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Ch. 9 Lonely in Your Nightmare
When Sylvie was eleven her brother died and she'd gone to live with her grandmother for almost two years. Nan's maid, Moira, was a no-nonsense Irish woman in her middle years from a small village in northern Ireland. She'd taught Sylvie many things, saucy Irish tavern songs being one of them.
She'd been the one in charge of Sylvie the day Father Brunn had tried to have his way with her. Moira had heard the man's scream of pain and come across Sylvie running out of the back room of the parish church after leaving his letter opener in his thigh. Sylvie never did find out what Moira had said to the vicar, but the man had explained away his wound, saying he'd carelessly tripped and the implement had been hanging at the edge of his desk.
While comforting Sylvie, Moira had said "Them men o' God, they tink themselves above everyone else. They tink because they said some words they don't have the same urges, but their pricks stand up at attention in the mornings like any oter man's, and it takes over their tinking just the same." At Sylvie's confused look she'd gone on to explain.
It appears that something similar happens to vampires.
The second morning in his bed, Sylvie wakes with a start. She finds Hal hovering over her, his knees straddling her thighs, his arousal quite evident. However, instead of the sweet-faced sight of the previous awakening, this time his eyes are black and his lips are parted, the sharp tips of his fangs visible. She screams in terror, frozen, and he hisses at her softly before suddenly blinking his eyes clear. They stare at each other wide-eyed before Hal rolls away, sliding to the edge of the bed, sitting with his back to her. "Oh God, Sylvie, I'm sorry." He says in a slurred sort of way.
Heart thudding like it wants to pound out of her chest, Sylvie tries to breathe through her fright.
After a couple dozen pounding heartbeats he asks in a clearer voice, "Sylvie, why didn't you use the werewolf blood last night? You promised me."
She tries to speak but her racing heart is still lodged in her throat.
"This is proof I cannot be trusted."
Bloody hell, give me time to recover, to think! However before she can answer him, there is a knocking at the door. "Is everything alright Syl- Miss Sylvie? Lord Yorke?"
Making an irked noise, Hal gets up and puts his dressing gown on. Annoyance clear in his posture, he strides to the door, opening it abruptly and saying in clipped tones, "Mrs. Yorke is perfectly fine. She was simply frightened by a... spider. It has been taken care of." Without further ado he starts closing the door.
Sylvie can see the housekeeper, Gertrude, trying to peer around Hal to ascertain if he spoke the truth. "Wait Hal!" He pauses, looking at her expectantly. She waves at him to step aside as she sits up, modestly draping a blanket around herself. Hal frowns but moves, giving the housekeeper an unobstructed view of the bed.
Sylvie smiles comfortingly, "Yes Gertrude, I am quite well. It is as Hal explained." Hal's frown deepens. The housekeeper smiles at Sylvie and curtsies, not meeting Hal's eyes as he shuts the door firmly. Hal huffs in irritation but before he can say anything, Sylvie says, "I like hearing you call me that. It is the first time you have, you know."
"It is the proper way a servant should address you. Did I hear her correctly? Was she going to refer to you by your given name?"
"Yes, she was because I asked her to, I insisted. But Hal I like you calling me Mrs. Yorke because it is a reminder that we are tied together."
Hal ignores her. "I shall have a talk with Mrs. Ward about the respect that needs to be given in her station. You shouldn't encourage such familiarity. It is unseemly."
"Actually Hal I asked everyone to call me Sylvie."
"Whyever would you do that?" He truly looks affronted.
"Because I don't like the formality. I have told you this before. And servants are people after all, I don't see why being born to different circumstances makes it necessary to address me by anything but my name. I rather like Gertrude, and Margaret is a lovely girl, thank you for assigning her as my lady's maid. James is very likeable, I never did get along with our butler. Ronald is a nice lad, and Mrs. B -"
"Who is Ronald? And who is Mrs. B. Surely that isn't her surname?"
"Ronald is the stable boy. I suppose you just call him boy. Mrs. Bellview, or Mrs. B as she prefers to be called, is your - our - cook. Do you not know the names of the people you hired to help you?"
"No, I've never had need to know them. Mrs. Ward was in charge of hiring most of the house staff, and James the grooms and gardeners and -"
"Hal, do any of them know about you, about what you are?"
"Certainly not. Very few humans ever learn about the existence of vampires. Or any supernaturals for that matter."
"Why are they so wary of you?"
"I assume you mean the healthy dose of respect they have for me. It's only proper seeing as..." Hal trails off, narrowing his eyes at her.
"Sylvie, you have an affinity for circumventing onto tangents." he huffs, "You didn't answer my earlier question."
