Chapter Four: Awaken

In the dark and ancient times

There were no reasons and no rhymes

Carl arrived at his sister's home late that evening, secretly hoping she'd gone to bed. But no, his sister herself opened the door, uttered a matronly noise of apparent delight, and dragged him inside.

"Of course you must hear all the latest news," she said over her shoulder as she sailed in front of him like a ship at full mast, leading the way to the drawing room. "Here, sit here and I'll tell you about everyone! Lady Blakeney, you remember her, she was to be re-married this past month, only—"

"Hannah," Carl interrupted, "is there any possibility we could do this over breakfast? I'm very tired. I've been traveling for several days, you know."

His sister stopped still and looked at him in surprise. He didn't blame her. Certainly he'd never dared interrupt her in the old days.

He managed to give her a very weak smile.

"Alright," she said slowly. "If you don't feel like it—"

"I don't," he assured her.

"Well— you know where your room is." Without waiting for him to follow she picked up her skirts and swept from the room. Carl could practically hear her thinking—

Didn't expect that becoming a man of the cloth would cause the little runt to grow a backbone!

Carl smiled to himself. She had probably blocked out some of the more embarrasssing memories of their childhood, all the pranks he'd played on her. After all, when he'd left he'd been just eight years old. That was nearly thirty years ago. The thought sobered him, and he grew resentful of the fact that after all this time, his sister didn't ask him a thing about himself, had instead gone directly to gossiping of people he knew nothing about. Obviously she hadn't changed much from twelve to forty. Carl reflected bitterly on this as he trudged up the stairs to his childhood bedroom, accompanied only by his knapsack, and as he undressed, inside with the door closed, alone in the dark.

Everyone in the cavern under the Vatican, except for perhaps Cardinal Jarrett, slept in the alltogether. As a matter of fact, one of Carl's first ideas upon arriving there had been to cut the costs of clothing entirely and just make the place a very holy nudist colony. He thought about this as he lay shivering under the blanket, also taking into consideration his maiden sister and the numerous female maids she would undoubtedly employ. After a few minute thinking all this out to its logical conclusion he got up and hunted through his pack till he located one of the extra-long undershirts he'd brought with him. It wasn't that he was overly modest, but he had no desire to perish of embarrassment.

Enough light came through the window to enable him to study himself in the mirror, and he did so. Not a tall man, he was almost exceptionally thin, and his shoulders hunched a bit, like they'd given up and caved in from some terrible pressure. He noticed this at once through the thin undershirt and straightened up. A respectable five foot ten, he thought. Not at all bad.

His reddish blond hair was mussed from the day's travel— but, he thought as he fiddled with it, it probably looked like that all the time. His ears stuck out a bit. His face— well—

He decided to go to bed.

Halfway asleep, the thought that hadn't been far from his mind that evening finally articulated itself into words.

"She called me handsome," he murmured to himself in the dim room, and his lips curved in a smile.

B.r.e.a.k.

He dreamed.

They stood together under the tree where they'd carved their initials a few years ago. Their country houses were visible in the distance. Her face was pale and her eyes large, the color of gold in the sunlight.

"I'll never forget you," he stammered.

"I know," she replied, and moved forward till her hands were placed flat, palms down on his chest. "I've made sure of that."

She shoved.

They fell to the ground together, laughing at each other. He made no move to get up and she sat on his chest, her hands making their way to his face, caressing his features. She leaned over him and he felt her hands move to his neck— then she kissed him and all else was forgotten.

He felt her grip tighten around his throat. Her hands pressed down, and in, and felt strong as bands of steel, till he could no longer breathe. He had no breath and no will to protest. He died there, the face of the one he loved best watching over him like a guardian angel, and with his last strength his lips formed a name.

"Tamerlaine..."

I've never written a romance fic before (apart from slightly, in my novels) but I'm beginning to think this is what it would read like if I did. It's easy, with Carl ('cause Dwenham is hot!) And trust me, Tamerlaine is very pretty. Thanks to the (da-da-da-da!) TWO people who reviewed! HobbitLass and Tracebo, thanks forever! I'm wishin' for encouragement, 'cause I'm not as good at straight fiction as comedy (see "Van Helsing and the Village People" and compare) but this is more challenging to me as a writer (comedy is more enjoyable, though.) And yeah, right now it is Carl-centric, but VH shows up later on, 'cause, y'know, don't want to be accused of favoritism or anything like that....:) (Carl rocks, btw)Anyway, didn't mean to talk your ear off!