Chapter XLIII: A Hole in the Ground

December 17, 1899. Two weeks later.

It was the night before her leave-taking. Her dresses and skirts hanging from the wardrobe, her stockings and petticoats set aside for warmer attire—the clothes Allegra had made for her, her coat and boots on the floor, and a pair of woollen blankets folded for colder nights. All her books, save the memory journal, were to be left in the room and although her lessons would continue in the catacombs, Rena would bring such things only for the time in which they were required.

Little else to do now but wait, her evening and midnight taken up by most of the second book, the Jules Verne novel, A Journey to the Interior of the Earth. She had not paid much attention to it in the past weeks, but the subject felt closer given the task ahead of her. The hours taking her into the first chapter, but the language creating a barrier. Only a few words sticking out from the rest…and her interest piqued when, upon growing impatient with the speed, she began to skip through the words only to find a name in Icelandic. Something she could read. Finally.

The knock upon the door causing her to look up.

Allegra.

She closed the book and stood, folding her arms around the tome, adjusting her veil before she called out. "Come in." Hesitation over giving orders to one who had been so good to her. She waited patiently, readying herself to greet…only to close her eyes in slight exasperation as the door opened; a slight exhale as she resumed her seat, the book opening before she had even dropped into the chair. "I thought you were Allegra."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He was dressed impeccably. The beard trimmed, the hair recently cut. His evening attire consisting of a dark suit, the white collar set in contrast to the necktie. Silk, loosely-tied, yet maintaining an air of precision. If her estimation of time was correct—gauged only by the brief gnawing in her stomach—then he appeared to be on his way to dinner. He nodded to himself, hands behind his back, and then gave a cursory smile. "I trust you are well this evening?"

"As well as can be expected," she replied, eyeing him from her chair. He was acting suspicious. He had knocked on the door for perhaps the first time since their acquaintance…he was not in the midst of pulling off his collar, and after two weeks, he still appeared to be sober.

He nodded as though he truly had been concerned, and then, with a casual hand, indicated the door. "Care for a stroll?"

Her veil managed to catch most of what ended up being a dry cough followed by a mild period of choking on spit. She swallowed. "What?"

"A stroll, Reinette. It involves the legs." He was holding a walking stick. "You understand, we will not go far…however I do have a few…things…I wish to show you before you descend into the interior of the earth." He said the last words in English. A subtle reminder. He could see what she was reading.

She did not put the book down. She did not trust this situation. He might put her in another cage. Lock her up somewhere. Trick her into doing…something. He was not to be trusted. "I've had enough of blindfolds, Lyosha."

"No blindfold."

Blood damn him.

She put the book down. "A trick?"

"No trick." He was remarkably focused this evening. Usually his fingers moving, his feet pacing, his attention taken by all but the one in front of him. "Merely a truce…for one night before you leave us for the underground. There will be no talk of memories, no mention of anything that causes you distress." He held an arm out. "Will you come?"

A curse threatened to escape her lips. "I am not dressed appropriately."

"You will but pass from one room to the next, Reinette…" He indicated the door again. "…and the only company you will keep this evening is myself. I believe you are dressed enough for that."

She did not answer him. She was holding back. She did not want to see. For the past two weeks, she had heard noises outside her room…pushing and pulling. No one speaking yet always the distinct impression that a mob of boorish men were cleaning the room beyond her door. She should have known he would try and tempt her.

"Will you come," he said again. Serious. Polite.

His manner persuasive. The prospect of what lay beyond her door causing her to drown the voice of her mentor. If she was to die in the next year, at least let her have experienced…something. Something beyond the bare surroundings she would soon find herself in. She stood. "Very well," she replied begrudgingly, placing the book on the bedside table. "…I will come." She walked past the arm. She would not do it. Not now. Not ever. The foolishness of taking the arm of a gentleman when she was dressed in such…plain attire.

He had not moved, his arm still outstretched, waiting for her. "It is to be a truce, Reinette."

"How is this not a truce…" She pointed to the steps ahead of her. All three steps. "I am walking to the door, you are walking to the door. We are both walking to the door, Lyosha. I may be weak, but I do not need an arm to get me there."

"Allow me to put it this way then…" He and his arm came to stand beside her before the door, frowning at the wood panelling. He seemed to have come to terms with both the wood and the concept he was speaking of. "According to the rules of modern etiquette, I politely offer you my arm and you politely accept it." He looked down at her. "It involves pretending for a moment that you accepted my offer of truce and that we are now old acquaintances. Mayhap even friends."