Now that her terror is gone she feels a bit of an annoyance. "First of all, I think you'll find that this time you were the one to drift the conversation elsewhere."
"Sylvie" he says in a warning tone.
Were their mornings always going to involve some sort of confrontation? But yes, they need to have this conversation. She sighs deeply and gets up to put her dressing gown on. She notes that he still averts his eyes. "I promised that I would use it if you attacked me. I grabbed it at the first opportunity I had, but then... well I had to wait. I couldn't just use it at the first sign that you were struggling could I? Because you were struggling, you weren't attacking. I have to give you the opportunity to fight it, to win over it."
"I don't want you to hesitate the next time."
"Well if you'll recall Hal, I wasn't exactly in a position to do anything at first, seeing as how I couldn't see you and you had me pinned down."
Hal looks uncomfortable.
"You know you are extremely adorable when you are embarrassed. How you can behave so impassioned at night but then become so straightlaced in the morning... At his look she continues, "I know. I know. Not a jesting matter." She says, mimicking him. Then she becomes serious. "But what do you wish me to say Hal? That I will kill you the next time you hiss at me? Because you simply frighten me? Should I have used the toxic blood right now? You wish me to become a widow after less than a week of being married? I knew when I pursued you what you are, what risk that entails. But I have faith in you. You need to start having some faith in yourself." As she talks she looks at him critically. He appears just as he had a few mornings ago, rested, disheveled (she can't help but smile at his hair sticking up like a haystack), unthreatening. She comes up to him and kisses his lips lightly, happy that he lets her. "Hal, what just happened? Were you awake or asleep?"
He looks down at her wary, but answers. "I was awake. Just."
"Were you going to hurt me?"
"I... I don't know." There is sadness in his eyes.
"Do you want to hurt me now?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then we'll go with that." She runs a hand through his hair. "Would you like me to give you a shave?"
"No. I think it best we carry on as before." At her disappointed look he relents, "But of course I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast and we can make a new list, one that includes activities that can be performed together." She takes her small victory. At least that is a step in the right direction.
When they sit down to figure out a new schedule, it is unsurprisingly hard to get him to concede any changes in his time. Minutes here and there for the most part. He agrees she can accompany him on rides, but it is dependent on his mood on any given day. Reading can be done companionably. Afternoon walks together are added, but he admonishes that if he feels she is too "boisterous" he might change his mind. He agrees to move some of his morning activities to the parlor where the pianoforte is located, so that he can listen to her play. But his bedroom is a sanctuary - she is not welcome during his morning ablutions, nor his private exercises or baths. Only at night, for the most part, is she invited in. Or carried in.
Time has a way of moving: days become weeks, weeks become months. Winter. A time Sylvie has never truly loved, as she has always embraced the outdoors. Most winters she'd spent many lonely yet tranquil hours with only the company of her dog, whiling away the gloom with books, music and her sketchbooks and paints. This winter is different: a dichotomy of happiness and trepidation. This winter she has Hal: her incredibly complex, awkward, volatile, passionate, selfish, haunted husband.
The morning assaults happen frequently enough that Hal concedes it's an instinctive reflex of going from a sleeping state to waking for him, at least with her there. Sylvie gradually becomes accustomed to being startled awake, somewhat. At least she hardly screams out in terror any longer, lest she frighten the servants.
Usually it's enough to say his name or to touch his cheek to bring him fully awake, aware of what he is doing. Some mornings however they spend tense moments as he struggles to control it. She can sense these mornings are different, there is an air of coiled menace about him, his body is rigid, pinning her down. She carefully gropes for the vial, wondering if it truly will save her if he can't suppress the hunger. Sometimes she feels comfort in knowing she has a weapon against him, but most times she wonders if they are just deluding themselves with a false sense of security.
And then there are the nightmares. She remembers a time when she woke from nightmares almost nightly for months after her twin had died. It had been the same terrible dream every time: he begged her to end the pain and she held him to her, a pillow firmly clutched over his face as she sang him a lullaby to push him to that final sleep. She still has that nightmare on occasion.
Hal does not have nightmares nightly, and yet they happen frequently enough that she wonders how he ever dares fall asleep in the first place. She wonders if they are due to her presence or if he's always had them. She doesn't know the contents of his dreams, exactly, but from the words he sometimes cries out she knows that blood and killing plague him during his night sojourns.
She pieces together disturbing images in her head from the English, Spanish, and French words that bubble out when he's unconscious. Once she makes out a phrase in a language she does not know. One word, wampir, is obvious but the rest she decides to find out. The next day while they are reading she asks nonchalantly. "Hal, what does the word keyrurg mean?"
