I'm terrible at this writing thing, I know. I can't keep a schedule. So, no promises beyond that this will have an end. Number of chapters left can be counted on one hand.
As always, reverence for the Great Lord Toby. His genius knows no bounds. Hal haunts me, daily.
Mood music carrying over from last chapter - Glee version of "No Air" by Jordin Sparks
Saemay and TJ4ev, thanks for your patience and help.
I own nothing. All mistakes are my own.
Ch 22. Her Love
True to her word, when her friends arrive, Sylvie acts as bubbly as he'd ever seen her, welcoming the werewolf and his human wife warmly. None of her words or actions, at least publicly, reveal any domestic strain. Only at night, she insists on staying in her private room, claiming a desire to have Gemma stay with her as well.
Unable to ascertain if Sylvie confides in Federico, Hal warily avoids him as much as possible. However, as host, a certain amount of affability is required of him, and so he endures the company and the idle chatter, he pretends to enjoy the games of cards or Bouts-Rimés, he sits through the nightly musical recitals. Actually, those he rather enjoys, when only the women sing. And thus two days pass, strained yet uneventful.
However, today Sylvie had contrived a new diversion; her latest torture. She had declared after lunch they would be involved in a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream - all of them. Per her usual casualness, she blurred the line of familiarity between the servants and their betters. She left the housekeeper in charge of the needs of the men, but had ensconced herself the last three hours with Gemma and Beth to draw up an abridged script and produce props. Hal had escaped to the sanctuary of his room before he could be accosted by Federico, but had now been called down to participate.
From his place leaning against the mantle in the parlour, Hal surreptitiously watches the men in conversation at the other end of the room. The two grooms he ignores - William is good with horses but possesses no striking characteristics, poses no threat. The other groom is a werewolf, of course, but tame - one of the two younglings they had rescued from London the night he had been sealed in with Sylvie by Jacob. In the past decade, the vampire activity in London and surrounding areas had been low; the werewolf underground movement had had little to sink its teeth into, so to speak. The newer generation of werewolves were content to simply suffer out their curse and attempt to lead normal lives.
It is the Spaniard Hal studies. The intervening years since Hal had first laid eyes on him in Madrid had been kind, despite the curse of the werewolf, his imprisonment during the dog fights, and his involvement in fighting vampires. His curly hair now shows some grey, his physique has become softer, but his olive skin remains unlined except for a crinkle around his eyes and the angry werewolf slashes leading from his left temple down to the sliced earlobe. His dark eyes still glitter with suppressed fury. Federico's presence is always an unwelcome reminder of the man Hal tries to forget.
Gemma and Sylvie enter the room together, followed by Beth, hands laden with papers and an assortment of hats and garments. Although the other two women sensibly wear most of their normal attire, Sylvie defies decorum in her usual brassy manner. With a handful of his paper flowers pinned into her unbound hair, she has stripped down to her white flower-embroidered chemise, the addition of a filmy cloth-of-silver shawl doing little to offer additional coverage. His eyes follow her as she flits around the room assigning parts, giving each person a few words of instruction and encouragement. Her hair is a floating halo around her animated visage as she moves hither and thither, the light accentuating her shape under the opaque yet thin material. Hal longs to cover her indecent state with his jacket, to gather her to him protectively. Possessively. He frowns at the other men, gratified to see they have the decency to avert their eyes.
Finished with all other persons in the room, she bounds over to him.
"Sylvie, your manner of dress is quite unseemly."
Unperturbed, she replies laughingly, "I play the part of a fairy, Hal. I shan't be hindered by all those layers. I must be delicate, graceful, ethereal."
"You always are," Hal says sincerely.
She appears taken aback by the compliment, but then says sharply, "Ah, there is that charm you are so renowned for. I'd begun to have the impression you thought me as simple as an uneducated, french-poxed whore. And as meek."
"Careful, your mask is slipping," he answers her with upturned eyebrows.
Gritting her teeth, she hands him a few sheets of paper.
Hal takes the proffered script, frowning down at the first sheet. "I am to play Puck?"
With a saccharine-sweet, innocent smile, she flashes two ivory combs in front of him before stretching tiptoe to place them in his hair. "This was the best I could manage for horns. I had the idea to embellish a pair of your trousers with wool roving from the stock Ruth keeps for her knitting; however, Beth convinced me the horses' tack glue would not have time to dry." She steps back from him, cocking her head as if appraising the effect. "There, my little satyr. You'll do just fine."
