Notes:
This gets intense unsettlingly fast. That's the only warning I can give.
Jezabel
Father's there again. Walking steadily away from me, cast in shadows. And in all my unfaithfulness, I only stand there, as the distance between us stretched into the night. Mute and angry, as he carries on without me. Never casting a glance backwards. I awake with a start, half hoping, half fearing to see him at the foot of my bed, that smirk on his thin lips. His glasses flecked with blood, and his eyes far, far too bright. Crowned with pipe smoke.
As I warily survey the darkened room, only Cassian's snores, however, meet me. A paw twitches in sleep, and for a moment, I bury my face in his fur, trying to calm myself. Trying to suppress my panic. As I raise myself up, Cain's arm, limp and heavy from sleep, slides from its place around my shoulders. He stirs slightly, inhaling deeply, as he turns to lie on his back. His hair flung across the pale of his face. He mumbles something, but it goes unheard in the rustling of the blankets.
The night is still, no birds call out to their kith and kin, no clouds conceal the moon. The sky pools past the curtains onto the floorboards. And in that eerie, exposed lifelessness, that fear gnaws at me again. That there is a terror just beyond. But what? What is the calamity that awaits?
The center is gone—that little unseen line between the world and me. Somehow, it has crept away in the night, and left my insides painfully exposed. Left me undone and uncontained. I half feel as if I will dissolve, or disappear. Perhaps, the Bible will alleviate this skinless unease. Psalms, perhaps. Or Genesis, before Adam and Eve. When the lamb lay down with the lion. And all the animals spoke but one tongue.
As I move to leave the warmth of the shared bed, I glance back—and am struck by the awareness that the door has closed on this form of closeness between us. This is only a reprieve from the isolation that will return with the morning. And with that, the warmth becomes a mockery—and a reminder of my inheritance. Cain mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Riff," and I cannot say whom I despise more in that moment, Cain or Riff. Cain, for touching the marks that I have kept hidden for so long, or Riff, for having the audacity to die, and in doing so, become untouchable in his saintliness. A symptom of death.
(And I hold no such claim in Cain's heart.)
That old rage returns, so easy to summon, so difficult to control. Even as I try to leave the past behind, this intense rage will not be gone. And it brings that old question with it. Gathering the silk to my skin, feeble barrier that it is, I coldly withdraw from the bed, and out of idle curiosity, I search my coat pockets for a scalpel. Leaving my decision to the mercy of Fate, as to whether or not it will provide the instrument of our destruction. Scalpel, or not. Love, or not. Its answer, as always, comes in the thin metal, and its lightness promises me an ending. Cain won't be marriageable without his eyes.
He'll belong to me, at last. Something, at least, will be mine. And should I not take my dues, as the dispossessed bastard?
Detached, I turn his face slightly, noticing how one side has been reddened slightly from resting on the pillow. He's an object now, a curiosity, an answer to my question—will my desire for him cease when he belongs to me? When all that marks and marrs him belongs to me?
Cain sighs exquisitely, and his bare form simply begs to opened, tenderly. Like the beauties of the previous century: the waxen women whose insides revealed themselves so neatly, models meant to seduce and instruct with their real hair and real eyelashes. So far removed from the apathy of the medical diagrams.
(I wonder how much of an inconvenience it will be to find some anesthetic in the back of his ghastly collection. Something to render him nicely pliable and agreeable for an hour or so. Of course, I could slice out his eyes quickly, but that would be distasteful and a disservice to his great beauty, which must be savored.)
His head falls further, as I trail my fingers around the tendons and the pale, exposed skin. The veins half-buried among the muscles. Cassian only watches me, something akin to sadness weighing down his form.
(You ought not.)
Cain's lips are inviting as the fruit of the goblin men, who tempted that maiden. The fruit that made her lips so sticky, the fruit that drove her to madness and sin. He doesn't stir under my touch, unaware that his throat is bared to me. I follow the lines of worry that have gathered around his eyes, and an almost pity comes over me. He is aging too—if he had lived my life, would his hair have greyed as well? Desire stirs in me, moves to me to cup his face. His lashes flutter in sleep, and my hand trembles in anticipation.
(You ought not.)
And yet, despite his warning, I remain unmoved. "You shouldn't tell me what I ought to do." Because the morning will be here soon enough.
