She dreams a dream full of long, distorted corridors that masquerade as her home, where she runs from room to room, desperately seeking a father that is long dead but not quite remembering this. She finds him eventually, the echo of her mother's laughter leading the way – and of course, her parents had been nigh inseparable so where else would she find him but with her... Except that when he turns it is a rotting corpse of a pirate, laughing as he beckons at her with twin swords.
"Come to me, my chi-"
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Ivy comes awake suddenly, eyes forced wide open to stare up into the shadows of the bed canopy. It is nothing, she tells herself, just a haunting, a phantom in her mind, a residue of her attempts to process, accept and move on. She turns her head to the side table where a small black book sits exactly where she left it the night before. She will read it again; in there, there must be an answer, she will read it over and over, analyse the script till her brain goes numb, but she will find it and lay the dreams to rest.
Summers in England are routinely warm if damp; clear blue skies and warm sunshine that stretch on for calm, endless days, only for the rain to come and wash away all but a nostalgic memory of it.
The new day dawns brightly, the summer storm clouds swept away during the night to birth a glowing, blue sky and a sun that reflects in dazzling array off a rain drenched land. It is a fine morning, and full of promise; Ivy breaths in the clear air and raises her face to the burgeoning warmth. Oh yes, far too fine a morning to spend inside and her entire being itches for physical action. She has found little time so far to devote to combat practice; her usual, rather brutal, training regime has been tossed aside in favour of intensive study in her effort to find the ultimate demise for Soul Edge.
Well that will wait for now, she decides, she has put off the needs of her body far too long and today she will rectify this. Best of all she has what is possibly the most worthy opponent she will ever have chance to spar with lodging in her house, and she knows with some certainty that he will be just as grateful as she for the chance to stretch his fighting muscles.
Besides, she reminds herself grimly, there is also the small matter of what he has been hiding from her, vital information that she is fairly certain has hindered her research. Well there will most certainly be the opportunity to deal with that today, she has had enough of mollycoddling the boy and today he will learn to give her what she needs or else find himself in a world of pain.
Turning, Ivy heads back inside. The house is still, not even her Butler and Housekeeper are abroad just yet and Ivy quietly ignores the reason for her early rising. She heads into the library, and makes her way to the far end of the long room that is almost a gallery; there is door that is almost hidden in the back corner and it is through this she goes once it is unlocked.
The room is an odd shape, as if it were built to fit around the existing rooms and maintain the external shape of the house, which affectively it was, as it bound the south wing to the main, older part of the mansion. It is in here that is kept her father's most prized collection, more important to him in some ways than the many books and extraordinary array of alchemical apparatus. This room was her father's armoury, and since he is dead, it is now hers.
Count St John Valentine had been a skilled swordsman, and despite the oddity of a girl-child taking up arms, he had shown nothing but delight when his young daughter had expressed an interest in learning the art of duelling. While he had never been one to blow his own trumpet, Ivy's mother had imparted that her father had been quite feared as a young man, for his skills with both rapier and short sword and he had shown a keen interest in many of the various styles of combat found across Europe and Asia. Long before Count Valentine became an alchemist he had amassed for himself through the far reaching arms of his merchant enterprises a great and varied collection of swords.
Some of the weapons in the room were acquired for their strangeness, others because of their history. The chain sword, coiled artfully around a stand carved in the form of a dragon's head, that itself holds a chakram between it's wooden teeth, had been one of the inspirations for her Ivy Blade. While the very battered claymore, nestling in a cradle of pure white linen, had been sought out by her father for being the very blade wielded by Robert I of Scotland nearly three hundred years ago.
Ivy studies the claymore for some moments and the younger, more serviceable twin that lies below it. It is certainly long enough, though not nearly the length of a zweihander; if she can't find one of those in her father's collection, then at least the claymore will serve.
As it happens, there is a zweihander: beautifully ornate, of breathtaking workmanship and quite splendid. However, it is clearly ornamental and of no use to anyone as a weapon, so back to the claymore she goes.
Ivy sheaths the ridiculously long sword, though not before inspecting the blade for use; she can't recall offhand if her father ever tried his hand at wielding it, since at full length it comes up to her chest and would most definitely surpass that on both her father and Siegfried. There are a few nicks along the edges but nothing to show hard use and Ivy feels an amused anticipation at seeing how the German boy will handle something so huge in combat against her without the strength of Soul Edge to aid him.
Laying the claymore across her shoulder she makes her way back out of the armoury and then the library, careful not to bang the trailing blade on the door frames. She stops by her room to sling the baldric holding the Ivy Blade over her shoulder before approaching the guest room where Siegfried sleeps.