"Hmmm?" He looks up from his book frowning, "Do you mean chirurg? If so it is the Polish word for surgeon."
"What about dusza?"
"Dusza means soul. Sylvie, what on earth are you reading?" He glances over but she hides her volume of Shakespeare's comedies and ignores his inquiry. vampire. surgeon. soul. She's certain that refers to when he became a vampire, losing his soul, but doubts she'll learn the whole story. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him frown and then wince as he realizes where she got the words from. But he says nothing further.
Sometimes it's not his words or screams that wake her. In a few instances she's jolted by nighttime assaults. As in the mornings, she spends tense moments waiting for him to master his hunger. Her life is forever in his hands.
However, more often than not, Hal suffers his nightmares alone. She might wake to find him gone from their bed, taking refuge in an empty bedroom doing rounds of pressups or downstairs re-sorting his collection of books, or sitting in a dark corner staring into space, trembling. On the truly hard nights she wakes to find him curled up crying, in the bed, or on the floor.
He will not share his dreams no matter how much she asks, cajoles or begs. No matter how much she assures him that it might help. Sometimes she must leave him to work through his terrors alone. Sometimes he takes what comfort she can provide.
This winter there is little snowfall. This winter there is interminable rain. It seems like the heavens weep with her.
Sylvie wakes up suddenly, feeling that something is amiss. She turns over to find Hal's side of the bed empty. It feels cold, colder than it should even with his body unable to warm the space as a human can, which means he's been gone awhile. She gets up, pulling on her heavy pelisse over her nightgown instead of the lighter wrapper, and her velvet half-boots instead of her slippers. The weather has been icy - the rains had let up earlier in the week to be replaced by a pervasive chill. Lighting a taper at the fire she goes searching for him throughout the house but can't find him. Finally she goes outside, walking out across the barren gardens, and finds him working at one of the empty flower beds. No, not entirely empty - he'd brought out one of the heavy Argand lamps and by its light she can see that he has taken stones from other areas in the garden and has been arranging them in one area, small to large.
"Hal, why are you out here? Can you please come in, it is bloody freezing out here." At least he has on his great coat and hessian boots over his long drawers.
He continues moving stones around, comparing the one in his hand with the ones on the ground and placing it in it's proper place. She thinks he's going to ignore her but he says, "Did you know today is the Winter Solstice? The longest night of the year."
"No, love, I didn't know that."
He places three more stones before he stops and straightens up, facing her, with a sad, haunted look on his face. "Since ancient times this night has held special significance, rituals and rites of passage are performed. Ten years before you first saw me tied to that chair I participated in a very horrific act on the Winter Solstice. It was a night that changed my status as a vampire, literally changed the constitution of my existence."
He pauses but Sylvie is not sure if he's waiting for a reply from her. He so rarely lets her into his private thoughts, his memories. So she remains silent hoping he will continue.
He looks down at his handiwork then back at her. "I became an Old One that night, something I desperately wanted at the time." He closes his eyes, a tear escaping, leaving a shining trail in the lamplight. When he opens his eyes they are full of pleading, his voice is hoarse with desperation as he whispers, "the children's faces are with me while I dream."
Sylvie gasps at his pain, at the horror of what he's implying. She's torn between her love for him and the realization that he truly is the monster he claims to be. Can she reconcile the two? In the end all she can do is follow her heart in the hope that it will keep him from ever reverting to that monster. All she can do is to nurture the good in him, to give him a second chance at redemption. She takes his hand as he stares despairingly.
"Come Hal, dear, I will keep you company on this longest night and drive away the nightmares."
They never talk about it of course but Sylvie disappears once a month. He has never had a problem before, the female servants having been told to avoid him during those times, but seeing how he struggles with her so intimately near him, they had come to an agreement that they should not tempt fate.
Before the inclement weather she stayed with Gemma and Federico, enjoying her time with the two people she considers her best friends, besides Hal. These are the few times she leads what could be called a normal life - going to see a play or shopping, not being ruled by a schedule. These are the few times she can truly relax since most of her time with Hal is spent keeping him on his path, keeping herself alive.
Federico, always concerned for her welfare, makes sure to supply her with fresh blood whenever they part company. He assures her that while the older blood tends to dry up, becoming a rusty powder, it is still effective. However he insists on giving her a fresh dose, claiming it the most potent. He has become almost like a big brother to her, not afraid to ask the hard questions. "Does he treat you well? Do you feel threatened by him? Are you happy with him?" She assures him that they have worked out a fair arrangement. "Of course I'm happy with him." She smiles genuinely.
