Chapter LXXI: The Dredges of Memory
Three hours later.
Her veil was on the floor. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling rose. It was just a rumour, she decided. A foolish song from her memories. And yet, she was caught in its chorus, the lilt that spoke of cruelty and revenge. A song that reminded her how little she knew of his origins. All the terrible things he might have done. The revenge he might have taken upon Viktor or even the…
…the daughter.
The thought made her sick.
Blood, what had he done… In her heart, trying not to let rumour shape her opinions, but in her memories, remembering his nails in that wall. The warning he gave her. His voice all too calm, his politeness returned, and the blood on his face decrying him for what he was. Cruel…ruthless…and insane. As though his face was unravelling…
…and how well did she know him?
Really.
The death of the Elder's daughter something she…knew…but never saw mentioned in the lycan histories. All her forays lending a horrific colour to the possibilities. It was said that at the start of the war, Viktor offered a truce. Surrender to the coven, he'd said. He'd promised them forgiveness. Sanctuary. Instead, the few who came were brought before a tribunal, judged for their sins…and then…
…set alight.
The infamous trial by fire.
And for an hour, she struggled in its aftermath. The ceiling rose taking her into its embrace, like a clock moving backwards, forcing her to confront the moment when she first saw it. The ease with which he'd swayed her speaking of how ill she'd thought of him at the time. You were married, she'd said to him, and his smile had faltered. And at the time, she'd seen it as a passing union. A lady not worth speaking on. A single mark among dozens for why else would he frequent the number of women that he did…
But she could see it now. Every hollow laugh. All their conversations on meaning and nothingness. Every night in the past three years when he'd confessed to tiredness at the prospect of another fight with Sabine. His difficulties with the girl taking on new meaning as she attempted to put the mystery of this absent woman into context. Trying to imagine who this woman had been—this grandmother…or great-grandmother of Sabine who had died so terribly.
All of it forcing her to confront what she was truly feeling. For twelve years, he had been there for her. Forcing her to stand when she would not walk. Coaxing her back from every edge, daring her to laugh when she could not feel. On nights when she could see no purpose, his presence had been a boon to her soul. And she had not realised. Every hair on her skin threatening to unveil itself…
She sat up.
She had not known.
Even when she'd seen it all those years ago. Years before his mask had been stripped, years before she understood what it meant to see him drowning beneath its weight. At the first sign of adversity, she'd focused on herself. Her own fears. Her own anxieties about his past. For all these years, she had watched him, dreaming of a future that would never be…while he dreamed of a past that was forever lost.
Worse, she'd lost sight of his capacity to feel pain. His secret…that terrible secret…starting to burn into her soul like the H in her side. On an execution floor, they burned his wife to death, forced him to watch—and for twelve hours, left him there. Like an afterthought. Like he was nothing.
All of it so meaningless, she realised. All of the war and the death… her anger rising, filling her with bitterness until she was…shaking…and then…
…empty.
She felt like nothing.
As though all the emotions she could not feel had been wrapped in a single shade of grey. All the pain she had for not being able to touch him. To feel anything. To show anything. All she could feel was sorrow. Sorrow for her lost youth. Sorrow for her lost future. Sorrow for his wife—this absent lady whose death had been his undoing. All of it leaving her feeling so empty. The last few years suddenly seeming so…recent. The opium addiction, his depression, the misery he must have been feeling.
And with that, she came full circle. Nothing had changed. The sky was still black, the leaves were still falling, and regardless of how she now felt, the clock was still turning.
Only she felt like pitying him now.
She wept.
o…o…o
Six days later.
She'd stopped crying. Mostly with the assistance of blood-wine provided by Rena. Her eyes no longer red and puffy, and the wine giving her the general sensation of feeling nothing, which she believed to be necessary considering the level of unexpected emotion she was now feeling. Her ability to avoid certain people significantly assisted by the wine, so that—instead of doing her studies or going for walks—she was spending most evenings in bed now.
It was quite the arrangement.
She would wake at nine and then drink until twelve. Other than Rena providing her meals, she had exactly four conversations with Sabine on a daily basis, all of which involved making general sounds of commiseration while the girl complained about being forced to go to some dinner or other. More importantly, by keeping close to Sabine in the early hours of her night, as a direct and desired consequence, she rarely saw Lucian.
And when she did happen to see him, he was either tinkering with leather straps on the dining room table or heading for his forge to retrieve a screwdriver. His current obsession with all things mechanical proving itself a worthy accomplice that kept him out of her way with very little effort on her part. If he suggested a walk or riding, she'd confess to a headache. He'd frown at her for ten seconds and then shrug, after which she'd leave him to the sitting room. Often passing Freyja on her way out.
A fact that might have riled her had she not been so busy retrieving blood-wine from his drinks cabinet on the way back to her quarters. She was doomed to her form. She was not getting any younger, she decided. So why not…
…at least the girl was not foolish. Or cruel. Or spiteful. Like a breath of fresh air on an Arctic swim, she thought grimly, settling herself back into her bed with the bottle in her hand. Content to bury herself under her covers and certain now that if she died from too much marrow, he could rest easy knowing she'd gone in a state of useless wallowing, having surrendering to the inevitability of her circumstances. Aware that she was growing more bitter and for the presence of that bitterness, choosing to despise herself.
Although to be fair, for most of those initial days, she was in an alcoholic stupor that prevented her from doing even that. Raze continuing to eye her any time she happened to be in the same corridor as him, but her sense of self-preservation simply leading her to walk faster and in the opposite direction. His general lack of communication with her suggesting that he was taking the road of avoidance as well. Not entirely sure if she had heard anything and unwilling to question her in the event that she had not.