Without thought to his state of wakefulness or dress Ivy opens the door and sweeps inside; marching to the side of the bed she lowers the claymore point first to the floor with a loud, dull thud.
Siegfried, sprawled face down across the bed jumps quite satisfyingly from his sleep at the sound. His body, reacting before his mind has even woken, scrambles up and away from her, seeking to put the width of the bed between himself and the unknown, barely perceived threat.
Ivy grins widely at the sight of him, for it's now clear that he is quite naked beneath the sheets and his long, blond hair falls messily over his face, obscuring the eyes that strain, blearily to see what has woken him. "Good morning, Herr Schtauffen," she says pleasantly.
"Wha'?" is the incoherent response.
One hand pushes the hair from his face, and Siegfried stares in momentary confusion at the woman stood at the side of his bed, leaning casually against a long sword not a great deal shorter than she. There is wide, sly grin gracing her features and her gaze is so baldly leering that before anything else Siegfried considers his current position: that he is lying on his bed, quite naked and the single sheet he has covered himself with in deference to the season has barely preserved his modesty.
He snatches the sheet up without a word, pulling it tightly about his waist and then turning his back to her so she can't see his rapidly reddening complexion. "What are you doing in here?" Siegfried snaps.
"It's fairly obvious, I thought," and Isabella seems to make no effort to keep the smirk from her voice.
"Fairly obvious that you decided to amuse yourself by startling me from my sleep and satisfying some depraved urge to humiliate me."
"Well that part was certainly a bonus," and Isabella does not sound in the least apologetic or embarrassed, unlike Siegfried himself. "I am here with quite a different proposition for you, though, so don't get too excited."
"Meinedamme," and Siegfried's voice is so cold Ivy almost feels a physical chill. "I imagine there is little you could do to excite me in any way."
Ivy hisses through her teeth at the response, though she is more amused than insulted by it. "You've not even heard me out yet, I'm not standing here with this ridiculously huge sword for the good of my health you know. Dress yourself and meet me outside, I have plans for today that I am most certain you will enjoy despite yourself."
And with that Isabella is gone from the room, leaving Siegfried still flushed from embarrassment, quite annoyed and quite possibly somewhat aroused. Disconcerted at that, he stares down into his lap. She is a woman, he reminds himself, and it's not exactly unusual for him to wake in this state early in the morning. He half wishes he'd had the presence of mind and the gall to have turned the tables on her. Siegfried wonders what would have happened to her smug reaction if she had found herself faced with an unapologetically naked and aroused young man intent on taking her presence in his room as an invitation.
Siegfried sniggers to himself as he rises from the bed, dropping the sheet and boldly strutting to where his clothing lay, daring her in his thoughts to come back into his room now. Oh he would probably feel the pain of it if he pressed such an intention, but it would be more than worth it to see the look on her face.
For a moment, as he pulls on his shirt, he reflects that he hasn't woken to the day counting the measure of his sins as he usually does. His apathy set aside in favour of irritation it seems. Perhaps this was Isabella's intention all along; he can't recall, now that he thinks of it, any time in the last two months of their association when her mood seemed so frivolous. In any event she seems quite determined to inflict it upon him, and he has little choice it seems than to go along with it.
He has to admit, though, that her apparent offer of combat practice is much more attractive than having to face her probing. It has been barely two days since they sealed away Soul Edge in the subterranean levels beneath the house, and while he truly does feel the exhaustion he has been using as an excuse to avoid her, he knows she'll only put up with it for so long before forcing a confrontation.
It occurs to Siegfried while pulling on his boots, that her 'plans' for today might just be exactly that; so it is with some foreboding that he opens the door of his room to go join her.
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Ivy paces the terrace facing the front of her house, trying not to be too impatient about waiting on Siegfried. She has managed to school herself thus far but every part of her is itching at the promise of combat.
She has already checked on the enclosed menage, to ensure it's suitability as a sparring arena. It's packed dirt floor hasn't seen the hooves of a horse in years, just the heeled boots of her combat leathers in practice, now it would be put to a slightly different use. Hopefully it wouldn't sustain too much damage.
With practised ease she unsheathes Ivy Blade from the baldric at her back, feeling the reassuring weight of it in her hand and silently apologising to the sword for neglecting it so over the last month and a half. The now ever-present hum sings briefly inside her head, before settling back into it's gentle, constant monotone. Ivy tries not to feel guilty about how good it feels to be so connected to her beloved sword and the reason why this is so.