Hal shoots a marginally thankful glance at Beth. As most of the company have their eyes trained on them, her eyes meet his instantly and she smiles shyly in response. Then, her glance travels upwards, a trace of a snicker evident before she remembers her manners, lowers her head, and curtsies, hiding her face.
He narrows his eyes in irritation at Sylvie before hiding his own face behind the papers in his hand. He scans through the text quickly, horrified. "Also the ass-headed weaver?" His voice squeeks.
"Precisely!" she says, enthusiastically, handing him the fabric in her hands as her innocent smile blooms brighter, tilting into a satisfied devilish grin.
His other costume is a pillow casing forming the features of an ass: holes cut out for eyes on either side of the top seam which has a variety of hair ribbons hastily sewn along it's length for a mane; the bottom corner painted with nostrils and a mouth, obviously intended to protrude muzzle-like. A childish gesture of revenge.
With an exasperated look, Hal thrusts it and the papers back into her hands, then stalks through the room, ignoring the stares and snickers that follow him. Only once he is back in his room does he realizes that he still wears the ivory combs.
Hal stands at the window in his library, hands behind his back, fingers tapping his thumbs along to the irregular sound of water trickling from a downspout just outside the window. He watches the two grooms across the yard. The young werewolf rubs down one of the horses under the overhanging eaves of the stables while William walks Sylvie's horse in circles, taking advantage an easing in the deluge. If he strains, Hal can just hear the faint trace of the two men's heartbeats, and the slower lug-lug of the horses' hearts. But that focus brings the ones of the bodies within the house into crescendo, and so he very deliberately brings his focus back to the water, making himself mimic it's inconsistent sound while he looks on.
The imposing black stallion fights the slow pace, fidgeting and rearing in an effort to escape, to free himself from the incessant confinement. For once, Hal commiserates with the fiend. This is the final day of company and Hal is ready for its closure. He prays the roads will be traversable on the morrow. After the farce of the play yesterday, he had excused himself from other activities, but the tension of donning a mask of civility, the overcrowding of extra heartbeats, and the persistent werewolf smell, have all worn on Hal. He feels raw, a nervous itching, as if his skin's become too tight. The threat of the werewolf presence almost tipped his fragile balance a few times; he would welcome the release a fight would bring. Instead, he had continued to avoid Federico as much as possible, desperately wishing he could escape out on a ride, for a few moments respite. And desperately craving the comfort of Sylvie's touch.
"You can't keep avoiding me, Hal. I know you've received my recent letters. I have had replies from Sylvie."
Wincing at the accented voice, Hal curls his hands into fists as he takes one more longing look out the window. To be free. With a long sigh he turns around to confront Federico. He twitches his lips in the semblance of a placating smile. "I've made no claims otherwise. You know what delving back into that life would do to me. It is a risk I cannot take. You, of all people, should understand, should want to make certain that never happens." He looks pointedly over at a sketch Sylvie had made of herself and Gemma together, left on the desk as she'd hastily departed the room when he'd appeared a half hour past.
"I do not ask you to come down and join our chase of the vampires. I only ask to know more about them, their operations outside London, outside of England. Where did they scurry to? Where are they hiding? Where is this Mr. Snow? I remember that name from the time you imprisoned me. You and Jacob spoke of him. He with reverence, you with... something else. He is your leader, sí?"
Hal remains silent.
"If Jacob admired that man, he must have gone to join him. You, of all people, should want to to find Jacob, to seek revenge for what he did to Sylvie. Or justice, whatever you wish to call it."
"Jacob is a milksop, and a coward. What transpired was not his first cock-up, only his largest. More likely, he deserted the Old Ones and is in hiding."
"As you are?" The werewolf tries to taunt him.
The comparison strikes a nerve. "I am nothing like Jacob. He would go into hiding out of weakness. I have chosen this cage in order to keep the world safe from me."
"And it is, isn't it?" Federico's voice takes on an appeasing tone. "I did not want to send la Señorita up here, but she was persuasive. I felt sure her hatred of the vampires, of you, came second only to mine. I waited to learn your fate. And then she sent word that she still believed you were a changed man, that she still loved you and would remain. I counseled her, in every letter, for years. She deserves a better life than to play nursemaid. She deserves a man who won't betray her love."
