Hey, would you look at that, that chapter didn't take me six months to write! Though I've got to warn you, it hasn't been edited yet. It's a pretty important one too, so pay attention ^^ In fact, I call it the 'let's give Enola a perfect reason to spend more time with Abraham' chapter. You'll see.
Thanks for the reviews, the faves (or is it favs? I never know), and the follows, everyone! I'm so glad you liked the previous chapter! It's one of my favourites, maybe because it's the beginning of something...
Okay, I'll leave you to enjoy this chapter, now.
Three days had gone by since Katrina had left, but it was only now that Abraham was beginning to wonder if it was really the witch's presence he missed. Because, when he closed his book that night as the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, and the silence in the estate hit him like a cold shower for the umpteenth time, he caught himself wishing for the presence of another. He quickly brushed this thought aside and left the armchair that sat in a corner of his bedroom. He had given up on reading in the living room that morning because, every time he'd looked up from the pages, he had expected to discover Enola and Katrina sitting side by side on their sofa, bent over a history book. The sight was so familiar that he could almost see them there, Enola explaining and pointing at pictures, Katrina listening intently and asking questions. He could hear Katrina's hushed voice and Enola's warm one, Enola's laughter bouncing off the walls. Firelight and shadow playing over her face, her eyes flashing yellow when they caught the light at just the right angle, her white teeth gleaming, the dark auburn lock that kept falling across her face, no matter how many times she pushed it away.
Little things that shouldn't matter, and yet they did. Details that he shouldn't miss, and yet he did.
He missed her presence too. The house felt… warmer, fuller when she was there. She was just so much livelier than Katrina—how ironic for an undead. Even from his bedroom, he could smell the home-made food she would heat up, hear her laughter and the music she would play. He'd tried not to let himself develop a taste for it, but his stubbornness had been eroded by the electric guitars and the drums that stirred something raw and primal deep in his gut—and by jazz, with the exuberant and voluptuous notes of its brasses and pianos, and the smoky voices of its singers.
With an effort, he pushed these thoughts away and dropped the book on the armchair, frowning when the cover caught his eye in the process. Dracula by Bram Stoker. No wonder he couldn't stop thinking about her. He had given into his curiosity, which had been nagging him ever since he'd spotted the leather-bound volume resting at the top of the pile of books that Enola had left behind. He didn't really know what he'd hoped to find—more information about vampires? Some insight into a vampire's mind? So far, he hadn't gotten either of those. Or perhaps he had just wanted to compare reality and fiction, see what Stoker had gotten right. The answer was, incidentally, not much. In fact, compared to real vampires, Stoker's were... disappointing—mere embodiments of evil, creatures doomed to be monsters the moment their hearts stopped beating, their existence revolving mostly around blood and, apparently, sex. A far cry from the complex young woman who had been doing her best to turn his life upside down since he'd met her.
Aaand he was thinking about her again. It had to stop, now. He snatched his coat from the back of the armchair that sat in front of his desk, picked up his axe from its wall-mounted rack, and strode out of his bedroom, heading for the front door. The moment he reached it was also the moment when a familiar rumble caught his ear.
"You must be joking," he muttered.
If there was a point where a coincidence was so coincidental that it could no longer be called a coincidence, but rather God-screwing-with-you, this was it. He swore under his breath, considered attempting to sneak through the back door, but he knew she would hear him move through the house. Besides, she had probably come to retrieve her books, which meant her visit would be short. Good, he thought without really knowing why—not because he could barely stand her, obviously, so...
It wasn't as if anything could happen.
This was a colossal mistake. She just knew it. Hell, she could feel it. In fact, in the History of Colossal Mistakes, it was right there with invading Russia in winter and turning down J. K. Rowling. Only three days ago, she had decided she would never treat Abraham as anything else than her enemy again, and now she was going to him. But she couldn't afford to let her fighting skills get rusty and she wouldn't continue sparring with Ichabod because, the last time they had—that was right before the Wendigo mess—, she had almost concussed him and smashed the right side of his rib cage to pieces. If she had hit just a little harder, she could have killed him, a risk that she absolutely refused to take despite Ichabod's trust in her ability not to repeat her mistakes. That was why she was now riding her Ducati through the woods towards Willow Point estate, her pride chafing at the prospect of asking Abraham, of all people, for assistance.