She makes a few experimental swipes to reacquaint herself, before effortlessly unleashing the whip to spin it's bladed segments around her in a complicated dance that ends with the cord drawing them all back into the sword with a snap.
"It's been a while since I've seen your sword dance, Isabella, I'd almost forgotten..."
Ivy spins around at Siegfried's voice behind her. "How many times, Siegfried, must I tell you to address me as Ivy!"
Always it is a demand, and perhaps if she should ever couch it as a genuine request Siegfried might one day comply. "One more time as always, Isabella; why is it you are so adamant of not using the name you were given?"
Her glare is as cold as ice, despite the warm day, all good humour gone from her. "Because you have not earned the right to use it; all you know of me is Ivy and that is all you will ever know. If you cannot bring yourself to remember that perhaps you ought to go back to saying nothing more than 'as you say, my lady.'"
A mocking smile draws Siegfried's mouth upwards and that in itself is almost disturbing, but he then bows and says in a tone equally as mocking, and this time in carefully enunciated English: "as you say, my lady."
The fury that grips her is something she hasn't felt since the day she first laid eyes on him, slumped unconscious in his armour months ago. All the pent up anger and frustration she has been holding against him, and herself, finally finding it's release at this most trivial of grievances. Ivy Blade shudders in her hand, the segments rattling as the cord loosens and tenses in response to her mood, then suddenly unfurling as her anger peaks.
"There is a sword in the menage, if you wish to survive this you best lay your hands on it quickly," she starts striding forward the sword-whip now whirling at her side.
Siegfried doesn't move at first, if anything a little dumbfounded by her reaction, unable to quite comprehend that he has managed to rile her into such a state; but then the whip lashes out and only reflexes from years of constant battle rolls him out of it's reach. Gaining his feet he backs away from her as she continues towards him.
"Run, Siegfried!" Ivy snarls and the whip comes at him again, this time snapping at his legs.
Siegfried does as she says and runs.
He makes it into the long building that is the menage several minutes ahead of her and casts about desperately for the weapon she said he would find there. The sound of her heels clicking on the flags draws closer but the song of the Ivy Blade is strangely silent. Siegfried suddenly spots the long sword she had been carrying earlier, leaning up against the bar that runs the width of one of the end walls.
Without hesitation he takes the blade in hand, hefts it to test the weight and the balance, before glancing back towards the open doorway.
The footsteps have stopped but Isabella is nowhere to be seen. Uneasy, Siegfried shifts his weight, listening carefully; then with great care to be silent he takes a step forward and to the left, while swinging the long sword he carries out with his right hand to drag it's point over the packed dirt.
Soil suddenly fountains up to his right and metal shrieks as it slides against metal. Siegfried spins toward the sound, using both hands to parry the bladed whip that has just erupted from the earth. He reels back putting enough distance between himself and the wall of the menage that it will take him out of range of the Ivy Blade.
Silence again, except this time he does hear her, a low, malevolent chuckle. How she is capable of moving so quietly in those boots he doesn't know. What he does know, however, is that she has now lost the element of surprise, she can't aim any more attacks beneath the ground at him, which means if she wishes to engage, she'll have to come through the door first.
Sure enough, Isabella saunters through a moment later, a smirk set to her lips and a mad light in her blue eyes that is far too familiar to him. Siegfried has never faced Ivy in battle, but Nightmare has witnessed her enough times to know how she fights, and as much as he loathes to, he reaches for that knowledge now. It's either that or risk being flayed by the razor edges of her sword.
It feels strange for him to be fighting without the weight of armour, the sword feels almost too light in his hands as a consequence because he doesn't need to compensate. He also feels a great deal more vulnerable for it too.
They pace around each other watchfully, appraising, measuring. Ivy reads his discomfort at facing her without his usual armour; Siegfried reads her caution, for now she has lost the initial advantage, she realises she is facing an unknown quantity. He sees the barely repressed excitement, and can hardly deny that he feels his own heart racing at the prospect of a good fight.
It brings back just a little of his youthful cockiness, and he straightens his stance, unconsciously displaying himself to invite her attack.
Isabella's smirk becomes a sneer, and she leaps on it instantly, and quite literally almost; the sword becomes whip and lashes out so fast he completely misses the transition. Siegfried's reflexes easily manage the block, but by then she is air-borne, the whip shooting out again in swift succession, and he feels the sting of metal as it cuts through the cotton shirt to slice into his left shoulder.