Hal clenches his teeth but says nothing.
Federico fingers his earlobe, as Hal has observed him do whenever he is uncomfortable. "I have a confession. I am un desgraciado. In the early years, there was one letter I eagerly awaited - one written by a broken-hearted woman telling me that the inevitable had happened. Any small mishap would have given me the excuse to come take my revenge. And there was also the letter I feared - the one informing me of her death."
"But the years passed, and all the letters have confirmed what she believed from the very beginning, what she has never wavered in. You really have done what I thought impossible. Living with a human lover, no deaths, no provocations for concern. She has changed you. You've built a normal, human life with her. And she is happy. You seem, not exactly happy but..." He trails off at a loss before shrugging, "Well, in any case, I believe you no longer need a fresh supply of my blood. She's never had cause to use it; the danger I feared I put her in has never materialized. And if I am honest, the sight of blood has always..."
Hal loses track of the man's continuing words as his concentration focalizes on what he'd just said. She's never had cause to use it. Could it actually be possible? Had Sylvie, knowing that Federico would have used any excuse to kill Hal, been lying to the werewolf, minimizing the danger he posed to her? Had she never told him of the times Hal had come so close?
The droning of Federico's voice is suddenly interrupted by the flurry of Sylvie at the doorway. "Oh forgive me, are we intruding in a private conversation?" She doesn't wait for an answer, rushing in with a reluctant Gemma behind her. The tiny woman has always been timid, having a tendency to glance at the floor whenever in Hal's presence, but now her face, framed by her golden ringlets, wears a desperate look as her sky-blue eyes shoot a plea at her husband.
"Hal, convince our friends that a trip to visit them this spring would be no inconvenience at all. Thanks to you and your friends, my only sojourn at the sea was shit! Past time you remedy this perception. But Gemma insists they should come here, per the usual arrangements. It's our turn!"
Hal raises his eyebrows in mock outrage. He turns back to Federico, who is clearly attempting to hide a sullen look from Sylvie. "Your consideration for our comfort all these years has been a boon to us. However Sylvie may be correct, a visit to your home, to save you the trouble and expense, is long overdue."
Federico dons a smile over his chagrin. "No, mi amigo, I couldn't possibly lay that burden on you, knowing how delicate your condition can be."
"Oh, but I insist. It would be no burden at all. Have you not just praised my restraint?"
Federico's smile falters. "Be that as it may, we... ah..." He looks over to his wife, who clearly is a reluctant participant and offers no help. "We have forthcoming plans, for...um... renovations. The timing has already been set, to coincide with our next visit here. Once those are complete then perhaps we can consider-"
Sylvie squeals with delight, taking his words as confirmation. She turns to Gemma excitedly, already making plans. Gemma shoots Federico a suffering glance as Sylvie urges her out the doorway.
Hal leans over to Federico. "She does not realize. It still surprises me, after all she's experienced, how naive she can be."
Federico frowns at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"
After the tension of the last week, a thread of excitement emboldens Hal to call Federico's bluff. "It wouldn't precisely be difficult to find."
The veneer of friendship drops. Federico's voice lowers threateningly. "What exactly are you thinking?"
Hal notes the change in the werewolf's stance, hears the increase in his heart rate. Hal shifts minutely in response, the thrill of impending confrontation sharp and sweet. In a silken voice he continues, "Based on her memories travelling here, the length of the voyage, the horse's stamina - I would wager somewhere on the southern coast? Near Brighton?"
Federico's fingers curl into the semblance of claws and he growls, "You wouldn't."
They stare at each other expectantly as the werewolf's heartbeat races, overshadowing the ping of the water outside.
Suddenly melodic laughter drifts in from down the hall, breaking the spell. Hal shakes his head, hands splaying wide as he rubs his thighs to diffuse the energy he had been harnessing. Eyes widening with sincerity, he placates, "Forgive me. I mean nothing by it. A soldier's habit."
Eyes still narrowed suspiciously, Federico replies, "A vampire's habit. Lord Harry's habit."
Hal keeps his face smooth.
"Werewolves and vampires make poor bedfellows, but I thought we had become something like friends."