(You know that won't solve a damn thing, Doctor.)
Still at it.
"You're very irritating when you try to moralize." I reply coldly, forgetting his animal form in my irritation. No, it feels as though we are back in Delilah, and he is scolding me about some trifle. I keep my words sharp and cold. "Perhaps, if you find such matters distasteful, you ought to wait outside."
(You'll ruin your life.)
"It was already ruined." I fumble with the door, holding it ajar. "Will you go quietly, or not?"
The dejected slouch of his back is his only answer, and as he leaves, shame burns at me. Shame over how easily my cruelty comes to me. The door closes, and another door closes between us. For a moment, I long to open it, to unmake this cruelty that I did not mean, but I do not move. I have chosen damnation over the love I longed for from Father. If I was wiser, or weaker, or just a kind man, I might have given in. But my heart is hard, and cruelty and I are bedfellows.
I return to the path I have chosen, my heart hollow. This bears little resemblance to how I had imagined this transgression. And alone, I eat the fruit of the goblin men. There's brandy on his lips, and sin on mine. But no matter how hard I press my lips to his, there's a distance that I cannot bridge—
Eat me, drink me, love me—
Breathless, I watch him. He stirs a little, his lips left parted. I cannot hear anything, save the sudden loudness outside—one of the nightjars dares to stray into the night, mapping the dark with its spiraling call.
—make much of me;
I want to laugh or scream at this distance. Laugh, because what else could I expect, and scream, because I cannot escape my curse. If Cain's curse was to bear the scars upon his back, then mine is to bear the eternal isolation. I'll kill us both—I know that. I'll take of his body, and he'll take of mine—and I'll kill us both, because that is how love ends. Then no one can separate us in hell—I'll be there for taking what belongs to God, and he for incest.
I kiss him again, more insistently now. Wanting to wake him and see the languid desire widen his mouth. And I get ahead of myself—the scalpel rests near his left eye, ready to excavate that prized jewel. Love and death have always been inseparable for me. On the blade, a perfect mirror of his perfect eyes, enclosed in lashes and eyelids. Swaddled in skin and bone. A twitch of my wrist—a scrape of skin. The cut blanches under the thin weight, and then reddens with the ensuing flush of blood. A red thread in the pale flesh—if I pull it, he'll come undone. And then no one can put him back together again. No one will want to.
A laugh escapes me. Fevered and deranged. It is so easy now. Everything finally makes sense. This is how the family curse ends. I want to stab out Cain's eyes, with no care as to their preservation now. Can he bear this scar as well? (Or maybe it's my own eyes I want to stab out?) All I know is that the dream of warmth has ended, and now I must face the morning. And I don't want to. I'd prefer hell to this.
Fevered scratching at the door. God damn it. God damn him. God damn us both. Cassian won't leave me to ruin myself, out of some misplaced devotion. And fear grips me again. What if Cain wakes now, to find me over him with the blade? What will he think of me? I've been so careless. What have I done? Mea culpa. Mea culpa. The rest of the words follow, practiced and unsaid—in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.
Reluctantly, I move from him, my heart sinking under the weight of what I have committed. If I'm destined for hell for this, then isn't it just to be guilty of all of it? Cain stirs, and for a moment, before me is Father—and Cain, as he must have been, when he was younger. When Father—
I recoil from both, as if burned.
Is this why I desire to be with my kin? What if it is not the family curse that compels me so, but rather some horrid conclusion to what Father and I have done? Sensation no longer registers in my body; my breath comes ragged, and the blood drains from my face. What have I done? Am I guilty now too?
A low whimper from the door. A plea.
I, in turn, only crumple to the floor, defeated. With only the thin red thread to say just what had occurred. In his loose form, sprawled among the covers, through the wetness that clouds the room, the inescapable truth stares back at me—that he is not mine. That he will never be mine. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.
"Jezabel!"
At the sound of my name, I startle and glance up—to find no one. And I cannot even say whose voice it was. Cain continues to slumber, blissfully unaware of how close he came to death. As I continue to examine it, like a patient upon the vivisection table, I remember how I heard Cain's voice turning it into Father's. How I could not shake myself of the conviction that Cassandra had returns—and all the pieces start to make a horrid sense. I start to cry again, knowing that I am only following Augusta into the madhouse. That this is God's vengeance on me for my sinful ways. That I will be aware of my madness even as I descend into it.