As usual, she parked behind the house, out of sight from the road, before making her way to the front door. She knew Abraham had heard her arrive and she briefly wondered what was going to his mind at the idea of seeing her again—probably a stream of curses that would have stripped the paint off the walls, she thought with a sly smile, not knowing how wrong she was. Because, of course, how the hell could she have imagined that his disposition towards her had softened so considerably when he himself scarcely dared to touch those new feelings with a ten-foot pole? It was like imagining Reagan suddenly deciding to embrace communism.
No sooner had Enola knocked that the door opened. She was greeted by a familiar scowl, although, strangely enough, it seemed to lack conviction. Usually, the Horseman's glares could have torched her where she stood; this one could barely singe her eyebrows.
"Oh, someone was eager to see me again," the vampire quipped, nodding at the axe in Abraham's hand.
Much to his dismay, Abraham found that he could barely keep scowling at her when she was looking at him with a lopsided smile and sparks dancing in her eyes. She was baiting him into a verbal sparring match, he knew, but he didn't mind. Quite the opposite, actually. His fondness for matching wits was one of the few things that hadn't changed when he'd become the Horseman of Death.
"Indeed," he replied. "Now if you could just stand still for a moment..."
"But of course! Because I just exist to accommodate you."
"Well, if that's the case, you're making an incredibly shoddy job of it. Some more effort is in order."
"Sure, I'll make an effort... As soon as you stop working for Moloch and trying to kill my friends."
Now that put one hell of a damper on their banter. Abraham's expression soured immediately and Enola's mischievous smile turned cutting.
"Yeah, didn't think so," she said flatly.
She saw Abraham's jaw twitch, felt the temperature drop a few more degrees, and thought that she really should get to the point of her visit before she got embroiled in another argument.
"Anyway, what if I told you that I'm going to let you try to cut me in pieces? Would you be happier to see me then?"
Abraham narrowed his eyes at the vampire, very aware of her manipulation—she was attempting to mollify him by offering something she thought he wanted, which meant that she wanted something from him too. The problem was that he wasn't so sure he still wished her dead. Oh well, it didn't hurt to hear her out.
"I'm listening."
"I need a sparring partner," Enola said quickly, before she could change her mind. "One who'll heal fast if I accidentally break a bone. And who can't die."
A look of surprise flitted over the Horseman's face before his scowl reclaimed its dominion over his features.
"If you think I would let you knock me about for your own amusement–"
"If I used my strength or my speed, there wouldn't be any point in a sparring match, would there? Well, I might slip once or twice. That's what happened with Ichabod."
"You can break every bone in his body, for all I care."
"Besides, it could benefit you too," the vampire went on as though he hadn't interrupted. "How long has it been since you last trained? And decapitating defenceless people doesn't count."
"I can practice by myself."
"Shadows don't fight back." Enola huffed in frustration and propped her hand on her hips. "Look, if you think I enjoy asking you for help, you're dead wrong. I'm only doing it because I've got no other option."
"Isn't there another vampire in town whom you can go to?"
"If there were, I wouldn't be here, would I? So the answer's no. I know, I looked."
It wasn't really surprising. Vampires usually favoured larger cities with a more vibrant nightlife, cities full of people who wouldn't be missed for those who chose to indulge their lethal instincts. Enola, needing a change from Paris, had chosen Sleepy Hollow precisely because it was relatively small. Besides, to be honest, she hadn't found many open positions for a French teacher in the first place.
"Fine," Abraham agreed curtly after a few more seconds of hesitation.