Hal quickly assures him. "And we have. I owe you a debt, for helping us."
"I have come to trust you, Hal, despite my better judgment. Have I been deceived? Is there cause for concern now?"
"Has Sylvie mentioned of any?" Hal stills with expectation, almost wishing to hear an affirmative.
"No," Federico concedes.
Hal huffs out a breath. "There is your answer. Now if you'll excuse me-" Without waiting for permission Hal leaves the room gratefully.
Hal stares down at the open trunk unseeing, deep in thought. Mindful of Sylvie's ultimatum days earlier, he has stood here debating, for well over an hour, without reaching any conclusion. It had been the same each day, the internal debate, the search for clarity, the decision postponed once more. But now he has a knowledge he'd never had before. Could he place his trust in her? His fingers curl protectively up, cradling the frame of the box in his hands.
Hearing the bell call for dinner, he stows the box in its place, taking one last look before shutting the lid with a sigh. Whether a sigh of resignation or relief, he cannot be certain. But at the very least he will join the party at dinner as a sign of good faith.
Descending the steps lightly, he hears hushed voices drifting up from the landing below that make him pause. He eases his way down the steps, peering carefully until he sees Sylvie and Federico standing in the hallway. Sylvie hands over a brocade bag which clinks slightly as the werewolf takes it his hands. "Are you sure, Señorita?" Federico asks and she nods her head in reply. Then she starts when the doorway across from them opens, Gemma exiting. Sylvie turns away from the doorway, towards Hal - despite her ready nod to the werewolf, Hal sees a flash of indecision - before she turns back smiling at the other woman, taking her arm to descend together. Federico remains behind, opening the bag and frowning down into it before disappearing into the guest room briefly. He comes out empty-handed. Hal slides against the wall as Federico's eyes turn upwards. He waits until the werewolf's steps reach the ground floor.
Hal treads his way down to the landing, pausing in consideration before heading into the guest room. He scans the room quickly, then looks beneath the bed. There he finds the bag Sylvie had given Federico. He grabs it up and looks inside.
"What are you doing in here?"
Hal straightens up guiltily, turning stiffly to face Sylvie.
She has her arms crossed, an eyebrow arched in disapproval.
"Sylvie, what is this?"
"What does it appear to be?"
"Your vials of werewolf blood."
"My, you are clever!" she answers sarcastically.
He resists a retort. "I know what they are. What I wish to know is, why did you hand these to Federico?"
"Were you spying on us?"
"Not deliberately, I assure you."
She continues to stare at him sharply a long moment, lips pursed. Finally, appearing appeased, she walks past him to the window, pulling aside the drawn curtains to stare unnecessarily at the utter darkness beyond, a hint of her reflection ghostly superimposed on the gloom. He waits patiently for her to break the silence. Then waits more, impatiently. Just as he's about to push her, she turns around, her waspish mask gone, eyes regarding him softly. "Federico approached me a bit ago. Words you exchanged with him earlier have given him worry. He wanted reassurances that I am still safe here, with you. I felt returning these would be the most effective assurance I could give him."
Dear God, the woman defies all good sense! "Have you told him nothing all these years?"
Sylvie answers evasively, "Of course I've told him... some..."
"But he thinks I am no danger to you." It isn't a question.
With a stubborn tilt of her chin she answers, "You aren't."
Not wishing to go around in circles on this perpetual argument, Hal changes direction, "Will he not see some are empty or missing? Surely he has kept track. I certainly would."
"Not everyone is as... thorough as you." She snaps before continuing sheepishly, "I, ah... I purchased more in town, ages ago, and filled them with pig's blood. I know he will not take too close a look. He hates blood. Actually, it makes him feel faint."
Hal huffs mirthlessly. He sets the bag aside before confronting her. "Days ago you were livid. You implied a threat to have him stake me, yet now you give him the only weapon you have against me?"
"I was livid. I still am! For you to accuse me of betrayal, after all I've done for you!" That fire rears up once again.