Siegfried reels back, recovers, and turns, bringing the huge length of the sword to bear against her legs. Isabella is back on the ground at almost the same distance she was before, the Ivy Blade now wrapped close to her body. It's clear she hadn't counted on Siegfried shaking off the strike she had dealt him so quickly though, for the sweep of the claymore almost catches her off-guard.
She leaps cat like over the strike, body twisting in the air; Ivy Blade releases and turns with her, swinging out in wide arc. Siegfried avoids the lash easily - still turning with the initial swing, he ducks to let it cleave the air where his head had been, but Isabella is still moving, and the whip spins with her. Only to cleanly meet the edge of the claymore as Siegfried finishes his own turn and they come back to facing each other once more.
Isabella's sneer has vanished now, and she is glaring at him through narrowed eyes. He stares her down; if she thought to find him an easy mark for her enchanted blade then she is sorely mistaken. Siegfried knows his own skill, and he knows without any conceit that he is more than a match for her. If she wishes to end his life, she will have the battle of her own against him.
It is Siegfried who moves next, feinting with the long sword before lashing out with his booted feet to take her square in the chest. He swings the sword into Chief Hold and waits for her to rise, waits to see what she'll send at him next. Siegfried feels his mind drop down into that cool, dispassionate place where it lives during battle; feels the comfort of the haft in his hand, the thick, hard wood just the right width to sit comfortably in his palm. It is a good sword, he notes, shorter than his normal use, but that is nothing he can't adapt to. A cold, dark joy rises inside him as Ivy comes at him again, and he moves and parries and counters, for he knows she cannot touch him.
Not while he is this.
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Ivy isn't quite sure whether she is enjoying herself or not. While for certain she feels a great deal of satisfaction at facing one who is surely her equal, there is also a certain frustration at not having bested him yet. The swordplay is familiar to her since Nightmare had employed most of Siegfried's skill - a skill, she is discovering, that is certainly not lacking for want of the cursed sword's power - but it has yet to provide her with a weakness to exploit. Conversely he doesn't seem to be trying to press her guard either, despite his larger sword and greater physical strength.
In fact he rarely seems to be taking the offensive at all, passively reacting to each of her attacks and countering as necessary then waiting for her to come at him again. It's typical of him, she thinks, that he approaches her in combat exactly the same way he does in their day to day interactions. Impassive and immovable, despite all the small ways in which she cuts at him; hiding behind walls of apathy, except for on the rare occasions she actually moves him enough to lash out.
Perhaps, she considers, that is the way to get through his defence. She saw it briefly at the start of the fight, but is unsure of what caused it. Arrogance? Overconfidence? If she wants to draw him out she will need to fight more wily, since direct combat appears to have failed.
Ivy draws back following the next encounter of their flashing blades, lazily whirling the Ivy Blade beside her as she paces him again. Siegfried turns with her, waiting and watchful; his shirt is almost in tatters, scratches and tiny cuts marring the pale skin beneath in half a dozen places, dying the white cotton red. If he is mindful of his small injuries he doesn't show it, instead as if sensing the change in her, his blue-green eyes are lit with cautious interest.
He has not managed to catch her with the edge of his sword, but what she lacks in open wounds she makes up for in what will undoubtedly be a colourful range of bruises.
"Sleeping well, Siegfried?"
The unexpected question catches him off-guard exactly as planned.
"What?" He splutters just as the Ivy Blade whips out and snags his ankle; he goes down hard, the claymore flying out of his grasp.
Ivy is on him in an instance, the whole of her weight thrown down onto his narrow waist, thighs clenched firmly between her own and she leans forward to press the edge of her sword up against his throat. "Do you yield?" She asks pleasantly, a honeyed tone with a hint of poison.
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Siegfried gasps for air beneath her, what little wind left to him after his fall to floor having been forcefully expelled upon her arrival on his stomach. It's all he can do to breath, much less answer her.
Loathsome witch! A voice snarls in the back of his mind as he stares up at Isabella, seeing self-satisfaction written in every line of her face. Resorting to deceit and deception in honest combat, she deserves no victory. She is weak even with her sword, take her down!
Siegfried reacts; it's almost like instinct, so long that voice murmured in his head he almost can't help himself. His hands snap to her wrists with startling speed, wrenching her hands from their grip on the sword; her gasp of shock goes unheard as he heaves his body up, only her wide blue eyes registering at all before he smashes his forehead into the bridge of her nose.
Isabella goes gratifyingly limp in his grasp and he shoves her off him, throwing her sword to the side to land beside her. Rolling to his feet he retrieves the claymore, and shaking off the last vestiges of his breathlessness he turns to face her once more.