It was merely a tactical decision, he thought. A way for him to gain more insight into her fighting style, her strengths and her weaknesses, the mistakes she made, for when he reclaimed his head and his full power—when he would finally be able to match her strength. A tactical decision. Yes, do keep telling yourself that, his inner voice whispered snarkily. He ignored it pointedly.
"Thanks," Enola said with a small nod. "I appreciate it."
To her credit, she managed not to sound as if the words were stabbing her tongue. She was the one asking for a favour, after all, one he really had no reason to grant. The least she could do was to stow her pride for a minute.
"I'll fetch a few lanterns," Abraham declared, but the vampire's next words stopped him before he could turn away.
"No need, I'll just switch on my headlight."
He removed his coat and left it in the parlour before following Enola around his house. When he joined her, she had moved her bike to face the open space between the building and the trees. He watched her insert the key she had pulled out of her jacket pocket into the ignition, turn it, and flip a switch near the left-hand grip. A cone of yellow light split the night and splashed against the tree line. The darkness beyond the light suddenly appeared thicker, as if the shadows had gathered closer together to hold it off.
"Will you be able to see properly with that?" the young woman inquired, her fingertips lingering on the switch as she turned to Abraham.
"It's fine, I can see in the dark better than humans can."
"Huh. Interesting. Right, just give me a moment."
Enola pulled the leather strap of the harness that held her scabbard over her head and hung it on the handle of her motorbike. Next, she shrugged off her leather jacket and draped it over the gas tank. Underneath it, she was wearing the same black sleeveless form-fitting top than during their first sword fight, when she'd played the distraction while Ichabod attempted to free Katrina. He'd had his mind quite occupied with desperate thoughts of losing Katrina, then. Which probably explained why he hadn't noticed how much alabaster-white skin the thin garment bared, or the way it suggested the outlines of her apple-round breasts and clung to the curves of her waist. And those damn jeans...
He clenched his jaws and proceeded to try and drill a hole into a tree trunk with his eyes while the vampire drew her sword and gave it a twirl.
He shouldn't think of her that way—as a beautiful woman instead of just an enemy. Shouldn't, wouldn't. He had to remember that she was merely a passing fancy, that her novelty would soon wear off, that–
He attacked so swiftly that Enola barely had time to evade a blow that would have cut open her midriff. Her eyes flashed with indignation but she didn't protest. She understood that sparring meant preparing for a real battle and, in a real battle, people didn't ask their enemies if they were ready.
He was good, Enola realized after only a few attacks and ripostes. A little better than Ichabod and a lot better than herself, which was hardly surprising. She had had, what, two years of training with Cyrille, plus the few moves that Ichabod had shown her. He must have started practicing in his adolescence, if not his childhood.
She deflected a thrust and swung her sword, he blocked it, counter-attacked, she moved to sidestep the blow and–
It was a feint. The axe bit deep into her side.
She danced away with a hiss of annoyance, thankful that she healed fast and didn't feel pain as acutely as humans did. The wound stung sharply but not enough to slow her down and it would start closing in a few seconds.
"Wait!" she cried, throwing a hand up as Abraham advanced on her.
She waited for him to stop in his tracks with a puzzled look on his face before speaking again.
"Can you show me that move again, but slowly?"
Now wasn't the time for misplaced pride. In a fight against another vampire, her only advantage lay in superior fighting skills, especially if the vampire in question was older, and thus stronger and faster than her. Of course, she'd never had any reason to go against one of her kind but that might very well change soon. If Moloch offered them free rein to openly prey upon humans, to stop hiding from those they considered as cattle, the most vicious of vampires, the ones who had no humanity left, would follow him without hesitation. So, she had to be ready, just in case.
