I've been somewhat dreading to write this chapter...so that's why it's pretty late.
Review! :D
Elizaveta lay absolutely still on the Prussian blue sheets. Her eyes were closed, smooth skin pale, hair arrayed around her like rays of the sun.
She was perfect.
Gilbert lay next to her, overcome. Finally...after all those years, I have her.
Butterflies rustled at his window, completely blocking out the light, but he could still see her, see his darling, precious Elizaveta. Her arms were folded across her chest, and, as if it were a second thought, a silky blindfold of the same shade as the sheets was hastily wrapped around her head. It was just a precaution, as he didn't expect her to wake, but it was better safe than sorry.
He'd swallowed a small pill, the antidote, before he drugged both their glasses of wine. It seemed to be working, as he didn't feel any lingering exhaustion or numbness in his extremities. He'd had to force the pill through Elizaveta's lips, sealing it with a kiss. That's about as far as anything he'd ever done to her.
All his plans had come to fruition in this moment. The months of planning...it'd been almost half a year since he'd started thinking about this, actually thinking about killing Roderich, and four months since he'd killed the Austrian. A month of being haunted by butterflies and nightmares, two months of solitary walks with his love, a month of avoiding her, and then...
Now.
Galvanized by the thought of their time slipping away, he turned back to her and reached for the stays on her dress. As he did so, he relieved a sudden flush of memory.
Age six, when they first met each other, shooting the other curious looks from behind their parents' tall forms. They'd never seen each other before, and while their parents had some boring adult talk, she'd crawled over to him.
"Hi."
"Hi," he responded, turning to face her. "Who're you?"
"My name is Elizaveta Herdevary. What's your name?"
"Gilbert Beilschmidt."
She giggled. "That's a funny name."
Miffed, he stuck his tongue out. "You're a funny name."
That had been the start of a long friendship.
The albino felt a bit guilty at their lost childhood. Is this what I've fallen to now?
He looked down at the recumbent angel under him. It's worth it.
Gilbert began to unlace the stays, each thread exposing just a bit more of her flesh. As if determined to make him lose his nerve, the memories piled up again and elected another to send forth.
Ten years old, and they were intrepid explorers of the deepest depths of the gardens. No corner would go unseen, no stone wouldn't be overturned. They were on the quest for treasure!
It was a bright and sunny day, and they two of them were digging an inconspicuous hole behind Lord Ivan's prized sunflower patch. As in, Elizaveta (or Lizzie, as he was permitted to call her at this point) was digging, and he was mooching around, lying in the shade and poking at the sunflowers.
"Come on!" complained Lizzie. "I'm tired, and you haven't done any work yet."
"You're digging with a frying pan," said the albino, more to himself than her. Then he propped himself up on one arm. "Why are you digging with a frying pan?"
Lizzie grabbed his ankles and yanked him into the hole. For a moment, he landed awkwardly on top of her. They both didn't move for a moment before Lizzie rolled out from under him and said, "Get to work, slave!"
They both dug in companionable silence. After ten minutes more, in which the hole had deepened considerably, Lizzie's frying pan struck something with a clang.
"What is it?" exclaimed her friend excitedly. "Did you find something?"
"Ah, it's probably just another rock." Still, she turned over the dirt curiously. Something glinted in the sunlight, and before she could think to move, Gilbert bent down and snatched it up.
"Treasure!" he crowed, holding up a dirty string of glittery beads. "I found it!"
He yelped as Lizzie elbowed him in the stomach and snatched the beads out of his hand. "Again," she said sweetly, "the victory goes to me!"
A moment later, neither of them were smiling. They were on the farther reaches of the garden, more towards the wild zone where people kept their exotic pets.
The hole was damp and muddy, and suddenly it started filling with water. "Ack! I'm too awesome to get wet!"
A huge, serpentine head burst out of the ground, and it knocked both of them onto their bottoms.
An Earth-snake. Lord Arthur's favorite, to be precise, named Wyrsa. Wyrsa was known for his short temper and intense hunger. When he turned his slitted yellow eyes on the two children, they froze, thinking themselves about to be devoured.
Lizzie suddenly leaped to her feet, swinging the pan like a baseball bat, delivering a solid thwack right to the middle of the scaly forehead. The Earth-snake cast about, dazed, while the Hungarian girl scrambled up the sides of the hole. "Come on!" She held out her arm to Gilbert, who was having less luck climbing out. He wrapped his fingers around it, his other hand holding the beads.
Escaping from the scene of Wyrsa's rage, they ran screeching into the castle, speaking of Earth-snakes and faintly of treasure.
"Lord Ivan is not going to be pleased," said Lizzie, watching the Earth-snake wreak destruction upon the hapless patch of sunflowers.
"Here." Gilbert's face was set, and he offered her the beads. "You saved me, so you get to keep them."
Lizzie was surprised. "Really? For me?" She pried the beads loose of his fist. "Thanks, Gil!" She flung her arms around him.
That was when he'd first started falling in love with her.
Stop, he ordered his memories. I've committed to this. There's no going back.
His hands trembled and fumbled the black thread, his red eyes looking surprisingly liquid. I don't regret this. As if to prove it to himself, he bent and planted a butterfly kiss to her forehead, lingering for an extra moment, her skin cool against his lips. The glimpses of skin up her side were tantalizing, inviting him to unlace more. Those chocolate brown tresses he loved so much were like silk against his skin.
This was perfect.
Time passed. The two families had drawn apart, beginning with a minor feud over Roderich was chosen as Elizaveta's husband-to-be, but instead of objecting, like he'd expected, she thought it was okay. She was happy to be with the Austrian snob, and drifted more and more away from him.
One day, he'd clumsily tried to express his feelings, cornering her and planting an awkward kiss on her lips, in the hopes that she would reciprocate them.
She had not appreciated it.
With a slap to the face and a string of Hungarian curse words following him, he'd fled the scene, his eye dark with unshed tears of embarrassment and rejection. But what hurt worse than that was the expression of incomprehension, and even worse, revulsion on her face. Am I that disgusting of a human being that even my best friend doesn't want me? He'd run to his rooms and refused to come out for a day, and then avoided Elizaveta at all costs.
That had been the end of their friendship until he'd gotten up the courage to approach her again, years later, and give her that black dress she looked so stunning in. She'd accepted the peace offering, and things went back to normal, sort of.
He trailed kisses along her cheekbone and down her throat, feeling the little pulse bouncing there, and then buried his hands in her satin hair, pulling her closer to him, supporting her limp body and sliding the dress down over her shoulders. Not too far, but just enough to bare her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Her skin was cool against his, which was feverishly warm. He'd never wanted anything, anyone, quite this much- the feelings twirling inside him were enough to make him burn with desire.
Racing her inside in the rain, the gusts and sheets of water blocking his view, and then the way her perfectly formed body, draped in soaking silk, made his breath catch and his mind freeze, and she laughed and picked the flowers out of his hair with perfect, slender fingers.
He folded his own fingers between those of hers, and with the free hand pushed the dress down still farther, wondering how far he'd dare to take it, wondering how far he could take it before she'd wake.
She made a little moan in her unconsciousness, and curled slightly tighter to herself. It was an adorable sound that pulled his heart. He wrapped her in his arms, warming her skin, and she nestled against him. Her dress had slid halfway down her back, and she was facing away from him. If he moved, just a little, he would feel-
His doubts and misgivings flooded up, washing away the tide of pure love and desire and happiness he'd felt just seconds ago.
This was perfect, he had thought.
But it didn't feel perfect.
*tries to ruin the mood* If any of you know what author I borrowed the name Wyrsa from, you get a cookie. :3