Hal hangs his head. Whether or not he felt he could take her in his confidence, the accusation had not been deserved. "Sylvie, I cannot begin to apologize for my misguided words." He waits for a continuation of her condemnation. Welcomes it. Surprisingly, it does not come. Instead she reaches for his hand in reassurance, a play of emotions crossing her face. "My ire has no bearing on my belief in my safety. While you are a bastard for accusing me, there was a truth in your words. I did make promises." She lifts his hand to her face, caressing the back of it to her cheek. "But those promises were to you. I am not your keeper. I am your incentive. And your reward. And you have never been accountable to Federico, only to me."
In disbelief Hal pulls his hand away and grabs her arms. "I swear Sylvie, if we lived together another thousand years, I would still not come to understand you. Why would you chose my well being over your own? This is madness!"
Her turn to huff as she shakes her head. "You really have an incomplete understanding of love, don't you? Oh I know you're capable of it; you've felt it. You feel it. For me. But there are essential components which you've lost, since becoming a vampire. One is trust. The other is sacrifice. Both of these are part and parcel of love, certainly of my love." She snakes her arms around his neck. "I always choose you, Hal."
Trust and sacrifice. Hal resists the urge to shake his head sadly at her. Those are the luxuries of someone who has never known betrayal, who has been coddled with the fantasy of idyllic romance. There is nothing noble about sacrifice, only stark finality. Reality - his reality - has been the antithesis of hers. Yet how can he contradict her, while she looks up at him with such earnestness? How can he shake her faith in her words, in him, when he wants so badly to believe in her fantasy? Her body radiates with heat against him. Her look, her demeanor - an invitation to reconciliation. As before, as always. So easy to give in. He'd missed her touch, craves it. But he does love her. And so he makes one more apathetic attempt to sway her. "And your ultimatum?"
"So you are ready to show me what you hide, Hal?" When he doesn't speak, she clearly takes his silence as a denial. He doesn't correct her. She looks down, biting her lip, a tear slipping from under her lashes. Perhaps now she will renounce him. He tenses, waiting.
But once again she contradicts logic. "Something Gemma said to me yesterday, when we were discussing erm... asses..." Something of her usual mischievousness crosses in her eyes for a moment, her lips twitching before going on in seriousness, "'You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink.' I can't make you choose Hal. It would be a hollow victory for me, knowing you chose to share those secrets because you were forced into it. You must follow your heart. Just as I must follow mine."
She pulls him down, touching her lips to his. Despite his better judgment, he kisses her hungrily. He brings his hands up her shoulders to cup the back of her neck, tilting her head to tangle their tongues together, pressing their bodies closer. For a few glorious minutes he loses himself in the sweet dizziness of her. But something seems wrong. He pulls back.
"Sylvie, you feel exceedingly warm."
She stares at his lips, eyes glazed, as she answers breathlessly, "I always feel flush when you touch me." Then she blinks and looks up. "I am sorely tempted to disregard dinner and take you right here." He raises his eyebrows at her. "But," she sighs deeply, "this is the last evening with our friends." With a look of disappointment she steps away from him, patting her done-up hair and smoothing her skirts. Then she straightens his cravat. "Shall we?"
Feeling no less befuddled by their conversation and the turn of events, Hal hesitates. He'd capitulated nothing, and yet still feels he does not have the upper hand. But, some of the tension he'd been assaulted by has been soothed. Just one more evening with guests, surely a quick dealing of the servant situation, and life would go back to a semblance of normality. He takes her arm and they descend.
Dinner progresses smoothly, though he notes Sylvie barely touches her food, then they retire to the parlour for music. He settles at his post leaning on the mantle to endure hours of "entertaining", but in the end his torture is put to rest quickly. Sylvie settles at the piano-forte to play for them, but it soon becomes apparent that something is wrong as she stumbles through her set. After a few minutes she stops, standing unsteadily.
"Will you excuse me? I think..." she trails off with a frown, shutting her eyes. Both Federico and Gemma, having been sitting close by, are quick to jump to her side, the human woman taking her arm in a steadying gesture. The werewolf addresses her, "What is the matter?" But he swings his gaze around to Hal accusingly, as if Hal were to blame. Sparing him withering look, Hal strides over, not bothering to hide his concern. But before he reaches the group, Sylvie opens her eyes and graces the De La Villas with an appeasing smile. "It's nothing, I'm sure. I simply feel a bit out of sorts. I am certain that a quick lie-down is all that I require. Hal will remain down here to continue the entertainment, won't you my dear?"
