. Foolish little thing, his wife was, then. Victoria would forget him. Barkis would make sure of it.
She remained there. Sobbing. Insignificant, foolish things pouring out of her lips. Barkis rolled his eyes at the scene. In an opera, this might be taken as tragic. For Barkis, it was an annoyance.
Victoria held the Van Dort lad up to her chest. Caressing his cheek. Kissing his forehead. She was gentle. She always was.
Gentle. Quiet.
Two ways to describe his little wife.
Tragic.
Barkis had to drag her away from the scene. She didn't protest. Her little hands seized his vest straps, pulling him down a bit, but it hardly mattered. Victoria was little. Light. His two hands could easily fit around her waist.
It was difficult to find a carriage. All the carriage drivers (and most everyone) was frightened off. Barkis bribed a jittery old man to drive them with money neither of them had. The journey was bumpy and rain splashed into puddles outside. Victoria curled herself up in the corner of her seat and attempted to dry her eyes.
Silly girl. She hadn't even known the Van Dort boy for that long.
They arrived at the Everglot's summerhouse. Rundown with ivy from years of no use. A band of servants, hired by the Everglots, back when they believed they would have money by now, greeted them upon their arrival.
Victoria stumbled out the carriage door, relying on his support. Her dress was stained with blood. Her veil was soaked in her tears. Her hair was tangled and her shoes were long gone. Yet she was elegant. Little.
The servants didn't say a word about it. Though a few gaped with wide eyes.
Barkis guided his new bride into their chambers. A layer of dust covered most surfaces, but it was the least of their worries. Victoria climbed onto the bed, wiping her eyes and her nose with jagged motions. He let her be. Closing the door behind him with a click.
Barkis ordered his trunk, which a servant provided. He opened the secret compartment, drawing out a knife. Barkis traced its icy blade between his fingers. This was nothing unfamiliar. This blade whispered his victims' names. Emily and Marie and Virginia. All dead at his hand. But Barkis never killed twice in the same day. Nevertheless, it would be simple. Victoria would thank him for the release; if she had the chance, that was. Which she wouldn't. She would be dead within the hour. And he would take his leave without a trace of evidence.
Barkis waited. Only for a few moments, he told himself, just until her sobs died down. That was all the time he needed.
Ten minutes went by. No, that wasn't enough. Victoria was wailing.
Twenty minutes.
Thirty.
Forty-Five.
An hour.
Time was up. Barkis couldn't wait any longer.
Knife tucked away behind his back, Barkis entered the room.
Victoria was sitting. Simply sitting with her back turned to him and facing the window. Appearing smaller and paler than she actually was. Almost ghostly.
Perfect. Slicing through her back would be the easiest way to do it. While it was an ingenious idea, piercing Emily in the lung hadn't killed her immediately. She didn't die until he buried her, too weak to fight back. This time Barkis didn't have the luxuries of the forest. Trial and error. After all his experience, there would be no more error.
Barkis brought out the weapon. He crept up to her, slowing in pace to savor the moment. He slipped on the carpet. The knife landed near her cheek. A few inches closer and it would've hit her. Victoria gasped, averting her gaze to the window. His reflection gave him away.
She seized up. Hardly shaking. Barkis couldn't move the knife away. He simply stared. Back at the window. Watching the storm rage on. Hearing the obnoxious rain. Was that what stopped him? The weather? Barkis never killed one of his victims during a storm.
Yes, it had to be the reason for pausing.
"You've already killed me," Victoria said, her voice wavering a little, "When you killed Victor."
Barkis stared at her. How little she seemed. Fragile.
She was no use to him. Never was. If only he'd known that before. He wouldn't be in this mess of a situation. He would not be stopping himself from dragging the knife a few inches over.
No.
He pulled the weapon away.
What was he doing? This wasn't part of the plan. It was senseless. Barkis was never senseless. Never had been until now.
"Aren't you going to do it?"
Victoria's little voice brought him back to reality.
"Kill me?"