She narrowed her eye at him. The minutes passing as he continued to stand, waiting, as though she truly were the hawk he required in order to do his hunting. Blood, to be rid of him. She exhaled and then placed her hand on his arm, grateful for the gloves that covered her skin. Anything to help her forget what she had become. The age that plagued her fingers.

"See how easy that was," he said, and with his other hand, he turned the handle. Candlelight.

And then she woke.

o…o…o

Dirt on her face, the cold stone beneath her back. She had been dreaming, her memories of that night…three nights ago now…so removed from this place that one might think she had imagined it. No candlelight now…only darkness. Her eyes managing to see around the next bend of the tunnel, but her legs exhausted. The cold blood she had drunk the night before wearing away. She was starving; he must have known she would have to turn back; frequently, if she did not find some means of carrying food with her. Scrubbing the dirt from her cheek, she sat up, searching for the blanket, only to find she had shoved it aside while she slept, the majority of the cloth now covered in the filth that plagued these tunnels. Foolish to have brought it, yet the cold necessitated more than just the clothes on her back. The walls closing in on her, as though she had been swallowed by a mountain. Her thoughts drifting in and out again as she began to crawl back to the start of the tunnel…

…her memories of how she came to this place.

o…o…o

In the early hours of morning, the night after their truce, he had brought her down with her eyes covered. No longer wearing the suit, the efficiency returned now that the truce was ended. Despite her protest, Rena carried her for much of the way, her ability to tell left from right lost as they travelled down into the depths. Doors opening and shutting, staircases going up and down, the noise of the wind dying away as the air grew colder and colder. The blindfold had come off…and the tour had begun.

The hole that was to be her home for the next year. A set of two prison cells branching onto a third; it was in the third that he had pointed out the tunnels, three of them branching in separate directions, the number of twists and turns unaccounted for… Should she lose her way and still wish to return, he pointed above them…along each turn, there was an arrow slot in the rock above their heads. She need only call out. Two levels to the catacombs, the upper one mostly intact and accessible to both Rena and himself. They would be able to bring her back. He had returned to the first cell, indicating the small table . Although she was not required to return on a daily basis, food would be left at the hour of seven…and Singe would arrive soon after for the sake of her English lessons. If she lost track of time or did not show within the first ten minutes of the lesson, the man would leave.

He had returned to the third cell, crouching by one of the tunnels, placing a hand on the left wall. For the sake of respect, he would prefer if she did not deface any of the bones that she came across, whether they were lying in state or had fallen as a result of attack. In the same token…he had indicated a second slot in the ceiling, one that appeared to be closed…any bones that appeared to be charred in any way should serve as a warning. Over the years in which they were built—many, many years ago, he added, when they were still staking their claim on this land—it had been practice to build traps into the ceiling, small holes reflecting the sun through a sequence of mirrors. The catacombs serving initially as a home and then developing into a storage facility for the dead, before eventually becoming a deathtrap for their enemies.

His explanation of the mechanism doing little to alleviate her fears. The concept that, centuries ago, any lycan in trouble could escape into the catacombs and, by virtue of a shut door, rely on both the sun and his comrades to take care of the rest…a number of the mirrors broken, but most of them still operational. The resulting beam not a strong one this time of year, but certainly capable of wounding. For the sake of safety, it would be best if she kept track of time and avoided any holes in the ceiling…

Behind him, she caught the yellow eyes of Rena looking at her, the directness of the woman's gaze finally causing her to speak up. Admit that the pendant-watch was lost, that she had no means of tracking time. As expected, the revelation had little impact on him; there was no suggestion of a replacement. As she lacked time, she would simply have to take care not to sleep beneath an open suntrap unless she enjoyed the smell of burning flesh. That was all. The reminder that her captor was a creature of many facets, a chameleon who could unbalance both his enemies and allies. If he chose to care, he cared…and when he did not, he was honest about it. One moment, her warden telling her to face the miserable facts of life…

…and the night before…a different person. A gentleman, charming and at his ease, pouring her a drink over a small dining table set in the shadows of an abandoned room. The windows covered in black, the stored furniture covered in white, like hills of snow in the dark, so that the only mark of colour lay in their food. Hawk's blood. Spices. The frozen marrow of Devil's Ice to finish the meal, followed by a small glass of Bikavér. The proper amount this time. The meal followed by a lesson in the number of years since her memory had played chess. Her strategy proving rusty, while his proved courteous, allowing her to win at least two of the four games that they played.