In any case, it was an arrangement that suited them both. He'd say nothing, and she'd stumble into her bed after sunrise, confident that she could no longer feel anything and the cycle would start again the next evening.
o…o…o
The matter finally coming to an end a full week after she'd been in the library, a night when Rena had inexplicably failed to bring her meals, thereby forcing her to come downstairs after the blood-wine ran out. Her initial instinct to pour herself blood and leave immediately curtailed by the unexpected reality of Lucian's boots descending upon the dining room approximately two minutes after she wandered in.
He was looking particularly well put together. The Norfolk jacket suggesting a planned excursion, one that apparently required enough decorum that he was willing to fasten the deer horn buttons. Likely a riding excursion for two, she realised, reaching for her newspaper and unfolding the damned thing. Her head was pounding, so it was like trying to read grain.
All of which did little to manage her quandary. The possibility of a legion of his guests or possibly just the one leading her into one of two possible outcomes. Either she drank quickly and left, in which case he would suspect something was off. Or she drank slowly, focused on her newspaper, and prayed to blood he was too busy to notice that she was reading what now appeared to be grain disintegrating into alcohol.
He'd already aimed for the buffet, circumspectly checking the closest pot to see how much blood was left and then proceeding to pour himself a cup.
His face filled with very little expression as he turned, leaning back against the sideboard, ignoring the cornucopia of game that had been laid out for his glory. Staring at her for a good twenty seconds. "You know you look dreadful?"
And so it begins, she thought with a sigh. Refusing to bite, instead crossing her legs and taking another sip from her cup. "Do I?"
He nodded without further comment. The need to get on with things eventually prompting him to fill a breakfast plate with a variety of selections, all of it rare, before he picked up the marrow bowl and came to sit down across from her.
"Late morning?"
She shrugged into her drink. "No more than usual."
He added a teaspoon of marrow to his cup. "Trouble sleeping?"
"No."
"Do you need me to call Singe?"
"Oh for bloods' sake, Lyosha," she said with a grimace, glancing up at him. A little too quickly. Masking the moment with a rustle of her newspaper, the kind that did not take kindly to people treating her as an invalid. "I mean, if you wish, but…" She returned her focus to the paper. "…honestly I see no reason."
He was stirring his cup with a back and forth motion. "Only you seem off."
She looked up from the newspaper. "How so?"
"Well, you've had…" He removed the spoon and placed it on the saucer, directly behind the cup. "…headaches for five out of the last five evenings, you rarely leave your quarters, and if your breath is any indication, Reinette, you've been drinking since sunset."
"So?"
"So you're feeling alright?"
He was speaking with a precision that suggested he was giving her a final chance before he shut the door on her catacomb.
She held her ground.
"Yes."
He picked up his cup. "Good," he said. "Then I was thinking we could do the Danish around one—sober, if you can manage it."
Blood…
…damn him.
"If you wish," she said, resuming her perusal of the newspaper.
"I do," he answered. Still staring at her. His decision to learn Danish two months ago partially inspired by the understanding that—as part of her compensation for stealing his stash four years ago—regardless of whether he had time to perfect a translation, he could call on her to complete or correct it before dawn.
Eventually, putting his own cup down without having tasted it and picking up his newspaper as well. The rest of the next three minutes passing in a cold silence before her head got the better of her. Returning once more to the buffet table, she filled the cup again with blood, returned to the table, added another teaspoon of marrow, and then left the hall.
o…o…o
It was a subtle revenge.
Callous to choose a moment when he knew she was struggling with something, but necessary according to his estimation of how long it would take to get the blood-wine out of her veins. The next few hours spent in her quarters, taking it in turns to wretch over her wash-basin and scrawl the first of his translations down, until precisely at one, she found herself knocking on the door to his study. The stench on her own breath repugnant enough that in addition to accepting that she was not in a mood for talking, he took it as a given that she was at least wearing her veil for the sake of the surrounding air quality.
Except she was now fully sober.
A state which she could tolerate, if she had not been stuck in his study, slowly having her mind corroded by the act of watching him in all his normality. For example, rather than behaving wretchedly as she'd imagined him countless times for the past seven days, he was now seated at his desk, directly across from her, examining his boot while flicking an unlit matchstick between his teeth.
His decision a fortnight ago to relinquish smoking likely inspired by Sabine formally announcing to the world in general that she found chewing tobacco to be a 'disgusting habit.' An announcement that was soon followed by him formally snapping his newspaper shut, picking up his tobacco and stating—to the world in general—that if she hated it so much, perhaps they should just ban it from the upper house. The last two weeks of grey-eyed tension seeming like a dream compared to the hell she was currently facing.
And yet he sounded…he looked…in a word, content. Or sublime, as he liked to say. The satisfaction of having two revenges in one week removing the general air of chastisement he'd been wearing at breakfast. Leading her to believe he might be taking his preferred road, that of live and let live, provided the one living did not openly challenge him about tobacco in a parlour. The kind of attitude that allowed him to conclude she was merely on a drinking stint, something that he could fully understand and saw no reason to judge provided she could still speak Danish.
All of which failed to make an impact on the stack of papers currently sitting in front of her. Papers everywhere. Strewn about the floor, stuck beneath his chair…stacked upon the carpet. He appeared to be exercising his right to ignore all the papers and instead spend the hour waiting for his translations, while he sketched on the back of horde missives.
She had yet to speak.
The absence of alcohol having unleashed all that she was trying not to think on. Trying to focus on the next translation, but her throat starting to seize every time she looked at him. There was an implied gravity in his movements. Like the melancholy had taken root in her gut, colouring the world around her with pain and sorrow.
Yes.
She could see it now.
He was deep in his work, using the pen to shade the last touches of light and shadow. What must he be thinking, she wondered. What must he be feeling… The intensity of her gaze, the unflinching stare eventually drawing his notice.
He glanced up…
…looked from her to his sketch and then with very little ceremony, he flipped his pen onto the table and held up the finished work. Her curiosity rewarded in full as she searched for meaning in his composition.