Fortunately, the Horseman didn't play hard to get. After only a brief hesitation, he nodded and, together, they slid through the forms with exaggerated motions. A quick learner, Enola only needed to repeat the move twice to master it. They resumed their fierce duel, pausing only a couple of times so Abraham could teach the vampire a move or show her a new way to combine some poses. Enola had no idea whether vampires still produced adrenaline but she didn't know what other name to give the electricity that crackled and danced along her nerves and coiled in her belly. The enthusiastic fire in her red eyes mirrored the one in Abraham's and an ardent grin was starting to pull at their lips as their blades flashed and wove a steel web around them, linking and dividing their bodies. Slashes in their clothes showed intact skin, dark bloodstains the only evidence of the wounds they'd managed to inflict on each other, none of them more serious than a deep cut by tacit agreement.
And then, it was over.
It all happened fast. Enola lunged, Abraham sidestepped her sword, then she felt a rough shove, she stumbled, listed, and her vision disappeared in a glaring yellow sunburst—the headlight of her motorbike, which she had been careful to avoid during the battle. Her lips curled and a snarl rumbled in her throat as the dark afterimage danced before her eyes. Distracted and half blind, she couldn't evade the hard kick to the back of her knees that heralded her defeat. She felt herself pitch forward, felt her knees hit the compact earth and the sharp blade of Abraham's axe touch her throat. She immediately tensed up, ready to make use of her superior speed and strength should Abraham make the slightest move to take advantage of the situation, watching his eyes out of the corner of hers for the faintest hint of murderous intent.
None came.
While Abraham couldn't help the triumphant gleam that flashed in his eyes, he still retained enough of his good manners not to keep his axe at Enola's throat and Enola on her knees for more than a couple of seconds. Not only that, but he felt, like a dull ache deep within his ribcage, the conviction that such a woman had no business kneeling before anyone, not even him. So he lowered his axe and, before he could decide whether it was appropriate to offer her his hand, Enola had leapt to her feet and was now busy brushing dirt off her trousers.
The burn of her wounded pride faded as quickly as it had flared to be replaced by grudging resignation. Abraham had, after all, been practicing sword fighting for much longer than she had, so it really was little wonder he had beaten her. She could at least take satisfaction in having given him quite a run for his money. And, of course, in having learnt quite a lot.
"Well," she said with a wry smile once she had straightened up, "that was bracing. And interesting."
"I shall take that as a compliment and return it by agreeing with you," Abraham replied good-naturedly. "Tell me, who taught you the art of swordplay?"
Much to his puzzlement and interest, Enola's smile froze and the warmth in her eyes died out. Then, as if to give herself something to do, she turned away from him and strode to her bike to sheathe her sword. For a moment, he thought she would leave without answering him or even uttering another word and he was only half surprised to feel a pang of disappointment at the prospect. But it soon appeared that he needn't have worried.
"The vampire who turned me did," the young vampire said tautly as she put her jacket back on.
Oh yes, there is most definitely a story here, Abraham thought, his curiosity thoroughly piqued. However, he knew better than to try and worm it out of her—that would be a sure way to drive her off. He also didn't inquire about the point of such training. He had already guessed from the wariness in her eyes and the tension in her body as he held his axe at her throat that one way to slay a vampire was to decapitate them, something more easily done with a good blade. Since he sincerely doubted that Enola wished to discuss the means to kill her, he decided to change the subject to something that, during the three last days, had never been far from his mind.
"Can all vampires transform themselves as you did?" he inquired, his mind immediately superimposing the darkly beautiful creature which had so fascinated him on Enola's—no less beautiful, his mind whispered insidiously—form.
This time, Enola, taken by surprise by the radical shift in topic, turned to him. Her features had relaxed and a new light was flickering in her eyes.
"Well, of course." She leaned against her bike and folded her arms loosely. "Our gargoyle form, we call it. Or in other, more accurate terms, our inner monster in the flesh. Which explains why our violent side is much closer to the surface in that form."
She flashed him a mischievous smile that set her eyes a-twinkling and, he was sure, would have made his heart trip over itself if it still had been beating—an idea he would rather not linger on. Just as he would rather not linger on the fleeting thought that Katrina had never smiled at him that way.
"I do hope I didn't frighten you."
… On another hand, Katrina had never taken so much pleasure in needling him, he thought as he gave the vampire an exasperated look.