Cassian has grown silent, and I clutch at myself, unsure of what is left to me. Should I leave, before the madness takes hold? I can't tell anyone.
A light tug on the sleeve of my dressing gown provokes a momentary fear in me. But it's only Cain. He sighs heavily, not quite awake, not quite cognizant of the situation. With every heavy breath, his chest falls and rises, moving his bones. His eyes still closed.
"Go back to sleep," he mumbles. Half annoyed, half tender.
I fumble for my voice. "I don't want to," I manage at last. My voice thickened with tears and petulance.
"Then quiet down." He sighs again, still half asleep. "Lie back down, and think of all the ways you hate me so. Once you've reached fifty or so, I wager you'll be asleep. I'll give you the first one—I hate Cain so, because he is charming."
"Charming? How generous of you." Even in my state, I can still keep my words as sharp as his.
He smirks a little and opens those lovely eyes of his. Golden green in the remnants of the night. "I hear the Americans count sheep to fall asleep, but you'd try to rescue them all. And make them sleep in beds. With little flannel night caps."
In spite of myself, a little smile tugs at my lips. "Perhaps."
"Happy sheep it is, then. Fat as a cloud, happier than Mary and cherry cake." He sets the covers aside, and I'm annoyed at his ability to charm me so. "Things always look better in the mornings."
"Not this time." I have the urge to push away from him, to flee. But an unnameable sorrow deadens my limbs, and so I remain, uneasy, beside him. Knowing that the moment is lost. A thousand confessions leap to my lips, unsaid—most strongly, I went against God and damned us both. I tried to kill you. Not certain if I'll try again. The odds don't favor us. And in the corner, the stricken whisper of I'm going mad.
"Then we shall have to make it better, won't we?"
"Can you?"
He surveys me, vaguely suspicious. Propped on a bare elbow. "For a man who raised the dead, you certainly have your doubts."
"You don't have enough."
"Fair enough," he concedes, already exasperated. "Uncle Neil is correct: I'm wild and foolhardy and reckless. Now, will you please go back to bed." At the renewed scratching at the door and finding Cassian gone, he gives me a look of annoyance. One that is lessened by his long, sleep-ridden blinks. "Have you been feuding with the dog? I thought you liked animals."
I shake my head, unable to voice my foolishness. Afraid that if I tell him that, then everything else might spill out.
He exhales in frustration, before rolling over on his side. Gathering the blankets around him. "Forgive the dog, let him back in, and go back to sleep." An almost-tenderness comes over me, underneath the fear and shame. He seems so breakable, nestled under the covers. With his delicate bird bones.
I find Cassian already curled next to the door, like a sentinel. Worry in his eyes, as I crouch beside him. I want to confess my foolishness, but nothing comes. Instead, we remain there, close and hurt and yet, despite it all, that bond remains. That bond in Cain and Riff that I mocked and feared and resented. But it seems to be stronger than all my rage and distance.
How frightful.
Still, I have hurt him, and the price for my cruel words is that he stays where he has lain. My heart heavy, I return to Cain. He gives me a strange look, as if wanting to ask me something, and I only shake my head in reply. I sink under his arms, trying to forget my transgressions. My thoughts turn towards the morning, and a certain dread returns.
Cain
The morning finds us disheveled, entangled, and warm. As per usual, the majority of the blankets have migrated over to Jezabel's side of the bed, and yet, I cannot be vexed with him. I run a furtive hand along the curve of his face, a strange blend of desire and brotherly protectiveness stirring within me. He only continues to sleep, the lines of his face giving way to a lost look. As I leave the bed, the blankets stir slightly.
"Sleep in if you want. Uncle Neil won't mind."
While I examine my face in the mirror, more vanity than a need to shave, I notice a faint red line near my left eye. I frown, scrutinizing it. How strange. I cannot remember engaging in an activity that would leave such a mark; my first thought flees back to Jezabel, but I dismiss it. If he desired my eyes, then surely, I would have awoken sightless, rather than with a mere scrape. With that fear suppressed, I turn towards the daily task of living without Riff. Levinson will, no doubt, be annoyed to find my door locked, but given that I do not allow him to dress me, I doubt he will be too distraught.