It was…
…a caricature of Gautier, the lycan finance minister. One of their more frequent guests of late. He'd been drawn—in great detail—riding a pig and eating his own excrement. The cityscape behind accurately depicting the Parisian skyline, save for where one of the clouds had mysteriously turned into a scantily-clad woman cupping her own breasts.
Remarkable, she thought. As usual, the scope of his daily thoughts was more limited than she expected. Without comment, she shifted the first translation from her side of the desk to his side.
He picked up the pages, flipped them over and began sketching again. The lines starting to resemble a second scantily-clad woman, only this time with four breasts.
A brief moment of irritation threatened to take hold. She had spent an hour on that. All of it ebbing away as she grimaced, bit her tongue, and then considered the flurry of pages around her. Who was she to judge him, she thought. Digging deeper into her chair and starting to berate herself. Of course he acted the way he did…
He was suffering.
Perhaps she even had the timing wrong. For all she knew, Sabine was his daughter. Which meant he was mourning his wife, while trying to raise their child. He'd even told her once. She'd asked him what was wrong with him and he'd told her 'lots of things.' The thought filling her with a strange desire to just…reach out to him. He must be feeling so…
He chucked his pen at her. "Time of the month?"
She looked up…
…and inhaled, forcing herself to breathe in the fury before she threw her chair across the room. Refusing to give in to the urge. Instead, reaching down to the carpet, swiping his pen up and placing it firmly back on his desk without comment. She was civilised. She was a vampire…and since her Awakening, she'd had negligible levels of bleeding, so he could take his pen and choke on it for all she cared. A small…affronted…portion of her memories wondering how a lycan could even know such a thing. But her brief hiatus into anger failing to last more than a minute.
She broke.
Incapable of looking at him. Trying to mask the moment by gathering her veil closer. It was ridiculous for her to be feeling this way, she told herself. She had work to do…
…and she felt nothing. Not sorrow. Not melancholy. She was a thousand years old and she was unaffected by his circumstance, she decided. Determined now to ground herself in logic and contemplation as she pulled the next translation from the pile. Forcing herself to scowl at it.
Except it was too late.
He was refusing to break gaze. Continuing to survey her without comment. Clearly aware that something was still off, but unable to put his finger on why…
…and now under the impression that he could stare the answer out of her.
The unfortunate nature of their association having long since put the odds in his favour.
He crumpled up his drawing. "Someone told you, didn't they?"
She looked up.
Oh blood…
"I was…"
Caught.
She looked down…and then up…
Make a choice…
She swallowed…and then stood, taking a step back. Trying to explain before it escalated. "…they were talking…and he said it…and I tried not to hear it. But I heard it…and now I am…" She was struggling not to say it, but there seemed to be no other word for it. "…sorry."
He was scowling.
Like a world of restless awkwardness had just descended upon them, the man for once unable to look at her as he started to pick at his boot again. Eventually shifting back in his chair with an exhale. "Well fuck," he said. Flicking the matchstick onto the desk beside the crumpled drawing.
Which was a perfect cue for her to leave, she decided. Slipping the incomplete translation onto his desk and trying to gather anything remotely related to her person—mortification included—so she could promptly crawl back to her quarters and just…die. Her hand almost at the door before curiosity got the better of him.
"Which one," he called out, leaning over the desk to retrieve both pen and paper before sitting back.
This close.
She eyed the handle…and then turned around. "Singe."
He grimaced, flattening the paper out and continuing his sketch. Apparently he was recovered enough to finish the fourth breast. "Short version or long?"
"Short."
"How short?"
Twelve hours on an execution floor talking to your dead wife, she thought miserably, reaching for the door handle.
He pointed the pen at her. "Reinette."
She blurted it out in a rush…
…and then…
Fuck, she thought.
o…o…o
Twelve minutes later.
She was sitting on her hands. The armchair providing some support for they each had their respective places now, whether it was in his study or her sitting room. Possibly the last time she'd have a respective place, she realised. Wishing to blood she had just kept her mouth shut. Blood, what had she been thinking…
…and in theory, if he killed her now, though she'd fight it, a portion of her would be debating whether it was warranted. Granted he'd made no movement towards the knife in his boot, and other than warning her that he would destroy her box-camera if she left, he had yet to say anything. Instead spending the majority of his time fiddling with his pen and scowling at the window.
"It was not twelve hours," he said abruptly.
She tried to sink deeper. "May I go now?"
"No," he snapped. "…at least not smelling like that."
Like what, she sighed in her thoughts, shifting miserably in her chair.
"Pity," he scowled, looking up at her. Still riffling through his desk. Knowing full-well what her facial expressions meant and perfectly capable of calling her out on it. His movements agitated enough that it took a good four minutes for him to find the tobacco, fill the bowl of his pipe, and test the draw several times before abruptly giving up on the damned thing.
"Exactly when did you…"
"A week ago."
He was back in the drawer again. This time retrieving the mother-of-pearl cigarette case he'd confiscated from Sabine the previous evening. "And why didn't you say anything?"
Because I am a self-centred monster, she thought candidly. Staring off into the distance as she managed to lie in a more constructive manner. "You seemed occupied."
"Mm." He finished lighting one of the cigarettes and extinguished the match. "Look, I think if we can just…"
She was eying the door.
"…take a moment to…"
It felt like his voice was descending into an unintelligible murmur. Like that time when Singe started teaching her anatomical terms in English. Every single…term…of the blood-forsaken female reproductive system…recited in the droning voice of Singe. She felt like shaking her head. She didn't want to be here. She understood what he was saying, she was fully aware of how it worked, and she wanted…
…to leave…
…now.
He was failing to address the level of panic rising from her chair. "I mean…" He scratched the back of his neck. "…as I said before, I was not… I mean, it was not exactly twelve hours—so I think as long as we're clear about that, then you…" He was speaking more to the cigarette than her. "…you have the general gist of things, so maybe we should just…you know, leave it at that."