"Of course not. You merely surprised me."
Enola's smile widened until it showed her teeth.
"Yes, I suppose I did. And now, it's my turn to ask a question."
Her smile was gone and she was regarding him most seriously.
"I'm listening," Abraham said, bracing himself for another conversation that would shift the ground beneath him and jar all of his certainties.
"I assume you remember the night we first met..."
"You know, since becoming the Horseman of Death, I have near-perfect memory. A necessary addition to immortality, I suppose... But I suspect that, even without it, I would remember that night quite vividly."
A corner of Enola's lips quirked up briefly, then she was all gravity again.
"I want to know why you haven't tried to control me again once you were free from the Masonic cell and its debilitating spells."
… Oh. It wasn't as bad as he had expected. It was even an easy question to answer.
"Masonic cell or not, I am not in full possession of my abilities, far from it. Using you as my mouthpiece, as I attempted to in the cell, would be much easier, of course, but also utterly pointless. Anything more would require power that I do not have."
"But you would if you had it."
The next words were out of his mouth before he could measure their consequences—but he could not let Enola think that he was willing to violate her in such a way.
"No, I would not," he said.
The vampire's eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in suspicion almost immediately. But why would he lie to her? Whether or not her feelings towards him softened, they remained in opposite camps and doomed to fight each other. She knew it as well as he did and, soon, she was gazing at him perplexedly.
"Why not?" she asked.
Because you belong on your feet, that flame inside you burning bright and tall and shining out through your eyes. Because you would win your freedom one way or another and then you would only look at me with hatred in your eyes.
"My reasons are my own."
For a moment, Enola considered insisting but, given that he was at least as stubborn as herself, she figured that she'd probably have more luck questioning a brick wall. Besides, she was almost certain that the reasons in question had something to do with their conversation in the woods three days ago.
Ah, that conversation... How she'd tried not to think too much about it! The questions it raised were much too dangerous. Except she couldn't avoid them anymore, not after what Abraham had just told her.
That, even if he could, he wouldn't crush her will under his, wouldn't invade her body and mind, wouldn't make her his puppet.
She needed to go home and think.
"Fine, be all mysterious," she huffed with a lopsided smile as she put the harness of her scabbard back on. "I should go, anyway."
"Are you coming back tomorrow night?" Abraham inquired in the most casual tone he could muster.
The unexpected question had Enola pause and lower the helmet she'd been about to strap on. She knew what she should instantly have answered—'No, I'm not, I shouldn't even have come tonight.' And she wouldn't have come had it not been for Abraham's giving up on the binding ritual. That was what had all but finished convincing her that there actually was a tolerable person buried somewhere within the Horseman of Death.
And there was one of those dangerous thoughts.
One which led to an equally dangerous question—should she try to dig up that person? Or, in other, much more dramatic words, should she try to save Abraham from himself? One—read: her conscience—could argue that, if she had a chance of succeeding, then it was her moral obligation to do all she could. That, if she let him lose himself to the Horseman of Death and Moloch, she was no better than Parrish or his master.
He's made his choice long ago, the most callous part of herself argued. No one forced him to become Moloch's pet. Why the hell should I bother to clean up his mess?
Because giving him a second chance is the right thing to do and I'm a good person?
Ugh.
How about because, if I pull this off, Moloch will lose one of his two most powerful servants?
Enola shook her head, snapping herself out of her current train of thought. This was neither the time nor the place to mull over the state of her moral compass. She didn't just need to think, she realized—she needed to talk to someone. Right now. So, she told Abraham that she didn't know if she'd be back, which was the exact truth, jammed her helmet on, and drove away.
Enola felt an urgent need for advice and guidance, though not just from anyone. She wanted someone neutral, not biased by the present situation or by any past relationships; someone whom she trusted to know the right thing to do; and, preferably, someone who wasn't currently sleeping. That left her only one option.