At the time, she had expected him to ask after her memories, to intrude upon her past, but he was true to his word. Perhaps remembering her interest in the ink-filled pen, he had led her to the far end of the room and shown her an array of things laid out on a table. Items invented in the past twenty years, things she had never seen let alone dreamt. A small photograph of an enormous structure, a metal tower reaching into the sky. Paris, it said upon the back. 1892. A small book of matches, easily struck, the fire glowing between her fingers within seconds. A machine with a small disc turning upon its wood, the horn emitting…sound, as though it contained a string instrument beneath the cobwebs, the unexpected noise causing her to step back, her teeth growing out of… shock.

To his credit, he did not laugh at her. Instead, he talked…he told her things of the outside world…the changes that had occurred in the past two decades. Incandescent lights on the streets, electric currents that could travel through the air without wires, carriages that moved across the ground without horses or steam. Things that truly excited him about the mortals living in this age. The evening ending on a strange note…a warm farewell at her door…and a feeling of melancholy.

Far removed from his actions of the next morning…the warm farewell replaced by a curt motion as he finished the tour and turned away, Rena shutting the door behind them, the gust of wind causing her to shiver as she surveyed her…prison. The first cell containing a table…two chairs, her journal, pen and ink laid on the open space. The second cell holding dust, mold and scratchings on the wall. The third cell the worst of all. An eerie darkness emitting from each of the three tunnels that branched from its centre, the inky black hinting at the bowels of a grave. She was…here. Her heart beating faster…that feeling of…familiarity. An unruly fear, one that she must control or bow before…the smell of rat faeces, dried bones, and stale air. She stood in the centre, turning slowly, holding herself back…and then jerked as she stepped on something. A rat crawling underfoot. The squeak as it fled, not into one of the tunnels that surrounded her, but into a hole in the second cell.

Her fears carrying her back into the first cell. Minutes passing, hours as she shivered on the chair, waiting for something to change. Wrapping the blanket around herself, her legs drawn up so that no part of her was touching the filth on the floor. She could not be afraid of the dark. She was a vampire. A creature of the dark. But the shadows of the room seemed to move, her breath seeming loud when compared to the silence of this forgotten place. No one had been down here in decades…and for the first time since waking, she found herself struggling with another emotion she had not felt since she was a child. A mortal child born in a world where the midnight sun did not set. A memory of sitting by the fire, clutching onto her mother…deathly afraid of what was to happen at the summer's end. Her breath catching as she held onto her knees, staring into the tunnel, the black hole visible through the open doorway.

That childhood fear that if she stared into the black, she would see the Stallos, the hideous giants of the underworld, creatures who sucked out the blood of mortals with an iron pipe. Memories of the day her mother took her to that cave and left her in the hands of Áris, her debt repaid and her child slated for a different life. A life of history, language, and lore…her nights spent in the dark and her days spent doing chores for one who could not leave the darkness of a cave. Áris whom she had served for sixteen years as a mortal, learning from her mentor and doing all that her mentor could not…only to find after sixteen years that her mother had given her up for a reason. That somehow… Áris and her mother had known she would take to the bite.

That she would give up the sun and retreat into darkness, her body to be the vessel of a bloodseer's legacy…far removed from the dangers of the coven. Far removed from the war that plagued those in the eastern lands. And for the first twenty years of her life as a Blood, she had believed herself to be…undead. The monster of the cave, the very Stallos that her mother had taught her to fear as a child. Over time, embracing the dark, believing that she and the dark were one. She remembered learning to fight. Learning to blend with the night. Learning to suck the blood of mortals with the teeth her mentor had given her. Learning that she would never age. That she would never die. She had believed Áris. Believed that Áris would be with her always…

But seated on the chair, for the first time, she remembered those early days. The days before she had descended into the underground…the days when her mother had protected her from the darkness of the caves. And for the first time, in a thousand years, she noticed the absence of her mother…

…and she remembered that she was afraid of the dark.

o…o…o

On the second day, she did not remember falling asleep…but she woke to find blood on the table. Rena had come and left again without waking her. She suspected Singe had also chosen to leave, for the blood was almost frozen as though it had been lying there for hours. Her teeth chattering as she supped, warming the blood in her mouth before swallowing. Her clothes already starting to feel…worn. Allegra had given her the clothes of a traveller. A woollen shirt covering her to the neck, the skirt replaced by breeches fitted as well as they could be, so that she might crawl unobstructed. She would need to clean them eventually…something to which she did not look forward; Rena had left an ice-cold bucket of water near the door…but she had a few days yet. She would not have to strip until absolutely necessary. The dark still causing her to hesitate, but the blood giving her some strength of mind. The reminder that she was a creature of the night. No longer mortal. No longer a child.