Isabella is staggering to her feet, sword in hand, a look of rage on her face so vicious that Siegfried thinks somewhat detachedly that he ought to be afraid of her now. She may have been willing to let him yield before, but now she is clearly out for his blood and probably won't be satisfied until she has it in buckets.
She won't kill you, she can't, the voice scoffs in his mind. Don't fear her fury, it will do nothing but make her reckless.
Reckless, perhaps, but still a force not to be taken lightly. Siegfried decides it would be best to end this quickly.
He sweeps in low, going for her legs; her jump kick takes him square in the right shoulder and sends him staggering. The bladed whip whistles by his head and a drift of blond hair floats to the ground. That was far too close. He parries and blocks the next few assaults then counters with a series of vertical strikes that meets her guard in return, until he reverses the direction of the claymore and catches her across the right side of her rib cage.
Isabella stumbles back, hand pressed to her side; there is no blood, her heavy leather bodice absorbing a blow that should have laid her right side open. Siegfried takes the opportunity of her distraction to step in next to her and swing the flat of his sword round to neatly catch her in the small of the back and launch her across the menage.
She doesn't fly too far though, falling to her knees about ten feet from him. Siegfried isn't quite prepared for the swiftness of her recovery though; fury finally giving her the strength and speed to ignore the pain, she spins in place on her knees.
"Follow!" She screeches, one finger pointing towards his head, and the sword obeys.
He can't turn his head quickly enough and agony blooms in the right side of his face. All his eye can see is red, blood pouring from where the tip of the Ivy Blade has cleanly sliced through brow and cheekbone.
Kill her, kill the witch! The voice howls in his head, a rising tide of black hunger crawling up from the depths of his own anger. Kill the weakling spawn and devour her soul!
Except that Siegfried is frozen in place, the absolute horror at the realisation of what is happening to him coupled with the burning agony in his face leaving him quite unable to move. He drops to his knees, right hand pressed against the open wound, staring but not seeing the steady trickle of his blood soak into the packed dirt floor of the menage.
"No..." he whispers, as the voice continues to rage inside with exhortations to kill.
He does not hear the footsteps coming towards him, helpless as hands grab him by the remains of his shirt and shake him violently. Siegfried doesn't react though, cannot react, every part of him engaged once more in trying to suppress the ravenous fury that is battling to free itself.
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Ivy watches Siegfried sway drunkenly, half his face awash with blood at the wound of her own making. He looks distracted though, his one good eye staring blearily through her, as if even now, despite the grievous injury, it isn't enough to break through the shield of apathy he has so effectively raised against her.
Suddenly, the seeming futility of her situation rises up around her like flood water. Despite all her efforts, she can no more destroy Soul Edge, it seems, than she can destroy Ivy Blade or herself. How does one completely undo matter? Sever an ineffable link between metal and a living evil that she can't even begin to comprehend and understand?
What hubris ever made her think she could do this?
Ivy stares down, feeling slightly dizzy, at the man almost hanging from her grasp. "Why can't you tell me?" She whispers, almost desperately.
Siegfried reels a little at the unexpected words, barely even able to focus on her through the haze of blood and pain. "I don't understand what you mean," he gasps out.
"You must know!" She demands, her voice still quiet and harsh; she shakes him again bringing her face closer till they are almost sharing the same breathe. "How could it take so much of you and leave you so ignorant?"
"I...I've told you all I can," he stutters, looking suddenly afraid, the pale blue-green of his good eye staring through her still as if he sees the face of some terrible darkness where hers should be. "I don't know what more I can give you."
"No," Ivy spits the word out like snake venom, feeling the burning in her eyes, tears of helpless anger that she hasn't shed since the days of her parents. "You haven't. You've given me nothing of the true knowledge you hold. I think you lied to me when you said you were willing to suffer, you're nothing but a coward who cannot bear to face the truth inside himself. You will not go into the dark places in your soul, you will not countenance the memories, remembering your actions or your words. You are a coward Siegfried Schtauffen and the world will be worse for it!"
He drops the claymore, hands coming up to cover his ears, to block out the tirade of two voices screaming at him from within and without, but none of it will be unheard. She is a spitting fury before him, cheeks flushed and her blue eyes bright and blazing, and inside he feels the amorphous beast rise up again, latching onto her anger and energy that is a twin to it's own; driving lust and hunger before it in desperate need to devour her.
Givehertome! It screams, givehertomesheismineminemine!