She nodded.
Eagerly.
The morbidity of her thoughts already having stripped his entire sentence into individual components. Her mind suddenly sheering off a cliff into the nightmare of her imagination, all while staring blankly into space. It was probably longer than twelve hours. All of his torturers surrounding him like monsters while they beat him…and spat on him…and then tied him to an execution floor so he could lose his mind while trying to converse with a dead woman.
He aggressively shifted his chair forward. "Can you stop smelling like that?"
It was the aggression that did it. Completely uncalled for…and typical. The moment snapping her out of the melancholy. "Can you stop yelling at me?"
He pointed an accusatory finger at her. "Fix it."
"How?"
"I don't know," he retorted. "Think of something."
o…o…o
Thirteen minutes later.
They'd stopped yelling.
He'd abandoned the pipe and the cigarettes now. The amount of cannabis he was smoking starting to lend itself to the conversation, if not lengthening his answers.
She was still staring off into space. Reflecting on her options. He could just kill her. They could just accept that she felt sorry for him and he could kill her. The unexpected sound of him snapping his fingers initially making her flinch before a quick glance told her what he was after.
Oh.
Briefly annoyed, she moved her veil aside, took one more draw and then reached forward to hand the smoke back across the desk. "I thought you'd just talk."
He took it. "So ask something."
"Now?"
He made a curt motion as though it ought to be explicit. He'd not taught her the signs, but occasionally, after twelve years, he'd do one without thinking. Neither of them quite looking at one another. As though they were about to dive without knowing if there were rocks below.
Blood.
She breathed…
…and took a metaphorical step forward, choosing to peer over the cliff while holding firmly onto the ledge. "Was it recent?"
"Define recent."
"Last century?"
"Fifteenth."
Well, that was…
She squinted.
…better.
The five centuries that had passed seeming like a light at the end of the tunnel. Or at least a dim possibility. Except if five centuries had passed, then why were Raze and Singe still treating him like he was unhinged… It was getting harder to control the expression on her face.
He exhaled. "You're wondering why I still have issues after five hundred years?"
Yes.
"No," she said out loud. "I just…"
He handed her the smoke. "Say it, Reinette."
"Alright, fine," she grimaced. Taking the smoke. Moving the veil out of the way again. And then with a sharp motion, removing the entire thing and dropping it to the ground. "…why do you have issues after five hundred years?"
He was looking remarkably tired. "Because I didn't talk about it for four hundred and thirty-two years."
"What does that mean exactly?"
"I didn't talk about it."
"Ever?"
He shook his head.
"How?"
"I…" He'd started massaging his knuckles. "…keep things timed in my memories. And after it happened, we were at war…and I needed to…" He considered the word. "…function. So I made it separate."
She considered nodding slowly, but that would be pretending as though her mouth had not fallen open. The majority of her post-sober mind still trying to take it all in. "You time your memories?"
"Yes."
They continued to sit there for a few minutes.
He focusing on his knuckles and she gingerly looking over her shoulder. All the clocks in his study suddenly sharpening into focus. There were three on each wall. Each one timed according to a different city in the world, but twelve in total when she counted. Twelve clocks. And her mouth moving again, the smoke in her hand pointing at one before she could stop it. "Is that why you count?"
There was a lengthy pause this time. His eye stuck on one of the butterfly display cases. He seemed to be weighing something. Picking up another matchstick and starting to flick it back and forth between his fingers again. His choice to trust the situation eventually resulting in him putting the matchstick down, thumbing the side of his jaw and then giving a careful but firm nod. As though he preferred not to agree to that statement, but they had gone too far already to dispute it.
Blood.
"And what prompted you to…talk?"
He was still not quite looking her in the eye. Both of his thumbs pressed together as he abruptly got up. Going to the display case, eying the frame and then using his thumb to wipe what appeared to be an atom of dust that had escaped the notice of the cleaning staff.
"Well, apparently I…" And it seemed to be something that was hearsay to himself. "…about seventy years ago, there was a Council meeting…and I…" He lowered his thumb, still staring at the frame. "…broke…something. And…it got worse…from there, so now…" He put his hands in his pockets and looked up. "…I talk about it."
"With Singe?"
He was looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Yes."
"But not anymore?"
"No."
Right.
Maybe not a reason to pity him. And yet still—officially—the last conversation under the sun that she wanted to be having with him. "And who…" This was awkward. "…who ordered the execution?"
He breathed in…
…and then returned to his seat. "Viktor."
Her heart sank.
There was a finality to that name. Certainly the most…cruel…of the three Elders if the histories were to be trusted. All of it threatening to draw up that…feeling again. Her eyes struggling to find something to focus on…
…and then settling on her fingers. The slight burning sensation suggesting she might be a minute or two away from setting the carpet on fire.
She held it up in question.
He leaned forward to take it before settling back into his chair. Taking a slow, deep breath and letting some of the smoke filter to the ceiling, while she watched him. Not quite sure what to say…
"Look, I know you don't want to hear it," she said softly. "…but I am sorry."
He quirked an eye. "Reinette, you're supposed to be feeling less sorry for me."
"I know, but…" Like trying to force a layer of logic over her thoughts, her desire to keep things rational leading her to lean upon the books that had been her solace for the last twelve years. "…honestly, Lyosha, the first time I read it, I just saw it as numbers and history. It never occurred to me that you were one of them."
A lazy posture had entered his bearing. "How'd you read about it?"
"Well, it's in the Corpus Historae."
"No it's not."
"Yes, it is."
He gave a soft, ever so slightly disdainful, laugh. "Reinette, I removed that section, so I guarantee you…it's not."