He didn't speak. His muscles were too tense for such an action. Jagged, he pulled the dagger away. Barkis regained his charming image and parted his lips.
"There would be no point," Barkis said, "You're already miserable. What would killing you solve?"
A small whimper came from her throat. Yet Barkis could have sworn she said, "Everything".
He left.
He couldn't do it. Why not this time? When he'd done it so many times before?
Perhaps he was unused to taking two lives in a day. Perhaps it was the rain.
Yes, one of those reasons. That had to be it.
Barkis closed the door behind him quieter than a thief, locking it with the key he kept in his breast pocket.
Victoria wouldn't run. She had nowhere to run to. Her parents wouldn't welcome her back wherever they'd gone. He knew their type. So ready to rush in. They barely even knew him. Yet they trusted him immediately to take care of their daughter. Desperate was the better term for their type. Desperate, foolish aristocrats.
Barkis leaned an ear against their adjoining wall. To check on his wife. It was for her own safety, of course. From what he could tell, she was still in there. And alive.
He could see her eyes looking back at him in their window reflection. Terrified. Relieved. Darting about. Focused. Determined. Wide.
Beautiful, Barkis realized. In soul and in her features. In her eyes. Beautiful in such an alluring way. With her red lips quivering after the death of her lover. Barkis wouldn't mind kissing those lips. Not at all. While wooing and romancing all the other girls had been quite a task, he would be completely willing to do the same to Victoria. With all her beauty and elegance and grace.
He waited until he was positive she was asleep. Barkis slid off his coat and jacket, tossing them on the chair at his desk. His cravat went off next and he unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt. The supplied valet knocked on his door as Barkis slid his shoes off. He declined his service. Barkis waited until he was certain the valet was gone before leaving his room to enter his wife's.
Curled into a ball at one end of her bed, Victoria appeared littler than before; leaving Barkis to wonder if this was how she always slept, or if tonight was a rare occasion. He climbed on top of the covers. Placing his hand on her thin arm. He could easily wrap his fingers around her soft flesh.
Barkis rested his chin along her cheekbone and traced a finger along it. A delightful shiver ran through him.
"You will have everything, my dear," he whispered, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Her neck was slender and long. Barkis placed his other hand on it, gently, of course. He wouldn't want to wake his little wife. Barkis could grab her neck and squeeze. Tighter and tighter. Until little coughs left her throat as she barely managed to breathe.
No. No. This was his wife. He was her husband. He wouldn't dare do a thing like that. Barkis couldn't kill her.
Not now. Not later. Not in an eternity.
She needed him. There was nowhere for her to turn. Except to him. He would have her.
"I didn't mean it, my dear. I didn't mean to bring the knife to your throat. It just happened."
Barkis needed an heir, after all. He never had a wife last long enough to provide him with one. In fact, none of his wives or fiancees or whatever lasted this long before. This meant something. Barkis didn't believe in fate. Such things were for the weak-minded, but Victoria's being alive meant something.
Was this love? Barkis supposed it could be considered it. He never loved before. He heard it was a delight, but it appeared to be too much trouble. More than it was worth. As for how Victoria sobbed over that Van Dort's body for ages.
It was good the Van Dort was already dead. Otherwise, Barkis would have torn him to shreds for keeping his wife from him. Cruel of the Van Dort boy to even try.
Foolish of him to try.
Barkis never had a wedding night before. With Victoria being asleep, he wouldn't get much out of it, but it was still a wedding night. Their first and only.
He pressed kisses along her cheekbone. The way he used to with Emily. Though Victoria wasn't giggling and blushing with glee. Even in sleep, she tensed under his lips.
Barkis ignored her motion; instead, he struggled to throw the covers on himself. Once comfortable, he positioned his hand back on her arm. Almost as a warning to her she wasn't getting away. A warning out of his love for her. His passion. She should be grateful. She would be once she woke up. Barkis would make sure of it. He put his lips next to her ear with a smirk.
"Sweet dreams, my little wife."
I had these idea for a little while and just rediscovered this story. I'd forgotten about it until now, so I touched it up a little bit. Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!