Author's Note: So again, I know that this is a chapter you all will jump to conclusions about. I'm going to hope that I've proven myself to you with the previous chapters, and that you'll stick with me and know that there is a method to my madness. I can't tell you anything more without giving things away, but let me assure you that I abhor cliched writing. I'll say it one more time: this is not what you think it is. Please trust me.
Many thanks to the brilliant Rouen French, for editing help with this impossible chapter.
V.
A great war leaves the country with three armies - an army of cripples, an army of mourners, and an army of thieves. German Proverb
It was like diving headfirst into a tidal wave. Or so she imagined, for Evey had never had the pleasure of meeting such a wave. Hadn't even seen the ocean, as a matter of fact, except in movies and on television.
Her ears were immediately assaulted by the noise of the crowd, and somehow the muffling effect of the mask gave her the strange sensation of hearing it all under the water. A shout, and suddenly all eyes were turned on her, and she was struck once more by the infamy bought by the disguise that had once made V anonymous. A hundred hands reached out, all grappling at the cloak and she realized suddenly that she still had not hemmed the damn thing. A fist pounded on the forehead of the mask, and gold stars danced before Evey's eyes as the impact jarred her.
And then just as suddenly, in the midst of all the shouting and jostling and anger which surrounded her, Evey found the calm. It hit her like the dizziness after inhaling the nerve gas used to quiet protesters, and for just a moment, her eyes fluttered closed behind the mask.
She was standing on the rooftop again, V's cloak hovering just above her shoulders, but she didn't want it, didn't need it anymore. She was shucking it off like the protective instincts she'd wrapped herself in since her parents' deaths. She was standing with her hands outstretched, feeling the electric crackle of lightning in the air and drinking it in like one of V's books. There was no danger anymore.
When she opened her eyes again, Evey saw her path through the crowd. She saw the man who had started the riot, her target, still standing with his fist clenched around thin air. She stood still a moment longer, just long enough to see a woman moving up behind him with a rock of her own. Just long enough to see him fall unconscious.
Moving forward again, Evey felt that everything was different. Sharper, somehow. Clear. The people in her way were just pawns, like the ones she'd become accustomed to knocking down on V's chessboard night after night as he endeavored to teach her. Her hand came to rest on one of the daggers in her belt, then another. Still running, she pulled them both out and held them crossed in front of her, using them like a rudder to steer herself through the now-parting mob. If she had to use the knives, it would not be to murder outright. Whatever move she made now would simply bring her closer to her goal. With her newfound sight, Evey saw in absolutes. Good and bad, innocent and guilty. It didn't matter. If they were in her way now, they must be connected to the evil that was the reassertion of Norsefire.
By the time she'd made it to the place where the man had fallen, there was blood smeared on her leather gloves, but Evey hardly noticed. Having seen her march of terror thus far, the people scattered as she knelt beside the body. There was blood matted into the back of his dark hair, but it was obvious from the way his chest was heaving that the man was far from dead. Good.
She took her time as she looked back up, her movements deliberately authoritative. She lingered a long moment, her eyes searching the crowd for what she needed behind the protection of the mask. When she'd found it, she paused a moment more to consider her options. She knew she'd be given away the moment she spoke, but she doubted it would really matter at this point. The people had seen what she was capable of; she was still holding the two daggers in her hands now, though they were far from gleaming silver anymore.
"You," said Evey, pointing at a rather large man who was standing on the edge of the crowd. His face was riddled with piercings and tattoos, clearly meant to threaten. "Come here."
There was a pregnant pause during which they sized each other up. She could tell he was contemplating whether to run, but Evey knew she'd won the crowd over with her bravado. This whole mess had been started by a man in a mask, after all. Now they were all out for blood, regardless of whose it was. They weren't about to let the thug she had her eye on go without a show.
Defiantly, the man hulked forward, towering over Evey as she continued to kneel beside the body of her new captive. She moved quickly, before he'd even come to a standstill, up on her toes behind him and crossing her daggers in front of his throat.
