Chapter Ten: A Light in the Darkness
The former prisoner was beginning to feel desperate. He'd been wandering around for a day and a half with no idea where to go or who it would be safe to approach. If he approached the wrong person, after all, he could end up back in the hands of those who wished him harm, he couldn't afford to lose sight of that fact. On the other hand, he couldn't wander forever hiding from everyone he came across. He'd managed to get some water from a well on a small farm, but he hadn't had food in a couple of days, at least. If he didn't get some help soon he knew he wouldn't be able to survive much longer in his already weakened condition.
In the late afternoon, he came to the outskirts of a small town. As he debated his situation yet again, he finally decided that he was going to have to take a chance and actually talk to someone. His only other alternative seemed to be to lay down and die. Something he'd tried very hard to avoid for a long time now.
As he walked down the quiet main street of the town, trying to ignore the curious and disapproving stares of those he passed, he came to a small gift shop in the front of a clapboard house. There was a hand-lettered sign in the window that said: HELP WANTED. That was promising. Although the way he looked at the moment certainly wouldn't work in his favor. If he approached the shopkeeper in his current condition, he'd probably be taken for a vagrant and immediately be thrown out without being given a chance to plead his case. Still, if he didn't try, he couldn't survive. So with nothing left to lose, he opened the door and entered the shop.
Crowded didn't begin to describe the place he stepped into. The shop was full to bursting with small figurines, books, cards, and culch of all sorts. Tables were placed end to end filling the whole room with masses of widely varying merchandise. The aisles between the tables were so narrow that anyone of any girth at all would be hard pressed to navigate them safely. As he stared at the dizzying array of stuff he wondered how anyone could ever hope to actually find anything of value in all the clutter. The phrase looking for a needle in a haystack came to mind unbidden, from where he hadn't a clue, but the analogy seemed apt.
Then there were the paintings. The walls were absolutely covered with paintings of every conceivable size and subject. In places it was actually difficult to tell if the wall continued to exist or if the paintings were being held up by magic…how absurd. The sheer busyness of the shop made his stomach lurch painfully. How could anyone spend time in such claustrophobic disorder? His first inclination was to turn right around and run back outside as fast as he could, but he stopped in time, giving himself a stern lecture on the need to survive and his lack of other options at the moment.
A short spry elderly woman with iron-gray hair and sharp sparkling brown eyes sat on a padded stool behind the counter looking very bored. She glanced up warily as he approached her. Her expression was very hard to read. He knew he must look a horrid sight with his long matted hair and beard, not to mention the ill-fitting clothing that looked, quite accurately, as if he'd been sleeping in the open in them for some time.
Still…nothing ventured, nothing gained, and he needed to gain something rather soon or all he'd gone through in the recent past would be for naught. So taking himself firmly in hand, he walked boldly up to the lady behind the counter and attempted a smile, although he wasn't even sure that she could see it through the beard. "Good afternoon, Madam. I see by the sign in your window that you have a job opening. As I am in need of employment, I would like to apply."
The incongruity of that silky cultured voice that spouted those well-mannered comments coming from the mouth of one of the most disgusting tramps she'd seen in quite some time surprised the shopkeeper immensely. Her eyes narrowed in speculation, and she examined this strange vision much more closely. He looked about ready to collapse if the truth be told. Still there was something…appealing…about him. Some innate dignity and strength shown out of his rather beautiful dark eyes. As she gazed at those eyes the woman decided in an instant to give him a chance to explain himself rather than to simply throw him back out onto the sidewalk. His appearance, after all, was the most interesting thing to happen to her in hours, and she was tired of maintaining her lonely vigil behind the counter. Customers had been a bit thin on the ground today.
"Frankly, young man, you don't look like you've worked in some time. A good stiff breeze would likely blow you away! I need someone to lift and carry for me…to clean up and sort things out. Do you feel capable of a job like that?" She stared at him appraisingly.
He hesitated, but decided to be truthful…at least as truthful as seemed prudent. "To be honest, I don't know when I last held a job or what it might have been. I believe I was in some sort of…accident a while ago, and I've lost most of my memory. I'm in rather desperate need of some food and a place to rest, but I'm sure that I'm capable of handling the tasks you'd set for me. I really do need the job, and I'd work hard for you."
Intrigued in spite of herself, she sighed and inquired. "What's your name? Or don't you remember?"
His name? No…actually, he didn't remember. He rattled his empty brain a bit to see if anything would fall out. S…Sev…Stev…Steve…n. "Steven." He glanced around the room at all the paintings on the walls. "Yes…it's Steven…Steven Frame."
She nodded slowly as she shrewdly sized him up. No one had come along looking to take her up on her job offer in quite some time, and truthfully, she was getting rather desperate. She really needed the help. The physical labor necessary to keep the shop running was getting to be a bit too much for her now a days. Reluctantly she admitted that she wasn't as young as she used to be. A couple of strong arms attached to a strong back would help her out immensely. She just had her doubts if this Steven was strong enough to manage the work. He really looked awfully thin and tired.