He resists it, resists with all his might and almost failing, and oh sweet Mother Mary, he might hold himself back from both of them if they would just- "Shut up!" Siegfried's voice is hoarse as he yells at her, at it; wanting both of them to stop and wishing they would just leave him alone in his guilt and silence, "shut up, shut up, shut up!"
He is ignored though, it's as if he hasn't even spoken. The screeching in his head overlaid by Isabella's viciously scornful voice.
"Pathetic boy, running from your Nightmare, hoping if you ignore it, it will just go away and not be real. How long has it taken to convince yourself that it's just a sword, a hunk of metal, that nothing terrible will come from it again?"
A manic laugh finally spills from his lips as her last words register; what glorious irony that she accuses him of such self-delusion while the demon inside him screams for her soul!
Perhaps it is the edge of insanity that finally gives Siegfried the strength to throw them both from him, and he does. Once more Ivy lands in the dirt, shocked at the strength of his arms, staring after the boy as he flees from her, trailing blood and heaving sobs.
She staggers to her feet, with all intent to follow him, but seconds are lost as she casts about for the abandoned Ivy Blade, and by the time she makes it to the doorway he is long gone out of sight.
Ivy stands for a moment, almost at a loss, taking great gulping breaths as her mind reels over all that has happened in these last several minutes. Then her vision blurs, she feels wetness on her cheek, and it doesn't take the press of her fingers to know the tears have finally overspilled.
It's enough, just enough to stoke her anger again, with all her despair and loathing at feeling so helpless over the circumstances of her life once more. Ivy Blade writhes in her grasp and for a moment she despises her beloved blade with all her being, for being a monument to all of her inhumanity.
Ivy screams and with it the sword unfurls and lashes it's many blades into the wood of the menage; the resultant destruction is hardly a balm to sooth her soul but it is somewhat satisfying to find something that finally bends and breaks to her will. She just about makes it clear before the roof falls in.
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Siegfried flees with barely a thought to his destination, so he is a little surprised that when he finally comes to his senses again, he finds himself charging through the corridors of Valentine Manor. His unconscious choice of sanctuary, however, becomes clear enough to him when the kitchen door looms before him and he realises he has run to Mistress Beckett like a boy to his mother.
With a shaking hand he presses down the handle and opens the door, half-hoping, yet half-dreading that he will find the old woman within.
She is there sure enough, and her jaw drops open at the sight of him, and Siegfried can only imagine what he must look like to her.
"Dear sweet Jesus, what happened?"
Siegfried cannot answer, doesn't know how; what words could explain all of the history that has lead up to this moment? Where blood from countless wounds drenches his shirt, dealt in anger by his hostess who also near cleft his face in two, while the whisper of an angry devil dies like the dwindling of a gale in his mind...
Instead he stumbles forward and into her open arms. Margaret still looks horrified but bears it well; she has born three sons and seen enough of the terrible things than can befall man and boy. With firm hands she presses him down on the bench by the kitchen table and immediately turns away to find cloth and hot water to wash his cuts.
When Margaret returns Siegfried is hunched almost double on the bench, seemingly watching the steady drip, drip of blood falling from the curve of his cheek form a puddle on the flags.
She presses a hand gently to his shoulder to catch his attention, but he doesn't acknowledge her. "Siegfried?" she asks, gently, but still there is no response. "Siegfried, love," she tries again, this time putting a hand beneath his chin to tilt his face up to look at her.
A bleary blue-green eye meets her own, and she can see in the thin set of his mouth and the slight tremor of his chin that he is on the verge of weeping. Margaret's heart almost swoons in her chest at how terribly young he looks in this instant, so hurt and afraid, and she feels an almost overwhelming need to take him to her bosom like he were her son. Instead she concentrates on what needs to be done first, and the next words that come from her lips are hard and disapproving.
"Did Lady Isabella do this?"
Siegfried doesn't answer, instead gently pulling his chin from her fingers so he is no longer looking at her. Margaret finds in it the answer to her question anyway.
She knows well enough the towering rages her mistress can work herself into, but this is the first time she has seen it taken out so directly on another human being. Margaret can't even imagine what the boy had done to provoke the Lady to have resulted in such terrible wounds.
Mistress Beckett says no more, though, leaving Siegfried to his silence, knowing well a young man's pride in the face of pain. Once the water has boiled she pulls the kettle off the fire, pours it into a bowl and cools it a little by adding wine. She then sets about cleaning his face.
Tilting his head back, Margaret dabs gently, washing off the blood till the line of the cut stands clear on his face. She is pleased to find that the long slash has managed to miss his eye, but only barely, saved by the prominence of his brow and high cheek bone.