"Carry this man. Try anything funny and you'll have a fresh bit of metal in your skin." She held her breath for a moment, wondering if she would really kill the thug should he disobey. It was a strange sensation, really, ordering someone about who was so much bigger than she was.
Silently, the thug knelt down and draped the fallen man over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He straightened, grunting slightly under the weight and gave Evey a look that grudgingly asked for further direction.
"That way," said Evey, cocking her head. She waited for the man to start walking, then took up a couple of steps behind him, the daggers poised and ready. But she quickly found they weren't necessary; the mob had suddenly quieted, parting around them with a strange reverence.
Directing her strange entourage through twisting and turning back alleys in an effort to ensure their loss of bearing, Evey silently thanked god that none of the people from the crowd had followed. The last thing she needed was to compromise her own hiding place by trying to do a good deed. She wasn't sure why she'd become so intent on saving this man, and yet somehow she knew that she had to do it. The moment she'd seen him, standing alone in the crowd and daring to speak out though it was so blatantly ineffective, it had struck a chord in her. She ached with the need to do something, to prove herself. To give V a reason to come back again. Silently, she wondered why he hadn't attempted to contact her again in the week since his visit.
"Put him down here," said Evey, when they had come within a block of the entrance to the lift and she was certain nobody was watching them.
"Here? In the street?" The thug looked confused, but complied.
"Thank you," said Evey coolly. "And now, I am really very sorry for this. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.1"
"What?" The man looked momentarily panicked, but Evey didn't give him time to act. With a flick of her wrist, she turned one of the daggers in her gloved fingers and clocked him soundly with the blunt end of it. He fell to the pavement with a heavy wet sound.
The first thing she noticed was the gloves. She'd managed to drag the man into the lift and onto the Shadow Gallery's leather couch, silently praying that her clumsy treatment wouldn't further exacerbate his wounds. Now, assessing the damage to his body, her eye was caught by the place where the sleeves of his plain white shirt vanished beneath brown leather. It wasn't so strange to wear gloves anymore; many people had taken to protecting their hands since the new outbreak of St. Mary's. But still, every time she saw the garments, they brought a pang to her heart.
There is only the illusion of coincidence.
Little else about the man was remarkable, though he was slightly exotic-looking—dark hair, heavy brows, long lashes—but there was an intensity about him that drew her eyes to his face even as he lay unconscious. Holding her breath, Evey brushed light fingers over his forehead, feeling the clamminess of his skin.
Biting her lip and giving in to the temptation that had been nagging at her for years now, Evey took hold of the cuff of one of the gloves, meaning to pull it off. As soon as her fingers brushed the skin underneath, the man's whole body tensed into consciousness and he made a sound deep in his throat, an unintelligible expression of emotion. Evey jumped back, terrified for nothing.
She didn't know how he could possibly have come around so quickly; perhaps the injury he'd sustained from the rock was not as great as she'd previously thought. He'd managed to sit up, though a little shakily, by the time Evey had collected herself to look at him again. Remembering something about head injuries she'd read in a book, Evey's eyes darted immediately to his, and what she saw there made her forget the words she'd finally found. His eyes were pale, too pale, light like a blind man's, but too rich to be blue. And she was quite certain from the way those not-quite-violet eyes were searching her face that he was not blind.
"Thank you," he said simply. It didn't give her much to go on, but Evey somehow sensed a deep sincerity in his words. His voice was soft, and had a strangely foreign sound to it, though she couldn't quite identify it. "Thank you, for my life."
Evey's cheeks burned, and she groped for the mask, only to remember that she'd taken it off just after entering the Gallery. Careless. But no matter, as she didn't intend to let him leave anytime soon. She'd learned one thing well, and that was the extent of commitment a good deed like this one required. Otherwise she'd be getting them both killed somewhere down the line.
"I…it was nothing," said Evey, struggling to regain the control she'd felt just moments ago. Something about this man's eyes had managed to completely disarm her in one glance. "You might not be so grateful for it later."
