Chapter 16:
A Cold and Broken Hallelujah
The night air was cool and damp when Renee and Constance arrived back at Baile Saoirse. Neither had said much on the trip back to Galway, and answered the men's anxious questions with only short responses. Andrew and Thomas expressed their sympathies to Constance, but, in the end, the four fell silent, and sleep was the only respite from the heavy mood.
Morning did not improve the atmosphere of the castle. Rain pummelled the ancient stones, and the grey light gave the world an expression of grief. Renee sat in the room where they slept, watching the rain bounce off the window sill. She was wrapped in a blanket, but the chill still penetrated to her bones. She could hear Constance and Andrew in the kitchen, although the exact words she could not make out. Thomas had gone to check the generator.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, but the added warmth only served to remind her of another time, when she had found warmth in him. She tried to forget him, everything about him, but anything she did, any move she made reminded her of him. It was the memories, not the cold, that made her shudder. But even worse was the memory of his death. At her hands.
She clasped her hands together to stop their shaking, but even that reminded her of the alley.
Frustrated, she threw the blanket aside and climbed the tower to the open roof. The rain hit her like tiny needles piercing her skin, but she soaked up the feeling as something in the present, forcing her away from her memories. In the rain, she could pretend she was not crying.
Her mind replayed his death. She remembered the surge of adrenaline, the hatred that pulsed through her, the betrayal. She could not remember deciding to kill him, only that it was the obvious thing to do at the time. She stared down at her hands. They should have been covered in blood, not rainwater.
She had considered the possibility that she would have to kill. Intellectually, she had known that she would have to face that possibility. But somehow, it had seemed distant then, like something on the flicks. She had never realized what her rebellion had meant.
Standing in the middle of the roof, she lifted her face to the sky. The raindrops stung her face, just another reminder that she was alive, and Michael was not because of her.
The guilt was overwhelming. All she could remember was the sight of his body, the smell of his blood.
Almost blind with tears and rain, she stumbled to the wall that surrounded the roof. Her stomach tightened as she placed her hands on the wall and looked out over the Connemara.
"I won't look down," she repeated to herself softly.
She leaned over the wall and shut her eyes, but as she tried to lift her foot to climb onto the wall, her foot slipped on the wet stone, and she fell with her stomach on the wall. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw the drop to the ground. Her pulse jumped sky high, and her stomach clenched tighter than a fist. She spent a terrible moment, staring down at the ground, then pushed herself back onto the roof and away from the wall. She collapsed with her back against the wall, breathing heavily.
She stayed there for a while, her head in her hands, until Thomas ran up the stairs calling her name.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked. Then he got a good look at her. "You're soaked."
"Aye," she said hollowly.
He knelt before her.
"What is it?" he asked.
She said nothing.
"Is it Constance's parents?"
She shook her head.
"Did something happen in Dublin?"
She nodded.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She hesitated. He reached out and took her hand.
"You can trust me," he said.
So she told him. She told him everything, her conflicting feelings of hate and desire, her guilt over his death, even her half-hearted urge to throw herself off the roof. He listened quietly, allowing her to let everything out. When she finished, he put his arms around her, and let her cry onto his shoulder. They stayed there for a while, the rain soaking their clothes so much that they eventually stopped noticing. When she had finally stopped crying, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her down into the tower.
They changed their clothes, then Thomas wrapped Renee in a dry blanket and made her a cup of tea. She looked up at him as he handed her the mug.
"Would you..." She hesitated. "Could you not tell the others about this?"
He took a deep breath.
"Are you ever going to tell them?" he asked.
Renee thought for a long moment.
"Yes. Eventually. But not now," she said.
Thomas nodded.
"Then I won't. I promise you."
Renee gave him a small smile.
"Thank you."
Thomas smiled and embraced her, then headed down to the kitchen, leaving Renee alone with her thoughts once more.
Author's Note: I'm extremely sorry for the long wait, but life stuff seems to keep getting in the way. Rest assured that I will finish this story eventually. It's all locked safe in my head. The chapter title is taken from Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Here are the two verses that really made me write this chapter: Maybe I've been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. I've seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march; It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah. ... Maybe there's a God above, And all I ever learned from love Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. And it's not a cry you can hear at night, It's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Disclaimer: Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan. Nineteen Eighty-four is by George Orwell. Hallelujah is by Leonard Cohen.
