14. Secret
(I'm back, you know. Be pleased! 3 I've vowed to go back and edit some of my older work, starting with The Fall. Expect more updates with time.)
"You are far too loud, Darren," the red-haired vampire barked from across the clearing, eyes flashing in the crepuscular light that filtered down into the crescent of lightly treed mountain clearing.
He sat calmly against the trunk of a massive lodge pole pine, the very image of peaceful contemplation, his calloused hands folded neatly over the thick red cape folded in his lap. It was a placid night, pleasantly temperate for a region for far north, and the snow had melted away to reveal a delicate network of young shoots and infantile flowers rising from the ground. The crocuses were delicate and ashen, rising from the muddy ground in elegantly powdered purples and whites, running with veins of pale ivory; the squill rose in waves of vivid ocean blue, beginning to bloom first in the cirques and sheltered corners of the mountain; bloodroot, a pallid tuber that leaked a vivid, acrid-smelling sap seemed to keep to the shadows; the honeysuckle had gone into its fetid bloom, and the juniper bushes were dropping their mint blue berries generously. It was the first time in thirty-three years that the mountain's northern summer had been powerful enough to fight away the snow.
Thoroughly spent and exasperated, the boy threw up his hands and broke through the bushes that had been his cover; his frustrated feet crushed the undeveloped young sprouts back to the ground as he stomped back to his mentor with a severe frown perched (flightily as a cardinal) on his lips. The older man refrained from telling him how infantile the expression was, how closely the scowl made him resemble an infant denied his favorite toy. Darren's bare feet (it was warm enough that the winter boots kept in the mountain recollected to be saved for severer weather, and shoes were no help in an exercise meant to improve the boys stealth - of his discipline, for that matter) were caked in mud and strands of leaves and grass where he had tried to muffle his footsteps with the flora he had suddenly gained access to. He gamboled over to his waiting teacher and plopped the driest patch of ground he could find, wrinkling his nose and picking pieces of leafy refuse out from between his toes.
The boy expected to be chided, to be told to try again, but as he glanced to the side the man beside him had turned his gaze back to leaves shifting in the breeze and the diamond-bright stars suspended in empty darkness. Darren leaned back against the trunk of the pine, echoing his mentor, with his legs extended delicately before him though the sallow peach skin was tinted olive green with muddy grass stains. Looking up, he counted a million constellation tied together with spider's thread.
Not a word was exchanged between them; they sat together, steeping in the perfection of the moment. Larten understood such fleeting beauty better than he liked, and knew it far to well to interrupt the serenity with words and orders - sheer exposure such timelessness held it's own wisdom, a truth more meaningful than any lesson could ever be. He recalled his years training beneath Seba, and the rare moments that came when the world did seem peaceful and beautiful, and how he had even then had wished to know this world more intimately, to understand the mechanics of fate and conquer every step he took, to adjust his balance and take all his life in stride. It was a foolish aspiration. He had the mind of a philosopher but his temper was not so well suited. Even so, the seasoned vampire could remember each frustration, impossibility, dead end road, or impassable wall that had presented itself and spat in his face and in all there had been value, because these trials had taught him how to live in a way Seba's advice simply could not. Life was change, and happiness transient... someday the obstinate little beast at his side would have to learn that lesson as well.
Something heavy pressed against the rise of his shoulder and Larten broke away from his reveries, allowing the smell of the trees and the sound of the leaves dancing overhead purchase in his thoughts again. The man glanced down to see the boy leaning heavily against him, chest moving subtly with the soft puffs of breath that come only with sleep. The boy's messy brown hair and lightly freckled face were vividly visible even in the half-light, and by the tilt of his lips and the relaxed cadence of each inhalation seemed to indicate Darren was comfortable. Larten grunted softly (it was an amusing sight; the boy was so independent, hardly prone to displays of sentimentality) and turned back to the stars, careful not to shift his weight or otherwise dislodge his sleeping apprentice. They seemed to grin at him from the heavens - if only Gavner or Arra were here to see this indulgence, this rare display of affection. It would have surprised them, he is certain, with all their jibes about the paternal instinct and his apparent lack thereof.
He shall never admit it to a soul but he misses Gavner dearly, and knowing that he will never see Arra again is almost unbearable. The man had always been an expert at controlling his emotions through his breathing. He diverted his attention from the pain by turning back to Darren and lifting a hand to carefully brush the mess of hair back from softly closed eyes - a bit of affection that is reserved for the boy only when he was unawares, only when he slept; everyone keeps a secret.
In the distance he could smell rain clouds rolling in, and mourned the loss of the helium giants burning above; he shifted delicately, brushing leaves from the oversized blue cardigan the cub-prince had chosen, and gathered the boy into his arms for the trip back to the mountain.
Overhead, the clouds pressed in and smothered the stars.