But…
It felt like they were veering closer to their normal state of affairs. That being a keen sense of righteousness that told her if she shook a book at his head long enough, he would eventually see things her way. She bit her tongue. "Are we talking about the same thing?"
He'd finally stopped staring at the ceiling. Instead surveying her now with the kind of expression that told her he couldn't trust himself to answer that question after twelve years. "I highly doubt it."
"Well, how do we know?"
"You first."
"Trial by fire."
"Absolution," he said without missing a beat. Staring at her with the kind of look that suggested he was mildly interested to see where she'd go with this one.
Absolution…
It felt like the smoke was clouding her judgment. She frowned, attempting to put two and two together and coming back with a negative. Her memories unable to reconcile the death of this woman—likely a foremother of Sabine—with the term from her memories.
To absolve someone of their crimes to the coven would have required the ruling of an entire council…and for a lycan, it would have been unprecedented.
She gave up. "How is that possible?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, if…" It had already occurred to her that she was treading on very dangerous ground. "…if they were using the laws of the Covenant…and if it was right at the start of the war, then I don't see how there could be a sentencing of that nature against…"
"Against what?"
He'd cut in.
Continuing to stare at her. Taking another draw from the smoke as he did. Likely knowing exactly what she was about to say, but still giving her the choice to say it out loud, so he could explain to the cleaning staff why they needed to remove her entrails off the ceiling. But they always spoke directly in this room…
…and if he really wanted her behaving normally, then he'd have to forgive the term, she decided. "A creature of…a lesser race," she finished…firmly holding his eye. And less firmly holding her ground on account of it being a legal term, however unwarranted. It sounded awful when she said it out loud.
She quickly proceeded to the footnotes. "I know the term is…highly problematic, but it still stands…" The cannabis was definitely slowing her down. "…that any woman termed as such…" She paused for effect. "…brought before the Council…would have been charged under a different section of the law."
"A lesser race?"
She felt her cheeks flush. "I didn't mean…"
"No, it's…" He was looking slightly mystified. "…I know the term," he said after a minute. Surveying her for a good ten seconds before stubbing out the last of his smoke. "I just…" He seemed lost for words. "…somehow thought…"
He was clearly waiting for something. Both of them staring at one another and he seeming to think that if he just stared at her, she would pick up on it. Her reactions slow enough that it still took her an additional fifteen seconds to audibly prompt him.
"Thought what?"
He started to speak…and then trailed off again with a careful squint. She was not getting it. Rather than explain, he took a moment to retrieve two glasses and a bottle from the drinks cabinet. Bikaver. Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, he set both glasses down, poured two fingers in each and shifted one across the desk towards her. It took less than half that time for her to realise what he meant. Not…
…a lesser race.
She felt dim. "But you said…"
"I said I was married." He put that forward. "…but I never said she was lycan."
"Mortal."
She said it to no avail. Grasping at straws…always a means of putting off the inevitable.
He picked up his glass and settled back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. Wrong again. Continuing to stare, no doubt contemplating her reaction as she had contemplated his. And why would he not? She'd spent the last eleven years assuming that her vision had represented something…
…unique.
Except it was not. The last ounce of air left her lungs. She stood up. There was an awkward silence. "But you…" She turned to the door…and then sat down again, forced to take a moment. "…does everyone know?
"Yes."
"Freyja?"
"Yes."
She swallowed. "Rena?"
He was not changing his tone. "Yes."
"Sabine?"
"Blood, I hope not," he said. Seeming to watch a nightmare unfold at the concept. As though there were limits for what he was prepared to handle when it came to dealing with a girl who was rapidly falling out of his reach.
"Well, I feel like…" Like she'd been wearing a coat for several years only to find out it belonged to someone else. Not just someone else. His wife. She downed her glass. "…I feel obtuse," she finished.
"Not obtuse." He poured two more fingers into her glass. "Just misinformed."
She took the glass. Warmth seeping into her veins. The alcohol making her hands steady again. "Alright," she said, trying to just…accept it. Her scent was in control. She was in control. Her hands were steady, and she could deal with this information. "You married a Blood."
"I married a Blood," he said, nodding with the kind of expression that said he would be there when she was ready to stop going in circles. All the while, his hand reaching over for his drink, taking a long look at its contents. Clearly starting to wonder if he needed something stronger.
"But…" She was still trying to find her way through the confusion. "…how exactly did you…marry?"
He stared at her…
…and then barked a laugh. "Is that code for something?"
"No," she said quickly. "I know there's nothing stopping us…" Blood, why did she have to say it in the first-person? It was hanging in the air between them. Things she had not thought on for years…fate…dreams…abomination. She took another sip to mask the pause. In the same moment, realising that his expression had not changed and he was still waiting for her to finish her sentence. That the word 'us' merely referred to their species for him, and that if he had to categorise her as something, it would probably be a piece of furniture.
Old furniture, she realised sensibly, putting her glass down. "I just find it…surprising."
"How so?"
"Well, how does a blacksmith and a vampire…"
"Death dealer."
You liar, she almost said.
Clapping her mouth shut before it happened this time.
But it was…
…inconceivable.
A death dealer…and a lycan. It felt like she was trying to map the stars using the grain she'd been watching dissolve into alcohol three hours ago. "How?"
"How what?"
"Just…"
Despite the plethora of questions in her mind, she'd reached the point of single syllables.
"…how?"
That earned her another laugh.
A short one, but a moment of mirth nonetheless. His expression one of slight distrust, as though he'd not expected to laugh while telling the story…
…and then he rubbed his neck. The taste of the wine failing to sit well the moment he swallowed it.
"We grew up together," he finally said. Placing his glass upon the desk and running a finger along the rim. "I use the term loosely—of course…she was…of a different standing, but…" He breathed out. "We were both in training…and when I was…eleven, my…" The smile started to fade around the edges. "…my master decided to pit me against the Death Dealer apprentices."