She set out for the first tunnel, forced to bend at the waist and crawl as the ceiling began to lower. The air growing thinner. The cold slowing her down. The gloves barely keeping her hands warm as she made her way to the first turning. Two holes above her head, both of them dark. Eying them askance, she passed carefully around them and took the right turn, continuing to take the right turn at each branch until she reached a dead-end. Another arrow-hole above her head…and a bone. Crushed beneath the weight of something large. Without touching it, she turned back…and took a left, eventually turning back again as she reached another fork. The maze and the tunnels starting to mirror one another. She would need some means of tracking her progress…eventually returning to the cell and coming to the conclusion that she would need only one blanket for warmth. A number of hours spent unravelling the fabric and strengthening the thread. Memories of working with wool, weaving clothes as a child. Strange that her strongest memories would begin so early…almost as though she were being reborn. Her life relived as she remembered it, starting as a child.

Seated at the table, she began to wind the thread into a ball, the process taking time. Arduous. Night and day passing without any sense of time. The sense of missing all that she had grown used to upstairs…warmth, companionship, Rena always waking her at seven. In the tunnels, there was no time. When she was hungry, she returned, drinking cold blood…and as soon as she was stronger, she embarked once more into each of the tunnels. Despairing as the layout became unclear, the turns more frequent, the floor and ceiling less stable…at one point, reaching a collapsed section, gashing her knee before she had cause to turn back. He had not lied when he told her it was neverending. A labyrinth…a revelation of what these lycans had been doing in secret for the past millennium, the lengths they had gone to survive beneath the noses of both mortals and vampires alike. Her movements becoming slower. The earth nestling her in its grave-like womb, so that after a time, it was as though she had always been there. The exhaustion and cold leading her to sleep, hours and hours of sleep in the tunnel that had become her new home.

o…o…o

December 22, 1899. Elsewhere.

Hot fire in the pit, sparks flying, the heat welcome despite the sweat pouring down his back. The itch retreating as the days passed. He had been coming down here for almost a week now, heating and clamping the different grades of metal, hammering them into the shapes that he required. One particular piece taking his attention this evening, the long hours of work spent in anticipation of what was to be a day of gift-giving…or the casting off of debts, depending on how one looked at the subject. Naturally, there had been some debate as to whether or not he had lost that bet against Allegra, but for the sake of…goodwill, he supposed…he was willing to admit defeat and make an effort on behalf of Raze. Nothing overt…

Just a simple knife.

The mirror of one he had made about three hundred years ago. Raze had admired the balance, and being less inclined towards keeping his own handiwork, he had tossed it to the man without regret. Little did they know it would end up at the bottom of a river, three days later, stuck in the back of someone's armour. Hindsight. Having no time to go back, they had moved on, but he suspected Raze had felt some…irritation…at losing the knife so quickly. He had intended to reshape the blade, however…one thing led to another and three hundred years passed. Obviously, he would make a few improvements. Not as much twist in the hilt. A few alterations in the grade of metal. The wolfhead shaped with more detail. Better tools making for a better weapon…

His thoughts moving down two separate paths as his ears pricked up. Behind, he could hear two sets of footsteps. Light and heavy…a child and an adult, the first likely to be Sabine and the second too light to be Raze—who was being kept from the forge by Allegra—which left Rena. The back door opening, the excited gasp of the younger and the silence of the older confirming his analysis. He continued pounding at the blade, knowing Rena would keep Sabine back from the heat. The colour of the metal leading him to put it in on the coals again, watching it carefully, unwilling to drop his tasks for the sake of a greeting…the two of them taking a seat on the bench to wait, Sabine on the edge, nearly bursting with questions, but kept quiet by Rena. Likely a deal had been struck. Quiet in exchange for seeing the lycan-master in his forge. Fifteen minutes passing as he continued to work until finally…

…steam rising. The blade sitting in a vat of water, quenched until he had time to work on the handle. Sabine threatening to leap off the bench and Rena taking her by the arm, holding her back. He turned, stepping away from the heat, wiping his hands on the leather apron. Lycan or mortal, a burn was a burn…and despite only having suffered about two serious accidents in his lifetime, having the ability to heal one's skin did not make it hurt any less. Approaching a second bucket and dousing a cloth, he wiped some of the grime away before turning to face them. Rena blank in the eyes, and Sabine mesmerised by the coals. The scratch across her cheek starting to heal up nicely, the hair covering her missing ear. Her eyes lighting up as she saw the other project he was working on, the broken sword sitting in pieces on one of the tables. The eagerness growing in her mouth…

He cut it in half. "No."

"But I…"

"I'll think about it when you're seventy…" He flung the cloth onto the table and found a stool, dragging it over to sit in front of them. "Rena, you have about a minute and thirty-eight seconds before that fire starts changing colour, so I'd suggest you report now."