The night air was cool and damp when Renee and Constance arrived back at Baile Saoirse. Neither had said much on the trip back to Galway, and answered the men's anxious questions with only short responses. Andrew and Thomas expressed their sympathies to Constance, but, in the end, the four fell silent, and sleep was the only respite from the heavy mood.
Morning did not improve the atmosphere of the castle. Rain pummelled the ancient stones, and the grey light gave the world an expression of grief. Renee sat in the room where they slept, watching the rain bounce off the window sill. She was wrapped in a blanket, but the chill still penetrated to her bones. She could hear Constance and Andrew in the kitchen, although the exact words she could not make out. Thomas had gone to check the generator.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, but the added warmth only served to remind her of another time, when she had found warmth in him. She tried to forget him, everything about him, but anything she did, any move she made reminded her of him. It was the memories, not the cold, that made her shudder. But even worse was the memory of his death. At her hands.
She clasped her hands together to stop their shaking, but even that reminded her of the alley.
Frustrated, she threw the blanket aside and climbed the tower to the open roof. The rain hit her like tiny needles piercing her skin, but she soaked up the feeling as something in the present, forcing her away from her memories. In the rain, she could pretend she was not crying.
Her mind replayed his death. She remembered the surge of adrenaline, the hatred that pulsed through her, the betrayal. She could not remember deciding to kill him, only that it was the obvious thing to do at the time. She stared down at her hands. They should have been covered in blood, not rainwater.
She had considered the possibility that she would have to kill. Intellectually, she had known that she would have to face that possibility. But somehow, it had seemed distant then, like something on the flicks. She had never realized what her rebellion had meant.
Standing in the middle of the roof, she lifted her face to the sky. The raindrops stung her face, just another reminder that she was alive, and Michael was not because of her.
The guilt was overwhelming. All she could remember was the sight of his body, the smell of his blood.
Almost blind with tears and rain, she stumbled to the wall that surrounded the roof. Her stomach tightened as she placed her hands on the wall and looked out over the Connemara.
"I won't look down," she repeated to herself softly.
She leaned over the wall and shut her eyes, but as she tried to lift her foot to climb onto the wall, her foot slipped on the wet stone, and she fell with her stomach on the wall. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw the drop to the ground. Her pulse jumped sky high, and her stomach clenched tighter than a fist. She spent a terrible moment, staring down at the ground, then pushed herself back onto the roof and away from the wall. She collapsed with her back against the wall, breathing heavily.
She stayed there for a while, her head in her hands, until Thomas ran up the stairs calling her name.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked. Then he got a good look at her. "You're soaked."
"Aye," she said hollowly.
He knelt before her.
"What is it?" he asked.
She said nothing.
"Is it Constance's parents?"
She shook her head.
"Did something happen in Dublin?"
She nodded.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She hesitated. He reached out and took her hand.
"You can trust me," he said.
So she told him. She told him everything, her conflicting feelings of hate and desire, her guilt over his death, even her half-hearted urge to throw herself off the roof. He listened quietly, allowing her to let everything out. When she finished, he put his arms around her, and let her cry onto his shoulder. They stayed there for a while, the rain soaking their clothes so much that they eventually stopped noticing. When she had finally stopped crying, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her down into the tower.
They changed their clothes, then Thomas wrapped Renee in a dry blanket and made her a cup of tea. She looked up at him as he handed her the mug.
"Would you..." She hesitated. "Could you not tell the others about this?"
He took a deep breath.
"Are you ever going to tell them?" he asked.
Renee thought for a long moment.
"Yes. Eventually. But not now," she said.
Thomas nodded.
"Then I won't. I promise you."
Renee gave him a small smile.
"Thank you."
Thomas smiled and embraced her, then headed down to the kitchen, leaving Renee alone with her thoughts once more.
Author's Note: I'm extremely sorry for the long wait, but life stuff seems to keep getting in the way. Rest assured that I will finish this story eventually. It's all locked safe in my head. The chapter title is taken from Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Here are the two verses that really made me write this chapter: Maybe I've been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. I've seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march; It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah. ... Maybe there's a God above, And all I ever learned from love Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. And it's not a cry you can hear at night, It's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold, and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Disclaimer: Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan. Nineteen Eighty-four is by George Orwell. Hallelujah is by Leonard Cohen.