I scan my clothes from yesterday. The shirt will have to be washed, but I should be able to wear the trousers again. Perhaps, I'll borrow a shirt from Jezabel. We should be nearly the same size now, and Uncle Neil will scold me if I take breakfast in soiled clothes. It will be easier than sneaking back down the hall to my bed chambers, hiding from the servants. Or at least, that's what I'll tell Jezabel.
I begin to rifle through his wardrobe, and Jezabel peers sleepily behind the blankets.
"You've gotten taller," he says, in an oddly petulant voice.
I shrug, as I continue my search. "It's not uncommon."
He crosses his arms, glaring at the table. His fingers tapping out his annoyance. "Still," he begins again. "Taller."
"Jezabel, I swear to all the gods in the Greek pantheon that I will be cross with you if you suggest I stop nature to appease you." I pause, collecting my thoughts. "Life is not some science experiment to bend to your will." He opens his mouth to begin with his favorite argument to the contrary—that yes, life is plenty pliable under the right conditions—but I continue on. "And besides, why should it bother you if I am taller?" And then, I hit upon it, the reason why he is so petulant about the entire affair. "You think I'll be taller than you one day?"
"Not one day." He shifts slightly. "It's not decent for you to be taller."
"Blame Father for that." I cannot keep a smirk from my lips. I suppose it's the vestige of a brotherly desire older than our namesakes, but the idea that I might, one day, be taller than my brother thrills me.
He sulks a little at this, before the dog distracts him. They seem to have moved past whatever slight troubled them last night. That low desire returns as I catch the pale of his limbs, before the dressing gown glides down to cover them. I want to slide the silk away, to caress—with great difficulty, I force those dangerous, unwanted thoughts from my mind.
"I considered leaving here as Elizabeth from Manchester," I cheerfully admit, as I finish my selection. "Thought it might be great fun to liven up the place."
Jezabel frowns as he tries to ascertain if that was truly my plan. "You wouldn't dare."
"I didn't want to blemish your bachelor reputation," I reply with a smirk, closing the wardrobe doors. "Would have made sneaking out easier, though." I'm not certain why I want to bring this topic up again. Perhaps, deep down, it's a warning that these feelings are dangerous. I wish he had decided to leave, but perhaps it was foolish of me to force it. Apparently, neither of us relish having our choices made for us.
"Neil would have caught you, and made you take breakfast."
"Uncle Neil would have thrown you a party to find out that you had warm blood like the rest of us."
He frowns a little. "I don't."
I shrug on the shirt. "We could still have one on Uncle Neil."
"You're terribly eager to crossdress." He smirks, turning his gaze to the pale outsides. Fog whitens the world, and as he continues to stare, sorrow unconsciously returns to him. For a moment, he seems as if he wants to tell me something, but he remains silent, and I am reminded that this moment is over between us. That this cannot occur again, not without repercussions. As we continue to dress, I force my eyes on my own clothes, ignoring the quivering of my heart. I begin to lace up my shoes, my hands still unaccustomed to the act.
"You tie your own shoes now?" he asks lightly.
I do not answer, instead giving him a self-confident smile that does not reach my heart. "Shall we go down?"
Notes:
This is more of an interlude than a chapter. Chapter title is from "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti.
The waxen women that Jezabel refers to are very real. They were popular as a teaching tool in the 1700s and were eventually replaced by the more gender-neutral diagrams in Gray's Anatomy (1858), which Jezabel would have likely learned from, had he actually lived. The BBC has a great article about them. And that's your morbid medical fact for the month.
The line about the fruit of the goblin men is a reference to Christina Rossetti's "Goblin Market" and is just as disturbingly erotic as it is suggested to be. As in, disturbingly erotic in a way you probably never knew the Victorians were. The rhyme scheme is jarring, the imagery painfully unsubtle. In fairness, however, I'm 90% sure she never intended for her work to be used like this, chopped up between a dubcon incest scene. Sorry, Ms. Rossetti.
And the part about Cain getting taller than Jezabel was stolen, er, borrowed with love from Syri. Because the idea makes me giggle and I can see it happening.
As always, much love and gratitude to you all, the readers. Let me know what you thought of this chapter, if you'd like!