Still if he didn't work out long term, perhaps she could get a bit of work out of him in the short term, and anything would be a help. It actually might be worth keeping him around for awhile simply to hear him speak. He really did have the loveliest voice, so deep and mesmerizing. It was a real pleasure to listen to him. Perhaps he'd be willing to read to her in the evenings. Her eyes weren't what they used to be either, and she did miss having a peek at her stories after supper. Wonder what Barbara Cartland or Victoria Holt would sound like coming from his mouth?
Making up her mind, she said. "Well, Steven, I'll give you a chance, if you promise to shave that brush off your face so I can get a good look at you."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'd be happy to, Madam, but I don't have a razor in my possession at the moment. In fact, I am currently in possession of nothing more than the clothes on my back."
Pleased to be able to solve that problem easily, she smiled up at him. "Don't worry, I can take care of that. I have some clothes that I think would fit you a darn sight better than what you're wearing, too. You look to be about the same build as my son, Robert, and he left some things here when he went into the service. I have a room over the barn out back that you can stay in. It's got everything you should need to clean yourself up a bit. The job is fetch and carry and whatever needs doing around here, and it pays 4 pounds 25 pence an hour, plus the room, and I'll feed you, too. Speaking of food…I think we should take care of that little detail first thing, don't you? Forgive my saying so, but you look ready to collapse at any moment, and I don't need any dead bodies in here. Bad for business."
Immensely relieved at the thought of getting some food and a place to stay for awhile, he nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Madam. I am indeed, extremely hungry and tired. It has been quite some time since I've had any food to eat."
Briskly she bustled out from behind the counter and began to shepherd him through a passageway at the back of the shop and into a warm cozy kitchen at the rear of the building. "You can drop the Madam, right now. I'm Mrs. Trevalleyn…Dorothy Trevalleyn, Steven. Now, let me get you something to eat, and then we'll get you cleaned up and see what you can do around here. Lord knows, I need the help."
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Steven opened the door to his new quarters and looked around the Spartan room. Two small windows opposite each other on the whitewashed walls kept the room from feeling too claustrophobic, but it was quite small and lightly furnished. There was a narrow bed in one corner. A small table with one chair occupied the center of the room under a naked lightbulb dangling from a cord, and a battered dresser stood against the wall by the door. A faded rag rug in varying shades of green provided the only color in the room. All in all, it was a lost and lonely looking place. "How fitting", he thought sarcastically.
Another door that sagged slightly on its hinges led to a small bathroom with a shower stall, a toilet, and a pedestal sink with a rectangular mirror over it. The linoleum on the floor was cracked and broken and the faded curtains hung limply from their rod. Yes, indeed, this was clearly the prime vacation spot of Cornwall, and depressingly, he knew he was lucky to have it.
He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. Oh well, it was better than being on his own in the bone-chilling cold. Two nights in the open in the middle of December were quite enough for him. Carelessly he tossed the pile of warm clothes that he held onto the bed and removed his cloak. There was a hook on the wall behind the door so he hung it there while he decided what to do next. Regaining some semblance of humanity seemed to be the first order of business. That meant removing all the "brush" on his face, as Mrs. Trevalleyn wanted.
So he walked into the small bathroom and took a good long look in the mirror. The face that looked back at him was a total stranger. The long matted black hair and the equally long wiry black beard, with just a hint of gray on one side, were both wild and unkempt. It was a wonder that Mrs. Trevalleyn had ever allowed him in the door. He certainly wouldn't have if he'd been an elderly woman living alone. His eyes looked like two pieces of burned coal and his thin face, what he could see of it anyway, was the color of milk. He found himself wondering if that was his usual color or if the lengthy imprisonment had simply leeched his skin of all pigment. Regardless, he looked a fright, so he'd better get to it.
The first thing he did was check the shelf over the sink for the razor and cream that Mrs. Trevalleyn told him would be there. Sure enough there they stood just waiting to be put to use. He removed the razor and replaced its current blade with one from the open package lying next to it. Then he put it down and began to unbutton the filthy shirt that was much too wide in the body and long in the arms. He walked back into the bedroom and tossed the shirt onto the chair then he returned to the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks.
With a horrified gesture, he moved the beard aside and took a long close look at his thin chest in the mirror. It was absolutely covered with an intricate pattern of scars, which extended down his arms and into the top of the pants he wore. By awkwardly twisting around he could determine that his back was equally scarred with narrow tracery interspersed with wider slashes in various hues of red and pink and white and purple depending on their age. My god! There wasn't an inch of unscarred flesh to be seen anywhere on his body. You'd think he'd at least remember this having been done to him. This wasn't something that was done overnight. This was the work of days…or weeks…or… months. Just how long had he been a prisoner anyway?