Despite the challenges of the situation, she is happy. It's surprising how minutes can add up and extend to hours. She tells her friends about the mornings spent with Hal, playing music while he writes or makes his folded creations, or works on his botany collection. Music has always been a passion for her; now made all the more enjoyable with the occasional choice pieces to elicit comical facial expressions from him. She shares with them her joy at their walks and rides out together; being outdoors has always been her favourite time. There is a quiet stillness, an almost peaceful contentment about him when he is riding that she hesitates to disturb. She is content to enjoy their companionable silence at these times, to observe rather than engage. And, when the mood strikes on occasion, she ignores his protests in favour of climbing a tree or running and dancing in the meadows. She tells them about hours spent reading then arguing the merits of one story or another. She humours his diatribes on what he considers her "unsophisticated" reading choices - Moll Flanders might not be on par with Encyclopédie, but she is entitled to read whatever she wishes. She shares some of the activities they do together in the evenings - cards, chess and those new puzzles she purchased for him. And if occasionally she wishes he'd acquiesce to her requests for livelier entertainment, say staging a play or dancing, at least he tends to counter with a suggestion that they retire early. That detail she leaves out of her report. She also doesn't tell them about the mornings, or the couple of times servants had hurt themselves and she'd had to distract Hal, taking him upstairs away from the blood, or the nightmares he wakes with, or the multitudes of times she has to keep the werewolf blood ready... Those are the peculiarities of living with a vampire, of living with Hal, that she endures because she loves him.
With weather precluding travel, Sylvie stays confined in the outbuilding that was transformed into rooms for her. There had been no question whatsoever about Hal being the one to depart. But in truth she doesn't mind it so much - it is her haven. Margaret stays to see to her comfort and keep her company, she plays her music, reads, works on embroidery, or sketches. After some coaxing she gets her maid to dance with her or put on impromptu plays. The third day of this arrangement she'd come up with the idea to send Hal a note, and he'd written a note back. Realizing this strategy would ease their separation she'd even suggested they make a game of it, sending riddles, quotes, or chess moves back and forth to wile away some of the dreary winter hours. Those hours not occupied by his routines of course. The servants take it in stride - they had learned years before not to question their eccentric master and Sylvie's friendly manner had won them over. They trudge across the grounds through downpours back and forth as much for her as for him. She only misses him at night, worries for him, worries for everyone, through the long dark cold hours with howling wind and relentless rain.
Then comes the day she knows it is safe to return and she rushes across the gardens to the main house. No matter where he is, no matter what he's doing or who else is in the room, she leaps into his arms to kiss him with all the pent up emotion of the last few days. Hal's reaction usually varies anywhere from surprised annoyance to extreme mortification. The first few times she'd done it he'd yelled at her for her impropriety. But he inevitably relents, hugging her back, however awkwardly at first. Their reunions those nights are usually frenetic, a tangle of fabric and limbs that end with clothes strewn everywhere. (On one occasion he'd even managed to throw one of her stockings in the fire, much to his chagrin.) These are the times he is least inhibited, almost desperate. These are the times he shows her all the "French" tricks he has picked up in his 300 years of living.
One time he doesn't even bother waiting till night. He is doing pressups in their room when she barges in, breathless from her run. He jumps up, startled, just in time to catch her. She kisses him passionately, stroking his biceps, his back, then snakes her hand down the ridges of his stomach, brushing the trail of hair below his navel to undo his trouser button. To her delight, he does not stop her. Instead he pins her to the wall, kissing her fervently, barely managing to get her skirts up and his trousers down before lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting in deeply, seeking release with wild abandon. She holds onto his shoulders as waves of pleasure engulf her almost immediately, leaving her to collapse breathless and limp in his arms. That day they don't make it down to dinner.
Monthly confinement certainly has its rewards...
Sylvie is startled out of sleep by a deep "No!" Her heart thrumming, she reaches over to clutch the vial hidden in the seam of her pillow & rolls over to look at Hal. He is sitting at the edge of the bed, the banked fire illuminating his bare back, the muscles taut, glistening with sweat. He appears to be breathing hard. Or crying.
"Hal, what is wrong?"
His voice is thick. "It's nothing. Don't trouble yourself." He sounds different, the way he sounds when his fangs are out.
She sits up and scoots over to him.
"Hal, tell me, what is the matter? Please."
He hesitates but then tells her, "Nightmare. This one is... different."
"Worse?"
He whispers, "Yes. Much worse."
"Another memory?" Dear God, did she even want to know? Worse than the children? She never found out what had happened to the children, never wanted to find out.
"No. Not a memory. That's what makes it worse. I dreamt... I dreamt He killed you." He chokes out, "I killed you."
"Is this really the first time you've dreamt of killing me?"