And as she watched, she could see it. So clearly. The dirt and misery that had been his childhood. All the pauses between his words, as though a lifetime of…cruelty…existed between every syllable.
And then he just…
…moved on, tapping his finger on the desk, as though he needed the reminder. As though by doing so, he could steady himself back in the study, his image once again resolving into a modern man in his natural habitat. Letting the words fall into oblivion.
"In any case, I survived," he said. Pulling the pen over to his side of the desk again and removing the last page from one of her translations. "…when we were older, sparring became duels. Duels became hunting parties, and eventually, she began to hunt…alone."
He flipped the paper over and started to sketch on the back. "Of course, at the time…" She could see him finding his voice again, the act of sketching already starting to add an ebb and flow to his words. "…the concept of a lycan being no more than a dog was still rampant, so the faithful hound was allowed to accompany her."
"So you…" It felt as though they'd stepped onto hallowed ground. The words giving her a sense of holding something. That for once…for once she had to be careful. Her voice feeling unnaturally careful as she spoke. "…you loved her from the start?"
He glanced up…
…and then snorted. "Blood, no," he said. "I thought she was quicker than the others…and I think she might have returned the sentiment, but…" He frowned. "…in terms of love, I'd say my initial impression revolved around her being…" He started listing them off. "…spoilt, a bit rusty in tight corners, and a bit heavy around the jaw when she was telling you off…" He shrugged, continuing to work on his sketch. "…which was all the time."
There was a crease growing on her forehead. The sensation that if she were to die of blood-poisoning in that moment, her gravestone would have the words 'This was not how she imagined it' etched into the bottom. "She told you off?"
"Daily…for about nineteen years," he muttered. "…and for stupid reasons." He touched his chest. "…and just so we're clear, I know I wasn't anything to write home about, but coh, she was awful."
It was getting worse. "I thought you said you were faithful."
"To Viktor, not her." He said it indifferently, but there was a glaze across one eye. "I had yet to…fully understand…the extent to which I would come to hate what I saw as a father figure." He seemed none too keen to speak of Viktor. He raised his pen for a moment, holding his thumb against one side. "In any case, by the time we were about twenty, twenty one…" He resumed sketching. "…I was sent away to learn my trade and when I came back, ten years later, she was a full-fledged Death Dealer." And then he stopped sketching, seeming to reflect upon the moment. "Wearing very well-fitted armour."
She was feeling remarkably blank. "Yes, it's amazing how that can transform a woman."
"Exactly," he said. Glancing up every now and then, still continuing to sketch. "One minute—she's a snotty brat. And then I walk in a decade later, and blood, I didn't see that coming."
Right.
She wanted to strangle herself with her veil. He was ruining it for her. At least they were back on safer ground now where she could judge him and find him lacking for some reason or other. "So you loved…" She paused purposefully. "…her armour?"
He failed to hear her tone.
"Well, it wasn't just the armour…" Instead taking it as an invitation to use his pen to gesture. "She had these contours…and it was like the armour was just painted right over them." He was getting lost in the memory. "Honestly, when I left that coven, these women were dressing like nuns. You'd be hard-pressed to find a leg between those walls…and then Amelia gets this old armour re-commissioned…"
And for a moment, she could see the cogs working. That far-off look he had whenever he was thinking about building something.
But he moved on.
"Anyway…" He gestured with the pen, returning to the story. "…if Amelia does it, everyone does it, so all these women start commissioning copies from the original. And then I get back…and imagine walking into the local nunnery after ten years. And my first assignment is to continue on with some dead man's work…and it's basically…"
He was grinning for the first time in his story. "It's basically a corset with breasts on top," he said. Again using his pen to demonstrate in case she could not see the entire thing unfolding through his eye. "I mean, they're just sitting there—and the Council is wondering why the slaves are having trouble getting their work done."
The story finally ended with a quiet snort of laughter. The man shaking his head as he took a sip from his drink. Still practically chuckling to himself. "I think that was the first time I was ever happy to be living in the coven."
Oh blood.
At least she no longer felt sorry for him, she thought, picking up her own drink and considering if it might be best to leave things exactly where he'd left them. Some part of her respect…for this woman…forcing her to say it out loud.
"So that's it," she said. Feeling a mite cold in her wording. "Well-fitted armour and a corset with breasts on top?"
He finally noticed the tone…
…and then like the lord of his castle, he sat back, looking exceedingly comfortable with himself. Wiping his chin with a careless shrug before he smirked. "I suppose you could describe her like that, yes."
She had yet to crack a smile.
"Oh for fucks' sake, Nette…" He put his drink down, giving her a look that said she was clearly not drinking enough. "Obviously, it was more than that," he said. "Though again…" He laid the truth out with a hand. "…I'm not saying it hurt that she wore well-fitted armour and a corset with breasts on top, but…" He smiled ruefully and then looked into his glass. "…no, it wasn't the reason I started seeing her differently."
Oh thank blood.
Her interest piqued again.
Although in some ways, she wished she'd left it. It meant watching his smile fade again. The familiar look as he was forced to confront something. And then he breathed, picking up his pen again, searching for his drawing. As though he needed it to keep talking. Raising an eye for a moment and then continuing with the sketch.
"If I had to pinpoint it, I'd say she was less…volatile," he said. "I never really found out why…" And by his tone, he'd gone over it a million times. He'd thought about it…over and over…and at the end of it, he started again. The words sounding tried and tested by the time he said them. "…maybe she just found her stride or something after I was gone."
"Less…volatile?"
"Yes," he said, glancing up at her with a look that told her that yes, he was aware that it sounded simplistic—and that yes, there might be hidden facets to his dead wife that even he, in all his youthful glory, may not have fully comprehended. "And then, the hunts started again…and usually, I hated it, but somehow, with two other Death Dealers for company, she had less to say to them than she did to me."