Siegfried's eye flickers beneath the lid, glued shut by congealed blood. "Hush, now," Margaret calms him, a palm set to his good cheek, "your eye is safe but don't try to force it open just yet, it's still swollen."
Of course he doesn't understand her words and continues anyway, but the visible wince that starts the gash bleeding again ensures he now does.
Margaret shakes her a head with a grimace she reserves only for stubborn men-folk, and dabs once more at the blood. The line isn't deep and will not require stitches, thank goodness, so she will not have to call out the physic, but it will most definitely scar. A visit to the local herbal will get her a poultice to aid the healing though, and she resolves to go there this afternoon.
She is in the middle of peeling Siegfried's tattered shirt from his back when her attention is briefly distracted by her husband coming through the door, carrying the buckets from the bathroom. A nod and a shared grimace tells her the Lady is now back in the house. Margaret will ask him later to tell on the state of Lady Isabella, as a cursory check of the remaining wounds – shallow and plentiful – tells her that Siegfried faced her mistress while she was wielding her sword and that they must have been fighting.
Eventually she is able to send him off to his room, wounds washed and a pad soaked in watered wine pressed to his face. He has said not one thing since he arrived in the kitchen, and while she hopes she may get more information from her mistress she doubts that she will.
She leaves Siegfried sat on his bed, staring into space, barely acknowledging her presence and looking more lost that she has ever seen him since his arrival. Once more Margaret is seized by the desire to gather him to her breast like a small child, but she presses it down. Instead she turns her attention to finding her husband, who is waiting for her in the kitchen on her return.
"Well?" She asks, hands busying themselves with clearing away the bloodied cloths and the used wine-laced water, knowing there is no need of elaboration to her question.
William shrugs. "She says nothing, just ordered the bath water then ordered me out." He frowns down at his hands, resting on the table. "I think they may have been sparring but it got out of hand. Milady hides her discomfort well when she is in pain, but I have no doubt they gave each other a good beating; I did not see any bleeding but her bodice was nearly sliced from her body. The menage is also in ruins."
Margaret stares at him for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt at her earlier disapproval of her mistress' actions, the truth having it not so one-sided, it seems.
"I best go attend her then," she says into the silence between then.
William nods, then gets to his feet, catching her by the arm as she goes by. He brings her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead and Margaret sighs into the embrace before pulling away once more.
888
The fire is still burning high in the bathroom when Margaret enters, indicative of too much fuel being piled on than was required, but enough so to heat the water as quickly as her mistress had clearly desired. Besides the singing crackle of the fire, all is silent, not even the sound of moving water floats from the part open door to the occupied bathing chamber. With quiet footsteps Margaret moves forwards, pressing a gentle hand to the door to push it further open.
Isabella is sat in the bath, as unmoving as the lack of sound betrays, hunched over and legs drawn up, she doesn't even acknowledge the arrival of her housekeeper.
Margaret's eyes run the length of the exposed back of her mistress, staring almost disbelievingly at the huge, dark bruises forming there, leaving barely any patch of skin untouched.
Shame swallows her whole, that she could ever think that her mistress would ever cause such hurt to another without cause. William was right, they had beaten each other quite royally and she wonders what on earth could have caused them to turn on each other so violently.
Wordlessly she crosses to the small table against the wall and opens the single draw, drawing forth the familiar oils she has used to bathe Isabella's bruises and muscles injuries for years passed. When she draws close, dunking the cloth she has also brought from the table to soak in the hot water, Margaret can see the slight tremors passing through her frame, that Isabella is shivering despite the heat of the water.
Gently she draws the cloth across her shoulders, letting the water run down, repeating the gesture till the skin of her back is completely wet. Meanwhile, she has held the bottle of lavender oil in the water to heat it while she worked, and now she draws it back out, pouring a generous amount into her warm palms.
Isabella doesn't flinch as Margaret presses oil-slicked hands to the bruised flesh of her back, and the housekeeper is a gentle as she can while she works the oil in. After a while, Margaret breaks the heavy silence.
"I have tended to Siegfried," she says softly. "He is well, for the most part, little damage has been done. The cuts will heal themselves, and I will go to see the herbal for a poultice for his face. His eye is safe, though the wound will scar," a pause, then, "but I'm afraid his shirt is beyond recovery."
There is no reaction. Not to the news that she has managed to avoid maiming him, or to Margaret's attempt at humour. So the housekeeper cleaves to the silence and lets her hands continue to work. Eventually she is done and she stands up again, groaning a little as she stretches out the muscles of her own back, a reminder of her advancing years.