Her father, Gabriel Vallombreuse, who had passed on to her, in addition to his hair colour, his love of books in general and Tolkien's works in particular, his taste for good tea, his great fondness for Doctor Who—he counted 5 November 2005 among the best days of his life—, and, last but not least, his British accent that combined Estuary English and RP English.
Thank God for the time difference, Enola thought as she plopped down on her couch, her phone in one hand, and chose her father's number from her contact list. One ring, two, three– click.
"Hello, ma chérie!"
"Hi dad... Do you have a moment? There's something I need to talk to you about."
"Sounds serious."
"Oh, not at all," Enola said breezily, "it's just the fate of someone's soul."
"I see." She could hear the wry smile in her father's voice, and picture the warm twinkle in his sky-blue eyes. "Nothing important, then. Well, I'm listening anyway."
"Got nothing more important to do, huh?"
"I never have anything more important to do than to help you however I can. So, tell me everything."
The young woman took a few seconds to figure out how to say as much as possible without revealing everything... because she had told nothing of the fight against Moloch. Oh, he knew about the supernatural since she'd dropped the vampire bomb on him, but this? 'So, dad, my new friends and I are waging a war against a demon named Moloch—yes, the 'horrid King besmear'd with blood' from Paradise Lost—who wants to bring about the Apocalypse. If we don't stop him, the world will end and we'll all die. Also, I've fought the Horseman of Death and the Horseman of War. Oh and, God? Pretty sure he actually exists. So, how was your day?' Yeah, that wouldn't freak him out or anything. No, best to wait until it was all over, one way or another. He'd be beyond pissed, of course, but she would at least have spared him from being constantly worried sick about her and feeling powerless because he couldn't help her—as she knew he would.
"Okay, so there's this man—his name's Abraham. Years ago, he was engaged to a woman named Katrina, but it was a marriage of convenience."
"I didn't think those still existed, except maybe among the social, er, elite," Gabriel commented.
"Well, he was part of that elite but not anymore. Anyway, Katrina eventually broke off the engagement because, somewhere along the line, she'd fallen in love. Obviously, Abraham didn't take that too well, especially since he was, and still is, way too proud for his own good. And when he found out that Katrina had left him for his best friend, Ichabod, he... he just went ballistic. He let his wounded pride, his rage... consume him, turn him into a monster. He almost killed Ichabod because he blamed him for Katrina's choices, you know? And then he did some pretty terrible things—I won't go into details, just... it was bad. We met a few months ago in, um... less than ideal circumstances. At first, I thought he was irredeemable, that there was nothing good left in him but I... may have been wrong. He said some things that made me realize that there's still a... well, not a good man, exactly, but at least a less terrible one, somewhere inside him. And I think I may have a chance of bringing that man out."
"But you're not sure you should try," Gabriel concluded.
"Exactly," Enola sighed, tugging on the edge of the cushion she had pulled in her lap. "I mean, my conscience tells me it's the right thing to do but he's a damn tosser who's just reaping what he sowed. He's not my responsibility."
There was a few seconds of silence at the other end of the line while Gabriel contemplated his arguments.
"Whom did you hear the story from?" he eventually asked.
"From Ichabod, he's a friend of mine. But, trust me, he's not the type to bend the truth to make himself look good, if that's what you're wondering."
"All right. And does Abraham want to be helped?"
Enola blinked, taken by surprise. The idea had never even occurred to her.
"Well, er... I don't know that he doesn't want to be. I... haven't exactly left him much choice, so far."
"I see," Gabriel replied, his voice laced with fond mockery. "You decided to coax that less terrible man out with patience and gentleness."
"Oi! I can be patient and gentle when I want to! Besides, with Abraham, patience and gentleness will only go so far, believe me. What he needs is a few good kicks in the arse."
"Metaphorical ones, of course."
"Well, not only..."
Gabriel laughed and was soon joined by his daughter.
"You never could stand arrogance," the professor remarked when they had both regained their composure.
To say nothing of men who kidnap women and hold them prisoner, repeatedly try to kill me and my friends, and want to end the world...