"Didn't anyone start to suspect?"
"Not initially." By his tone, the idea was ludicrous. "I was the faithful hound, remember?" He was barely looking up now, his hands moving faster as he worked on the textures. "And she was still hard as nails. Insisted on following me when I'd scout ahead. It was part of her behaviour. She wanted to learn and be part of anything to do with…" The pen stopped as he thought about it…and then resumed. "…killing, I suppose."
"And then?"
He looked up finally. "Then we slept together, rolled over and thought, 'why not?'"
She gave him a chiding look. "You're not being serious."
"No." He was looking amused again. "But it's just been a long time since I've had to explain this to someone. They all know or assume they know because they've read about it in some banned publication…"
"I wish I'd read about it," she muttered darkly.
"No…you really don't," he said. Taking a pause on the drawing to scrub his face for a moment. "I think there are two left, one of them a so-called 'biography' written by my…" He squinted. "…fifth…sixth mistress?" He was actually looking at her with the question, as if she was keeping track. "I don't know, it was the 1700s…I think it was the sixth," he said. Back in his element now that they'd left the darker portions of his past. Starting to shade the corners of his sketch now. "Anyway, she had the damn thing…printed…on one of the lycan presses and gave it to me so that I could enjoy some, quote on quote, 'light' reading."
"And did you enjoy it?"
"Well, I read it."
"And then?"
"Burned every copy in the den."
It was a different far-off look this time. The one where he couldn't quite decide whether something was cruel or poignant. Or both, she thought, still trying to get over the realisation that he saw her as the secretary of his mistresses. "I take it the relationship didn't last very long after that?"
"Maybe an hour?" There was a meandering tone to his words. One who was looking over his life with some misgivings. "I think Allegra still has one. And from what I've heard it's one of those underground chapbooks that you find hidden under someone's skirt. It's like a coming of age thing…'Oh, you're a woman now, have you read this book?'" He snorted with a shake his head. "And you can tell when someone's just read it. They show up at the dining table and start staring at you, looking as though they're about to weep, and you're thinking, 'what the hell is the matter with you?'"
"And then…" He was using his pen to gesture. In twelve years, she'd never heard him talk so much. "…your mistress walks in. And it's obvious she's your mistress, and that you're not only fucking her, but you're having a good time of it as well…and these women…" He looked confused on the verge of speechless. "…they look at you like you're…dirt. Like you're a traitor to all things honourable because you're not still sobbing in a hole somewhere, waiting for your dead wife to come home."
He looked up from his drawing and actually pointed at her. "I mean, how do you explain that?" He was looking both harried and exhausted by the situation he was describing. "How do you explain to someone that five hundred years have passed…that yes, I have issues. I mourn her, but that…she's dead?"
It took her a minute to realise he was actually waiting for an answer. Still sketching, but it would seem…actually…waiting for her input. Like twelve years had evaporated, it was ten in the morning, and he'd come to her with his dilemma…
…not because of love or intrigue. Not for the comfort or warmth he could find in her bed. He came to her because she was was an effigy of winter. Cold and barren, capable of stripping away feeling and emotion. Blood, why did it always feel this way?
She found herself.
"Well obviously…I haven't read it," she said carefully, considering how much of an effort it would be to find a copy. "But I suppose if they read it and you're meant to be this symbol of…honourable intent…and then they meet you and you're…"
"What?"
She exhaled, feeling as though really, she couldn't help what she was about to say. "You're dallying."
He scoffed. "Oh don't you start…"
"I'm not judging you," she said quickly. "I just…" She was lying through her teeth. "…you have to admit it's not…" She chose her words carefully. "…in tune…with certain expectations."
"Expectations?"
"Well, you're…" She was searching for the words. "…perhaps you're this…figure…in their minds, and he's perfect…and celibate…and every night he weeps. That's what you are…that's what you're supposed to be according to the moral conscience."
"Of a chapbook."
"Exactly," she nodded.
He exhaled, seeming to take it all in. Chewing on the thought and then abruptly picking up his pen again. "I was for a while," he said. "I think I went about…two hundred years that way. And that is a long time, Reinette. Especially for me." The pen poised momentarily before he started sketching again. "But then you start getting cynical."
She rested a cheek against her fist. "I think you're allowed to be a bit cynical after watching your wife die."
"Maybe," he shrugged. It was so strange watching him recount his life. "I know I was angry at first. Really angry. I killed a lot of people…and it has to be said, back then, I didn't see the purpose in exiles. So whoever surrendered or tried to wander into our camp ended up getting run through with a knife…" He squinted, not quite looking her in the eye. The impression that he was seeing things right now. Things he had done. "…and then I kind of…stopped caring for a while…"
He frowned, surveying the sketch before he set it aside.
"…and I guess Raze comes in there." It seemed to be a trifling thought, but it was the first time she'd heard him reference the length of time they'd known each other. "…Allegra as well, but really…" Even then, it took him a moment to admit it. "…Raze."
Raze who likely wanted to sweep her out into the sun, she thought in passing. Still curled into chair, watching him. The moment solidifying what she'd suspected for the past twelve years, but which never seemed to be said out loud, due to the number of times they seemed to shrug off each other's presence. It was his closest friend.
"So then…1450's, I left Hungary for the first time. 1500's, I learned English. 1600's, I got into this…burning phase." He'd put his hands behind his head. "Burned a lot of shit…and whatever Raze might say, I had nothing to do with London…"
"London?"
"The Great Fire." He was flipping the pen now. "I was there…and I saw it, but I wasn't the idiot who thought it'd be a good idea to set fire to a bakery, alright?"
She had no choice but to nod.
"Good." Seeming more comfortable now that he'd gotten that disclaimer out of the way, he continued. "So then, 1700s, underground. Lots of alcohol. 1780s, escaped France during the Revolution, spent most of my time on ships, travelling the world. 1800s, divided time between Germany and England. Developed a laudanum addiction. 1899, I found this…thing…sitting in a monastery, and twelve years later, she walks into my study and asks me how my life has been." He grinned. "So I think that about sums it up. How's your life?"