"Thankyou, mistress," Isabella's voice is low and so quiet that Margaret almost misses the words. "If you would kindly find me a bath sheet, I will be done here."
"Of course My Lady," the housekeeper says as she puts away the oils. "Will there be anything more?"
"Not today, I will be in the laboratory and I do not wish to be disturbed."
"What of your meals?"
"Prepare me a cold lunch, enough to see me through to the evening. That will be all."
"Very well, My Lady."
Margaret does as she is asked, and she sees nothing more of her mistress that day. To her word she duly visits the herbal but finds on her return that Siegfried has vanished from his room and William has no idea where he has gone.
888
Siegfried sits out in the pavilion facing the river. His face is raw and throbbing, but at least he has managed to work his eye open again. It sees with a faint tint of red though, as if the blood has dyed his vision, but he is sure it will fade soon enough.
He is trying not to think, as he watches the day ripen into afternoon, a slow, golden haze descending on the world. It seems so peaceful, and if he ignores everything, Siegfried thinks he can almost feel part of it.
The sound of claws clicking on the wood makes him turn, and one of Isabella's dogs stands behind looking at him with an almost askance expression. Siegfried reaches out a hand without fear, not because he does not fear the consequences, he has never forgotten that Isabella has them trained to kill, but because he has lost all sense of it this day.
In the face of the monster that had risen inside him once more this morning, little else has the power to scare him.
The dog seems friendly enough, though, sniffing his outstretched hand before trotting up to sit beside him. Siegfried rests his hand to the back of it's shoulders and the dog doesn't flinch or try to attack him, but instead remains slouched, tongue lolling as it too fixes it's eyes to the lazy river.
Soul Edge is back, Siegfried makes himself think. Or, perhaps it never left, just slept inside him till something provoked it awake. He forces himself to remember the way it reared up at the sight of Isabella, victoriously astride his chest, eyes lit with cruel pleasure.
It still wants her, he thinks. Or... And another, more unpleasant thought occurs: or maybe it's just me. It is difficult, his memories are clear, even if he doesn't want to remember them. What isn't clear is whether they belong to him or the sword, it becomes difficult to define between the two of them. Was it truly Soul Edge that was screaming in his head? Or was it just himself, a part forged in the darkness of the sword's presence in his soul, forever tainted? It has gone so quiet now, so very quiet as if it had never been, and in the face of it, this does not seem so ridiculous a thought.
Maybe it is the reason and the source of his nightmares, for the continuing fear that the evil is rising again, because it now lives inside him too. Perhaps he will always be like this, that even if he managed to thoroughly remove the sword from this world perhaps part of it would remain in him, as indelibly marked by it as Isabella.
It is a miserable thought, but it rings with a little to much truth. Maybe they have both missed the vital aspect to their planned destruction of Soul Edge: that their own lives must be the price of success.
It is most definitely a miserable thought.
888
Ivy thinks she has finally found the truth of it. It lies before her in the sliver of metal from the blade of her own sword, and vial of blood drained from a cut to the back of her arm. There is nothing she understands better in this world than her own sword and herself, and since they are creatures of Soul Edge perhaps the answer to it's destruction will be found in her own.
A morbid thought, but it pleases her to have it.
She has laboured through the day and well into the night, finally deciding she has made progress enough to reward herself with a soft bed and a few hours sleep. To understand more fully the link between herself and her blade would have pleased her greatly in other circumstances, currently it now only serves to show her how deep the essence of Soul Edge lies within her. It's not just her blood, but her very flesh; she knows now why the woman in scarlet recognised her for what she is so readily. It reeks in her aura, it echoes out from her soul for all who have the eyes to see it. It is quite probably the reason for the wellspring of anger and cruelty that so often finds an outlet in her voice or by her hand.
She is not a good person, she has done terrible things, that when she stops long enough to think about it, makes her squirm. Not for what she did though, but for why. The song of her killing blade is the song of her soul. Ivy adores the cut and thrust of battle, but never more so when her opponents are weaker and out matched, when she can fall into their soft bodies with desperate abandon and gleeful dismemberment. The way they fall, the way they die...
Ivy stands in her bedroom and stares at her shadowed reflection, flickering in the light of a single, lonely candle. Trying to see how she has become this and not been it all along.
A small black book still sits on the side table, proclaiming it's own truth, but it is one that is becoming difficult to believe in. Somewhere inside it, hidden in the words, is the truth that stares back at her from the mirror. And she will find it.
Ivy feels she doesn't want to believe that she ever had a choice.
A/N: OMG I finally finished it. That is all.