"I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks."2
Evey paused for a moment, taken aback. She couldn't identify the quotation, but she'd certainly recognized it for what it was. Her heart did a funny little flip-flop in her chest as the suspicion began to rise in her stomach. Another trick? Some further mad test of her loyalty?
"Who are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"My name is Lennox Wilmore." There was a strange lilt in his voice, and Evey wondered for a moment whether he was mocking her. The name sounded too familiar, she was certain she'd heard it somewhere before—in a book?—but again she couldn't place it.
"Okay," she said at last. "And why the gloves?"
With a jerk of his hand, he pulled one of them off, wincing slightly. The skin of his hand was badly blistered and cracked. A fresh injury. Evey started to breathe again.
"Chemical burns," he said. "My retribution for attempting to break into the Finger."
Evey let out a puff of air, suppressing incredulous laughter. "You broke into the Finger? Really?" She doubted whether even V would have the audacity. Or perhaps it was brashness. Lennox only nodded solemnly. "And why were you throwing rocks at Mr. Dascomb's address?"
"Because the man's a bloody bastard."
Evey did laugh then, relief washing over her. Perhaps he wouldn't be quite so resistant to her plans for him after all. He regarded her with the barest hint of a smile, his skin seeming very pale in contrast with the luminance of his eyes. It suddenly struck Evey that she'd completely forgotten he was injured.
"Are you feeling all right?" she asked hurriedly. "Looked to me like that rock hit you pretty hard. I'm not a doctor, but I can offer you basic first aid if you need it." Silently, she prayed that he wouldn't need more. She wasn't sure how to go about getting him into a better facility without compromising them both.
"I'm fine." He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers coming away with a hint of dried blood, but no sign of any major damage. Evey scrambled to hand him a box of tissues from the end table. He smiled suddenly. "Thanks to you."
Evey stared at him, memories flooding over her. She felt dizzy, unable to catch her breath.
"May I ask your name?" asked Lennox after a moment, breaking the silence.
"I'm Evey," she said, suddenly feeling the urge to proclaim it like a title. She'd become one of the most known individuals over the past weeks, after all. "Evey Hammond."
"Ah. Then it is my honor." He held out one gloved hand for her to shake. Evey hesitated, lost in thought, and he dropped his hand just as she had begun to reach for it. She felt her cheeks burn, and locked her gaze onto the tv remote which was sitting on the table. She'd never been good with awkward moments.
"You've neglected to consider several things," said Evey, shame turning to anger, and then to power.
"And what's that?"
"You thanked me for your life, but you've no idea what I'm going to do with you now."
"No, but I do know that you are concerned enough to offer me medical attention. I very much doubt that you would do that if you intended to kill me."
Evey narrowed her eyes at him, getting the feeling that he just might be able to call her bluff. She didn't like it one bit. "Maybe I mean to torture you," she countered, "probe you for information. You are, I'm sure, a wanted man. In fact, if I didn't know better I'd guess you were a revolutionary."
"But I know that you are as well, and therefore consider myself quite safe in your hands." Lennox quirked an eyebrow at her, and Evey felt the sudden urge to throw something at him.
"I am," she said at last. "And that's why I've got to worry about the secrecy of this location. You're a threat, and that's why you'll stay locked away with the rest of my treasures." Evey gestured to the various pieces of art scattered about the room. She felt a pang at calling them her own, but V had made no move to reclaim the Gallery. She shrugged off the guilt.
"Do you mean to say that I'm your prisoner?" asked Lennox, his features suddenly hardening. "How exactly do you intend to keep me?" His eyes swept slowly over her body, a look which clearly stated he could pick her up and throw her several feet if he wanted to. It sent a chill down Evey's spine.
"Because, Lord Wilmore," she said derisively, "you've nowhere to go but straight into a black bag." She was bluffing again and knew it, but she needed time to build up the courage for what she was about to do next. "And because," Evey reached suggestively for the daggers on her belt, "you need to be laid up for a while."
1 Mahatma Gandhi
2 William Shakespeare