Disclaimer: I do not own V for Vendetta. I will never own V for Vendetta and while I have come to terms with that fact, I still find it deeply depressing.
Shma. Chapter four. All of a sudden I'm absolutely addicted to this story again. I wasn't even this into it when I originally started writing it. I blame it on you all. Thanks. I luff.
Evey pulled Varten through the streets until they came to an entrance from the old Underground. Here she stopped so suddenly that Varten almost ran into her and ended up tripping and falling trying to avoid it. Her shoulder's were slightly slumped and her head bent. She stood that way for a few moments before turning to face him. The glint in her eyes was still there, but a shine of unshed tears rested there also.
'Listen to me, boy," her voice was gruff, "I'm about to take you somewhere the likes of which you have never seen. This place is important to me and it is important to him. If things do not go as I have planned tonight, you must never reveal these whereabouts. Neither must you show any inch of disrespect while you are here. This place is sacred and I will die to maintain it just as he left it." Without another word, she pulled him into complete darkness.
What seemed like an eternity later, Varten heard metal on metal as a key was slid into a lock and the falling of tumblers. The door swung open and a soft glow semi-penetrated the darkness. Evey grabbed his hand again and dragged him through the door into a softly lit hall. After the door was locked and closed she led him into a glorious room. Old artwork hung from the walls and artifacts and books were spread on shelves throughout the room. Through one door he could see a grand piano, through another a sofa and television and through another a kitchen. This was the door she went through.
"There was more, once. Many, many years ago. These are only his favorites. When I die, the museums will get them, I'm sure. But for now," a sad sigh, "I can't bear to part with them." Varten followed her into the kitchen as she put tea on. He eyed the aprons hanging from the hook in the corner. She looked up at him and her eyes were sad. "He wears them every time he cooks. He loves to cook. Please, go into the other room and make yourself comfortable. I'm afraid you have a bit of a night ahead of you."
Varten nodded and followed her suggestion. He eyed the books all around him. Fairytales, poetry, plays, novels, biographies and he even thought he saw some religious texts. As he looked at them all, Evey returned with tea and scotch.
"He loves to read, too. He always quotes from books. Sometimes I wonder if it isn't his second mask. He plays piano, when he's home, or listens to the jukebox. His favorite movie is The Count of Monte Cristo and he fences during the fighting scenes. He's always Edmond Dantes. He knows every line by heart." Varten cocked his head at her.
"You speak of him as if he's alive, but he's not." Evey smiled sadly.
"That, Varten, is where you're wrong. He's very much alive. He's alive in England's heart and history, he's alive in these paintings and sculptures, these walls, the piano and the suit of armor. He's alive in me and that mask," she waves vaguely toward a dented and scarred Guy Fawkes mask in a shadow box by the wall, "And, my son, he's alive in you." Varten's eyes widened and she smiled. "That, my dear, is where we will begin."
Sorry. It's short again. It'll be longer next time, I swear.