"But to come back to the point... Do you think you're the only one who can bring Abraham's better self to light?"
Enola pursed her lips. She knew where this was going and part of her wished she could tell him that there was, in fact, someone else... except there wasn't. Ichabod? He would have a hard time engaging into meaningful conversation with an angry Horseman of Death who'd keep trying to decapitate him. Katrina? She couldn't risk blowing her cover. Plus, she was more the patient-and-gentle type, which Enola was convinced wouldn't be enough.
"The only one in our little circle, anyway," she answered with a resigned sigh.
"Then I think you already know what I'm going to say."
Another sigh, this time distinctly frustrated.
"That, because I have the power to help, it's my responsibility to do so," Enola grumbled.
"Careful, ma chérie, your enthusiasm is radiating from my phone..."
"You're obviously not the one who's going to have to put up with that bloody wanker..."
Well, at least he's nice to look at, Enola mused while her father chuckled. And, yeah, maybe his sense of humour isn't too bad either. And that wry little smile– haha, okay, absolutely not.
"Well, let's look at the problem another way," Gabriel suggested, unknowingly saving his daughter from the unfortunate direction her thoughts had been taking. "Remember what you used to ask yourself whenever you'd struggle with a decision?"
Enola snorted in derision.
"'What would the Doctor do?' Dad, I'm not twelve anymore."
"Look, heroes, like the Doctor, are important because they tell us who want to be–"
"I'm not interested in being a hero."
"Of course, but I would hope that you're interested in being a decent person who always tries to choose the right way over the easy way."
A decent person wouldn't have killed three men in a fit of rage, she almost said. She swallowed the words before they could leave her mouth and bit her lip hard. This she could never tell him. He'd accepted her turning into a vampire so easily because she had explained that she didn't have to kill people to feed and promised that she wouldn't. If she told him she'd taken three lives, no matter how corrupt, simply because she'd blown a gasket, he'd never look at her the same way. And she couldn't stand the thought of that.
Okay, stop it. You've been over this already. You can't bring them back to life. All you can do is move on and never make the same mistake again. So, what would the Doctor do? He'd give Abraham a second chance and take the trouble to drag his sorry arse back to the light side. Or at least to a greyish one. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. Me, pick the easy, boring way? Like. Hell.
"Fine, I'll do it," she sighed, lifting a hand and letting it drop on the cushion with a soft thump.
"That's my girl! I knew you would make the right decision."
Enola pulled a disgruntled face. Ugh. What kind of clusterfuck am I getting into now?
After that, the conversation moved onto less challenging topics—mostly school-related stuff and their respective latest readings. Out of filial duty, Enola asked if her mother was there and was relieved to hear that she'd gone out with friends. At least, she wouldn't have to slough through meaningless stilted small talk.
"Well, tell her I said hi and that I hope her novel's coming along well."
She hung up shortly after that and stared vacantly at her phone for a long minute as she processed the night's events. There was, she decided, only one conclusion to be drawn from them.
"Well, shit."
Well, here we are. A perfect reason for Enola to spend more time with Abraham. What do you think? At first, I was going to have Enola come to that decision by herself but then I thought a dialogue would be more dynamic. Plus it allowed me to introduce her father. I'll talk about her mother later but I'm sure you can already guess from what I've written here that their relationship isn't great...
It might interest you to know that, at first, the duel was going to end very differently. And by differently, I mean 'oops they fell down and now Abraham's on top of Enola'. Then I let it stew for a couple of days, re-read it, and realized what an abominable cliché the whole scene was, so I deleted it. Well, I still have it in my clipboard file... Who knows, I might use part of it later. It was meant to be kind of an awakening for Abraham, something to make him realize that it's Enola he wants now. But it's too soon, I think.
By the way, 5 November 2005 is the day the new Doctor Who series started to be broadcast in France.
I can't wait to hear (well, read) your opinions!
Translation:
- ma chérie = sweetheart