Her heart, which had begun calming down from the fright of being woken, speeds up again. She waits, not really expecting him to answer, not sure she wants to hear the answer. Finally she hears him say quietly, "Today marks the longest time I've been with a human woman. The longest anyone's survived."
She sighs in relief. "Oh Hal, this is a good thing is it not? It is a hopeful thing." She climbs out of bed, pulling on her nightgown as she comes around to look at him. Even in shadow she sees his cheek is wet. And his lip is wet, with something dark. Blood?
He meets her eyes, "I was covered in your blood. It was dripping all over me. I was reveling in it. I could taste it. It was ecstasy." She could see now that he had bitten his lip. Drops of blood had fallen on his chest. But his teeth were normal now. And he looked at her with eyes like pools into his troubled soul.
She reaches out to him, "Shhh, it was only a dream."
He resists for a moment before burying his face into her ribs, his hands on her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh.
He sobs. "You are the light to my darkness. You are the angel to my demon. I do not want to be your death. I will surely be your death!"
"Shhh, it was only a dream." She repeats, to assure herself as much as him. She starts humming a tune. After a while he pulls back and looks up at her.
"What is that you are humming? I hear you play it and hum it all the time but I can't place it."
"Sorry. It is something I made up. I can stop."
"No, it's very soothing. It's something I've come to associate with you."
She smiles, pleased. "It's something I associate with you as well." He looks puzzled. "There are words, would you like to hear them?"
He makes a little acquiescent sound.
She smoothes his hair and starts singing gently:
Dear thoughts are in my mind
And my soul soars enchanted,
As I hear the sweet lark sing
In the clear air of the day.
For a tender beaming smile
To my hope has been granted,
And tomorrow she shall hear
All my fond heart would say.
I shall tell her all my love,
All my soul's adoration,
And I think she will hear
And will not say me nay.
It is this that gives my soul
All its joyous elation,
As I hear the sweet lark sing
In the clear air of the day.
Hal raises his eyebrows in surprise. "My poem."
"I'm sorry. I know how you frown upon the folk tunes I love. I'm no Bach but perhaps I can change it -"
"No, it's... perfect." He gives her one of his rare genuine smiles.
She beams down at him.
Then he frowns. "Sylvie, have you ever taken off your ring?
"No, of course not. Why would I do that? It is a part of me now." She twirls the ring on her finger, feeling the embossed pattern. She's looked upon it so many times, the scrolls interspersed with five-petaled flowers. It is delicate and lovely, more lovely that he had given it to her.
"That's not what I meant." He gets up and goes over to light the candle near the bed, bringing it over. He gestures for her to sit down and perches on the edge of the bed across from her. Then he removes her ring and brings the candle to it, illuminating the inner ridge. Sylvie looks at it, reading for the first time the inscription she had not known was there all along.
'my love. my hope. my salvation.'
With an "Oh!" she throws herself at him, crying happy tears.
"Careful. You don't want to set the house on fire, do you?" His tone is admonishing but he smiles indulgently. He extricates himself, slips the ring back on her finger, and blows the candle out, placing it back on the nightstand.
They get back in bed and Hal pulls her close to him, but he is still tense, his body feels hard as stone. Laying her head on his chest she hears nothing, absolute silence. And then one thump. She feels a deep sigh fill his chest and as he exhales it is like he is thawing, the stone becoming human. Then, before the next thump of his long, drawn-out heartbeat, he begins, "In 1514 I was a soldier in Belarus, in the Battle of Orsha. By all rights that should have been the day of my death from the Muscovite lance wound in my belly. But the army surgeon offered me eternal life, in return for the tattered remains of my soul, and I accepted. That was the day I became a vampire..."
Chapter title and inspiration from Duran Duran's "Lonely in your Nightmare" I actually had some of the elements of this chapter planned for later but by happenstance heard this song (hadn't in years) and they lyrics just fit, so I rearranged the story a bit.
An Argand lamp is an oil lamp invented in 1780. It puts out the light equivalent of 6 to 10 candles.
Hal's Winter Solstice confession was inspired by ShoePigeon's story 1779: An eyewitness account. If you haven't read it, do so now. It seems plausible and has become headcanon to me. However in my mind it is Hal, not Hettie that becomes an Old One that night. Hope you don't mind I took that liberty Shoe. :)
Sylvie's posey ring is a real 16th century ring. I've changed the inscription. If you'd like to see a picture, I put it in the "My Fanfic" page of my whimsyfox Tumblr account.
Hal's poem/Sylvie's song is a real poem/song. I put the Youtube link to the song on the Tumblr "My Fanfic" page as well.