A shiver coursed through him as he contemplated what he was seeing. He'd known he had some scarring, of course. His movements were often stiff and constricted by the scars on his back and shoulders, and some movements caused his skin to burn with irritation under his rough clothing. However, never did he dream that the damage was so extensive.
Then something else caught his eye…something equally horrifying. Fascinated and repelled at the same time he held up his left forearm and stared at the monstrous grayish black tattoo of a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. With a trembling hand, he ran his fingers delicately over the image and the skin felt hot and painful to the touch. What in hell was it? Hell, indeed, seemed like the appropriate word here. What kind of person was he to let someone put a thing like that onto his skin? Did he truly want to know the answer?
Feeling a bit dazed by these discoveries, he decided to shave off his beard and try to tackle his hair before contemplating any more unanswerable questions. He reached for the pair of scissors that also lay on the shelf over the sink and began to try to tame the hairy beast in the mirror.
Once he'd removed the beard and hacked off the hair to about shoulder length, he once more contemplated his reflection. Lank black hair, deep set black eyes, a large protruding nose set in a weary and painfully thin face. He was certainly no prize to look at, but at the very least he looked more human now. Still, there was nothing of familiarity in his reflection as he'd hoped there might be once he was finally able to get a good look. While he certainly didn't recognize himself, he wondered if anyone else would. Could he possibly walk down the street and be recognized as someone's long lost relative…or preferably their recently lost relative? Was there somewhere out there where he belonged? Someone he belonged to? No matter how long he stared at his reflection, no answers were forthcoming. With a snort of disgust he wondered why he ever thought there would be?
Turning away from the frustration of the mirror, he returned to the bedroom to strip off the rest of his clothes in preparation for taking the first shower he'd had in who knows how long and was appalled, but not particularly surprised, to find more of the thick and thin tracery of scar tissue on his lower torso and down his legs. There were even ugly scars along the sides of his penis, the build up of tissue constricting it slightly. He shuddered painfully as he thought about someone inflicting these injuries on him. Suddenly lack of memory didn't seem like such an unfortunate thing, after all.
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Author's Notes:
Lina Lupin: I'm glad to know that Minerva is now on the character list for fanfiction. My story about her isn't going very well, though. It's humor, and I'm finding that to be a lot harder to write than drama. Life hasn't seemed all that humorous lately, I guess. It could be awhile before it sees the light of day. Yes, Snape ends up fairly close to Evangeline's cottage, but it will still be a few more chapters before they cross paths.
SevyHero: Evangeline hasn't changed her mind. She'll never love anyone else the way that she loves Severus. However, she is trying to move forward with her life without him, and she's very lonely. As far as she knows, Severus is dead, and she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life alone, wishing for him. She cares about Remus a lot, and he loves her and is trying very hard to earn a more intimate place in her life. As long as Remus is willing to take what she can give him and not demand more…she's willing to try to be with him. That doesn't mean that she's stopped loving Severus, and she's very open about telling Remus that she doesn't love him the way he'd like her to.
Manic: It's not really Sirius' or Remus' fault that they didn't find Snape, but you're right…if Evangeline knew about it, she wouldn't be too pleased. I've been taking some short leaps forward in time, but from now on things move pretty much day to day through the rest of December. After the raid on the prison, Remus went straight to Evangeline's cottage for the Wolfsbane Potion, then on to the meeting with Dumbledore. I'm really pleased that you're reading and enjoying the story. I've really enjoyed your work.
Elbereth94: Sigh. I guess I've done my job too well. I wanted to make Remus/Evangeline believable…not preferable. Severus was not at all happy to hear this. :)
Sage and Snape: Yes, I'm sure in lots of ways, Dumbledore carries the "weight of the world" with him. He certainly does in the books. He feels horribly guilty over losing Snape and considering her current feelings, he couldn't bear to raise Evangeline's hopes only to have to hurt her again. So he kept his information to himself. One of the hardest things about being responsible is that you usually have no one to share the burdens with, which of course, makes them heavier.
Arwen2002: Please don't hate Remus. He has enough problems already.
Jezebel: As I tried to explain to an earlier reviewer, Evangeline hasn't forgotten Severus, but she's tired of being alone and in pain. He's been gone and presumed dead for more than a year now. Remus is offering her comfort and love with no strings attached. She needs to try to move forward, and Remus wants to be part of that, and although she still feels guilty about it, Evangeline has decided to let him.
Arachne's Child: Yes, Dumbledore definitely suffers the "loneliness of command". I'm glad you liked the scene. It was the hardest part of the chapter to write. Lupin is fairly used to dealing with poor hands in the card game of life, I imagine. Don't worry, he'll get some really spectacular ones before the truly killer ones show up.