Thanks to a good-natured death threat from Charlie, I realized that this story is in fact still up. Thank you Charlie!
Before I do the obligatory disclaimer, I would like to bring everyone's attention to the fact that a good healthy number of KarinxNicolai fics had magically sprung up in the Shadow Hearts category. To all the authors responsible for this proliferation, I raise my glass in honor, for we shall fight to the death for the future of the KxN fandom!
Right. Now that that's over with, please keep in mind that I have no beta, and grammatical mistakes are simply facts of life. Do feel free to point them out to me and/or mock them. Not too harshly though. I also don't own Nautilus.
There were no torches to light the room beyond the unadorned door, and Karin's hair stood on end as her lantern turned the smallest objects into looming masses, shedding silhouettes over the black walls and casting a dull pinpoint of a reflection on the dirtied gold frame of a painting on the opposite wall.
The smell of old books assaulted her nose, and instead of holding her breath she inhaled deeply, trying to search out the muted memory from a kaleidoscope of others. She found Nicolai nestled comfortably in the musty collections of the Vatican, and was pleased to find that she remembered him charmingly asleep against an old bookshelf, surrounded by yellowing parchment and bound manuscripts and jolting humorously awake as she walked in to tell him that she had rested and was ready to make the trip to Apoina Tower.
'Tired?' she'd asked jokingly, and he'd replied with a smile more feeble than usual that it was not important, and that he was only feeling a bit unprepared.
Karin remembered that as the moment she'd seen a fraction of the obsessive, rage-filled man Nicolai could be, for where they had previously been filled with warmth and humor, his half-closed eyes had been frighteningly hard and decisive. That day, the kindness that Karin had grown to love had been laced with hostility, and although she had hoped with all her heart that it would leave him, that inward edge had remained in his eyes until the day he died.
To think – she had thought so confidently that she could be the one to save him from that bitterness.
She could tell that although her lantern made the room intense and forbidding, it had once been comfortable, for covered brackets lined the walls and a small unlit chandelier hung from the ceiling, meaning that illumination would not have been an issue… unlike temperature control, of which there seemed to be no trace. Consequently, the room was so frigid that Karin felt gooseflesh already rising on her skin, even through her traveler's cloak.
She moved through the ambient darkness along a bookshelf at one side of the room, one of two that flanked a marbled sepia table and some very expensive-looking chairs, and ran her finger along the dusty spines of volumes, among which she recognized the names of ancient scholars of Latin and Russian literature.
The breath caught in her throat as her finger paused on the last spine in the third shelf – Das Narrenschiff, Brandt's satire… the book she had professed to Nicolai as her favorite of all political writings, and the only German title on the shelf.
Quickly she went on to the end of the room, where a mahogany desk stood simple and unembellished, and set her lamp down inside its raised corner, positioning it to let it illuminate as much of the small room as possible. With only the soft popping noises of the melting candle inside it as company, she seated herself gently in the stiff cushion and extended her arms onto the wooden surface, tracing the glossy swirled knots with her fingers and running her hands over the flat plane to brush away the layers of dust.
She examined the two objects that occupied the desk other than her flickering lantern: a silver fountain pen lying discarded by a dry inkwell. Of the two she took the pen and held it with both hands for a moment, staring keenly at the dull sheen on its chrome body and trying to unlock its mysteries with an intent gaze. What if Nicolai had handled this very pen in the past? It was certainly austere and elegantly simple enough to be a possession of his.
With an uncomfortable lurch of the stomach, Karin realized that there was no writing with a pen unless one had paper on which to write, and putting aside the pen she moved the chair back in order to search feverishly down the drawers of the desk, checking downwards in the left column and growing more anxious with each one that came out empty. The second housed a few quill pens and spare inkwells, and the third bore a thin stack of unused parchment, but she reached the bottom with no luck.
Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs – God, what would she do if this were all? What would she do if these small mementos that might not even be his were all that remained of the man she loved… yes, loved; she was through with denying what she knew was the truth.
She felt the racing pulse in her veins stop for a stomach-turning moment – the third drawer on the right side was caught, and would not open when she pulled.
Durandal came to some good use after all – Karin unsheathed it and, after offering an apology to her grandfather for using his sword for such a thieving and inglorious act, drove it downwards through the curved lock of the offending drawer and heard it snap as the broken metal dragged a splintering gash through the wood. After she rested it tentatively against the desk, she faltered as she reached down towards the handle. She didn't want to think about how it might dishearten her if her troubles had been for nothing, and desperately she hoped that there would be something of value in the drawer.
It came open with a single tug, and she held her breath – in one corner lay a small book, black and leather-bound. As if it were a precious relic, she lifted it gingerly onto the desk and watched it for a moment, scanning the obsidian cover for identifying marks but finding nothing to fill its unnerving blankness. Reminding herself not to become to hopeful, she put her fingers resolutely below the front cover, hooking a few pages as she flipped open the book.
It was not a mass of empty pages as she had feared. Far from it, in fact, for on its pages covered in black ink were blocks and blocks of writing, all in a beautiful scrawling calligraphy that looped over itself with a certain careless dignity that could belong to one person only.
He came back to her in a flood of memories - she felt the warm fabric of his coat against her cheek as she rested on his shoulder, felt the heartrending joy rise in her chest at the memory of his comically snarky temper, heard his rich choir voice in her ears as it sent pleasurable quivers down her spine… the image of his quietly smiling face and his jeweled emerald eyes blurred in her mind as tears burned her eyes, and covering her mouth to mask the tiny sobs, she sank further into the chair.