She exhaled. It felt like she had climbed a mountain. "Fine, I guess."
"I think it's more than fine, Reinette. You're sitting here drinking a 1768 bottle of Bikaver that I've been saving for ten years." He picked up the bottle and held it out. "I think your life's quite extravagant in fact."
She held out her glass, letting him fill it again. "Well, I still feel terrible."
He sat back. "Why?"
"I don't know…" She pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged. Skirt be damned. "I suppose I'm…" She said it before she lost her nerve. "…sorry for your loss."
He smirked. "Thanks."
"Oh shut up." She rolled her eyes, taking another sip. "What was her name anyway…your wife?
"Sonja."
A gob of blood landed on her dress. Her throat trying to hack up whatever had slipped down her lungs. Using her fist, she thumped her chest, and then spoke, her voice coming out three times as scratchy. "Excuse me?"
"Sonja." He was already pouring himself another glass.
She was still coughing. "Viktor's daughter?"
He raised the bottle. "And much joy did she bring me." There was a reserved dignity to the statement. "…but things change." He set it down like a hammer. "You learn to move on. You learn that life is fleeting. Wars need financing. Papers need signing, and occasionally, you remember to eat and the next day begins."
"You don't do things small, do you?"
"No." He swished his glass. "Why—who did you think she was?"
"I don't know…" She was starting to get a bit drunk. And the smell of cannabis was just mesmerising. "…another Death dealer. Maybe someone who wasn't so public, on the council, directly beneath her father's eye, I mean, blood, that's risky…" And then her mind started to turn. Maybe the drink was affecting her. She was feeling so slow. "Blood…" Her mouth was open…and then she squinted, pressing a hand to her throat, rubbing it for a second time. "…he executed his own daughter?"
"He did."
"But…" She could hear the song again. Over and over in her mind. Only it was a mournful dirge now. All the pieces falling into place.. "…even if he found out, he could have saved her."
"Yes…" He said it matter-of-factly. "…but she was…" He nursed his drink and then took a sip, enunciating the words as though they were foreign to him. "…'with child' apparently."
Her hand fell.
Oh.
He swallowed audibly, failing to even laugh this time. Looking into his drink as though it held answers. "Another issue," he said quietly. Putting the drink down, appearing to have lost his thirst suddenly.
She followed suit. It was horrible. "Did he know?"
"He knew." His eyes growing almost glacial as he said it. The sense that he was somewhere else at that moment and to touch him was to make the wrath of the gods appear as a pleasant dream. And then he looked up, the ice melting away to some corner of his mind. Ever present but pushed aside. "Anyway, I grow weary of this conversation, Reinette. Does that answer most of your questions?"
She nodded mutely.
"Good," he said, as though she'd just expressed an avid interest in moving on with their lives. "…your place or mine for dinner?"
She inhaled, biting the inside of her cheek. Her eyes felt teary. Blood. But then she forced a smile on her face. "Well, I've already drunk your wine, I may as well feed here as well." She opened the clasp on her pendant watch. "Although a bit early for dinner."
"What time is it?"
"Just after two…"
He looked at his watch. "I'll see you in an hour?"
She nodded, getting to her feet with a stretch. Picking up the veil and her books, trying to put some form of order to the chair she was leaving behind. Stepping over papers and the like. Almost at the door when she heard his voice again.
"Nette?"
She looked back…
…and froze.
He was holding a page out, almost in passing. And she feared it. Filled with distrust, hesitant as she crossed the room and took it from his hand. The last page of her translation. Her handwriting scrawled across one side, and on the back, the sketch he'd been working on.
It was…
…her.
She'd been caught, silver-haired and wrapped in shadow, the composition resembling the cross-hatching of a steel engraving. The veil abandoned in a pool at her feet. And her hand reaching for its comfort even as she gazed into the eyes of the viewer. Unflinching. An arrogance in her expression. It ought to have been painful. After so many years of avoiding mirrors and spurning her own reflection. Yet she could see herself.
She was old.
But it was still her.
One of her hands, identical to the one in the drawing, tracing the lines. Studying his technique. And then holding the back of the page up. "Do you still need the translation?"
He shook his head. He'd settled back in his chair again, his focus already on the next thing. His pen moving as the hand roved across the paper. Already starting a new drawing. How quickly he moved on, she thought.
"Shall I shut the door?"
"Please," he said.
o…o…o
Four minutes later.
He waited as long as he could.
Listening with his eyes shut, leaning back in his chair, timing each footstep until she was clear of the hallway. Then he dropped the pen. There were at least three walls between them; it would be impossible for her to distinguish the meaning of the sound. The sweat starting again. Every breath smelled like ash. His clothes, his hair, everything…
…wretching into the bowl. The same…damn…Ming dynasty tea bowl, the only fixture he'd brought with him from the old house. Waiting for the nausea to subside before he rolled onto his back. Staring at the ceiling as he waited for it to stop spinning. Fuck, he thought. Like staring at a flurry of madness, all the wings of butterflies and moths seeming to mock him from their frames.
Fuck…fuck…
…Fuck.
A/N: Thank you so much to Wynter Phoenix, Ursiearielw12, Books-n-Harleys, MermaidVampire, LovingBitch, Guest, malik, Mary Petrova, Hannah-Brieton65, Timmy, Love-in-Halsey, and all the Guest reviewers! Regarding the song, a few of you have wondered if the song references a rumour. You are correct. After the death of Sonja, among the rumours floating around in the early days was one suggesting that the relationship had been non-consensual and along with sacking the castle, Lucian had burned Sonja. On that note, please feel free to read and review!
On to the next chapter!