"She's stopped moving."

He stopped himself from picking at his teeth. Grime in mouth…not such a good idea. "If she's stopped moving, that means she's stopped moving away from the den. Call me when things get dire…" He got up again.

"She does not return to the cells either." The words barely above a murmur. Rena smelling as though she did not care, while her presence spoke volumes. He had given her the task of watching over Reinette as she traversed the tunnels, her days and nights spent on the second level of the catacombs, peering through the arrow holes. Her eyes now on the ground as she described what was going on several meters below their feet… "She barely eats…she does not move…" The final sentence taking much out her apathy.

"Is she alive?"

"Yes."

"Then she has made her bed and she is lying in it." He picked up the tongs, moving onto more interesting matters. The little girl that had fallen into his lap three years ago. She had moved onto Rena's lap, but was following the conversation fiercely, her eyes moving from one to the other. Red hair. Grey eyes. She might still have an ear if he had brought her across the Channel sooner. Her scent reminding him of himself, reminding him of that short period in the seventeenth century when he had lost track of the moons. The only time in seven hundred years during which he could have fathered a line unknowingly. No way of knowing now unless they could trace her ancestors back to the seventeenth century. Even then, he had no proof beyond the words of a dead woman that he was her grandsire… "Sabine, tell me…do you recall what Allegra said in the dining hall yesterday?"

She nodded obediently, eager to latch onto any attention he happened to drop in her direction. A quick child. Quick on her feet and surprisingly good at listening given her wound.

He leaned forward, bending down so he was at her level. "And assuming I were to follow the instructions of your godmother, if I were to take time out of my busy schedule and make you something that was neither sharp nor dangerous, what would that be?"

"A knife."

"Correct." He was now examining a small piece of steel left over from one of the scraps he had used earlier. "…and when Allegra asks you what I am giving you this solstice, you will tell her…"

"A doll."

"Excellent." He straightened up and went over to work the bellows, watching the coals heat up again. Not often in his nature to make things for people…but the season was upon them. Four days until his personal version of hell broke loose in the floors above them. Singing, raucous behaviour…people attempting to strike up conversations about…charity, peace, and goodwill towards others. Reinette might envy those above her, but in many ways, he envied the silence of those catacombs.

The peace that could be found in a grave.

o…o…o

And so it was that for the first time, since being charged with Reinette's care, that Rena found herself facing a dilemma. Below ground, she watched from her perch, the arrow slot she peered through seeming to hold the body of her charge, the head leaning against the one edge and the feet against the other. For days, she watched. Silent and steadfast. The chest rising and falling…but the eyes closed. Asleep.

Instinct telling her to check the pulse, but the instructions of Lucian telling her to let the woman be…her belief in her task leading her to look beyond distraction, impatience…the capacity of a leader to misjudge danger for the mere fact that if he could survive something then everyone else should be able to as well. On such things, she had no opinion…

…and so she waited for something dire to happen. The chest slowing with every turn of the hourglass. The breath fading from the woman's mouth. A single thought touching in her subconscious.

It would happen soon.

A/N: We're slightly ahead of schedule, so might be reaching the "Christmas" chapter a little before Christmas (oh well). Many thanks to Kassandra203, Celtic_Aurora, Mackenzie, xtremediva13, and lillytuttle for the reviews! As always, feel free to read and review.

Kassandra203: Me too...I keep wanting to skip ahead, but feels like she needs to get through this period of her life before she can develop into the character I see her becoming.

Celtic Aurora: Mmm...Lucian in an oatmeal bath. Expect lots of denial as to whether or not it's required, a modicum of disdain as he attempts to get comfortable with the idea, followed by an eventual testing of the waters, his head drifting off and Langley finding him asleep after about fifteen minutes. (Though he would never admit to finding it comfortable. ;)) Hoping to pull together Reinette's memories as chronologically as possible (that idea of being reborn into one's self slowly...though she's probably going to have difficulty after finding out about a certain someone's role in the death of the bloodseers. Problematic conversations ahead...)

Mackenzie: Nightrunner indeed! (Still planning on changing a number of details in that one after Prelude finished, but the aconitum will definitely stay.) I do feel bad for her though...she keeps trying to build up her mental armour and he keeps walking in without a shirt and kicking it over by accident. Bad Lucian!

xtremediva13: Glad you're still reading! (Also looking forward to youth...a lot. Still a few more chapter to go, but definitely closer. :))

lillytuttle: Indeed, she will. ^_^ (Very pleased that you enjoy the detail!)