Dated the fourteenth of December, 1914My recent acquisition of the Émigré Manuscript has been nothing short of a miracle – I did not have to combat Hyuga and his mob to the death as I'd expected. Even with that unwieldy ignoramus Curtis and that distasteful strumpet Vera on my side I don't relish the idea of facing that particular band of misfits.
However, I am, on select occasions, a man of my word, and I am troubled that I was not able to give the Godslayer a fair trade (Bacon for the Manuscript, as I had promised him of course). It does pain me sometimes how closely I must follow in Grigori's shadow, and how I must be so careful to maintain my position as his faithful lapdog… but it will remain as such until Hyuga strikes the finishing blow against that twit of a monk, I suppose.
I shall begin translating the Manuscript tomorrow. It has a rather awkward shape to it – I suppose its author must have thought it monumentally clever and morbid to produce a volume shaped like a skull – but other than that, my studies should continue unimpeded. Depending on whether or not Curtis decides to leave me alone, of course.
In retrospect, perhaps it would have been better to attack Hyuga with the three of us rather than waiting for them to catch us off guard. Which is not to say, of course, that I expect them to escape, but one must be prepared for any situation. I do, however, hope Vera does not have too much of that perversion she calls 'fun'. It's one thing if she chooses one of the men – I wouldn't mind seeing some of Hyuga's self-righteous idiocy beaten out of him – but hearing the lieutenant's screams throughout the night may be more nerve-wracking an experience than I care to articulate.
God in Heaven. How mad must His Holiness have been when he offered me this cursed responsibility? Or, more accurately, I for accepting it?
Dated the sixteenth of December, 1914
To translate the Émigré will be much more of a challenge than I'd anticipated – the dialect employed within its pages has proven to be a strange combination of vulgar Latin and a myriad of Arabic scripts, interspersed with some characters I believe I have never seen before. I am well familiar with the former language, but the latter will require some work beyond my rudimentary knowledge.
To understand and to harness the full power of the Manuscript would require a vast magical knowledge much greater than my own. In truth, I don't know how Kato plans to decipher the texts – more likely he will find my talents useful, since I have some grasp of the language, and honestly, I am the only one with that knowledge who would deign to helping him. I suppose that is to be my bargaining chip for now, for without a clean translation, all of his research and scientific progress will be worth nothing. He will need me; I am sure of it… after all, my rise to Cardinal was no mere stroke of luck.
Come to think of it, I clearly remember Karin querying me about that very subject. She wanted to know how it was that at a mere twenty-seven years of age I had already risen to such a revered rank… I do recall a distinctly skeptical tone in her voice, but then, I too would be suspicious of the acts one might have performed to attain such a position. Of course, when I explained to her that I had simply demonstrated a comprehensive grasp on both languages and the deviously militant ways of the Church, she was less impressed than merely curious. Perhaps I am right in thinking I left less of an impression than she did during those months we spent together.
Ah, Karin – an Amazon among strong women – you would never believe me if I told you… if I do perish by the hands of Hyuga, or indeed, by her hands themselves, let it be known to her that I seek her forgiveness. For what, I do not know – for lying to her, for betraying her when she had grown to trust me, for striking her that day in Domremy…
I do know this much: she cares greatly for the Godslayer. I find to my chagrin that if being with him would make her happy, I would rather her not be happy, and that if fighting at my side would make her miserable, I would not mind that… I know it is wrong, and I am selfish for saying so, but it is a curious sentiment and I am unsure of my ability to express it correctly on paper. Perhaps if I meet her again I will try to tell her in more coherent terms.
There must be so many ways in which I am deserving of her scorn – one reason simple enough is that I oppose the man she adores. He and I will forever be enemies, on opposite ends of the battlefield, each fighting for what he believes is right, and that is one thing I could not make up to her if I tried.
Nevertheless… it is a terrible thing, to be hated by the woman one knows in his heart that he loves.
Able to endure no more, Karin's tensed fingers stiffly nudged the pen into place in the crease of the book, and closed the cover as if it might crumble and dissolve in her grasp. She tried her best to stop her lungs from collapsing, but collapse they did, and her pitiful efforts were swallowed in a wave of gasps and sobs as she hunched her back and put her face in her hands, willing herself to be composed in the face of grief.
Her mind was blank and raced from nothing to nothing, but beneath it all she felt miserable, and so she cried bitterly after all, convulsing as blackness swirled through her head and realizing too late that spots were bursting in her vision and that she needed oxygen. Her head came closer to the desk, and gasping she tried to give herself air, but the reflexes kept shaking her body, twisting her face and clenching her eyes shut. The cool leather of the book brushed her face, and she let her neck rest, feeling pressure building behind her eyes as she gave in and let the constant sobs heave her chest violently.
In that moment, as exhaustion overtook her, her life became complete and empty at the same time. The very words of a man dear to her lay before her, so close she could run her fingers along the ink and see Nicolai bright as day, sitting in this very chair in this very office writing them… but at the same time it was far out of reach, and although she clutched desperately at the sides of the desk, she could not feel his skin under her fingers. His memory did not give his flesh substance, and the biting coldness of the small room devoid of human presence convinced her even more of the terrible certainty of death.
These were no longer notes… these were mementos. Records of a man lost to the ravages of war and human jealousy, whose powerful voice would never again be heard outside of the confines of Karin's own mind, and of whom these writings could be all that was left.
Splashes of tears still dripped from her eyelashes when the consciousness finally left her.
Not the end.
It's been a while since I played, so excuse minor factual errors. Hence, the Manuscript can be half Arabic if I want it to be.
(ARGH! I HATE LINE BREAKS! I HATE THEM!)