Without waiting for his denial she turns away, leaving the room. When the others look to him, Hal huffs apologetically, but follows his wife down the hall. "Sylvie, wait!" Either she doesn't hear him or ignores him, but he grabs her arm at the foot of the stairs, turning her towards him. He assesses her with his eyes, then puts a hand on her forehead. "Sylvie, you're burning up."
She tries to underplay once more. "I've begun feeling unwell, but I am sure it will pass. I will go up to our bed," she says, emphasizing 'our' with a small smile. "Wake me, when you retire, yes?"
She waits for his nod, then starts ascending the stairs. One step. Two steps. On the third step she stops, swaying.
Hal lunges forward, just in time to catch her as she crumples into his arms.
Hal stands by the bedroom doorway, willing patience while the surgeon, mumbling to himself, continues his slow examination at the bedside. Sitting at the chair by the nightstand is Gemma, the ever-present Federico hovering with his hands on the back of her chair. At the foot of the bed is Sylvie's maid, ready with an ewer of hot water and fresh towels should the surgeon require. This scene has repeated itself several times over the past two days, each repetition bringing on a fresh wave of irritation and panic that threatens to snap his constantly frayed nerves. Each repetition bringing on the same conclusion. With a shake of his head, the red-faced man reluctantly closes his case and crosses the room. By rote, Hal asks, "Is there nothing you can do for her?"
Facing Hal's brooding look, the man stammers, "I...I...I have done all I can, Lord Hal." He pauses, gazing around the room and wincing before continuing with more conviction, "There is only one more treatment I can recommend-"
"No!" Both Hal and Federico exclaim, just as they had done each time before. It irks Hal that they would have anything to agree upon, but this is absolute. Hal catches the surgeon's eye - he hadn't bothered to learn the backwood's "medical" man's name - to stress his displeasure. "This isn't the 1500's - surely there are more civilized techniques of fighting a fever than bloodletting. If not, then leave."
The surgeon's expression shows quite clearly his desire to do just that. But circumstances - an accursed, ill-timed snowstorm that had begun shortly after he arrived - kept them all housebound and isolated. Hal suspects the man is terrified that should Sylvie fail to recover, he would incur Hal's wrath. Hal's made no indication to contradict that assumption. The man makes one final supplication. "My Lord, you've tied my hands. This ague has not responded to any other remedy. My professional advice is that we must balance the humours. If you object to the scarificator, the leeches would be just as effective-"
Hal blasts him with a cold stare. "I said no! Now leave!"
The man straightens his spine, affronted. "As you wish, my Lord. But I warn you, she will not likely last the night."
Despite wanting so badly to tear into the man's neck, Hal settles for sweeping his gaze around, ordering, "Out! All of you!" He walks towards the bed in clear dismissal.
They move too slowly for his liking, the werewolf especially. He keeps his back to them, though in mollification he sits down in the now unoccupied chair, feigning a casualness that is far from felt. Hal waits to hear the click of the bedroom door closing. Only then does he yield to the riot of emotions, dropping his face down to his hands.
With vampire clarity he reviews the last two days. Sylvie's collapse, hearing Gemma's gasp behind him and Federico's move to help. Hal had ignored him, carrying her up the stairs and yelling for them to send for the village physician. Gemma had been quick to follow orders, but Federico had followed him instead, forcing Hal to turn instinctively to Sylvie's private room rather than their shared bedroom. Tense hours waiting for the physician, only to be told little could be done beyond some herbs if she regained consciousness. When venesection was recommended, Hal had made it quite clear that it was not an option, ignoring the little flutter in his belly.
Since then the women had taken it in turns to stay at Sylvie's bedside - her pack of guardian angels - tending to her fevers and chills, attempting to ply her with cups of warm liquids with a variety of noxious scents during her short periods of semi-wakefulness. Federico, ever distrustful, did not allow his wife to be alone when she took up the post.
Hal had spent hours in vigil until they all but shoved him out the door with assurances to rest, something he did fitfully between rounds of physical and mental exercises. In the long hours he had crafted a legion paper flowers; they were carefully aligned on all the surfaces of the room in order of creation, the ebb and flow of their complexity a testament to the ebb and flow of his mental stability. He had sat at her piano-forte playing that God awful music she was fond of, hoping to extend her the familiar comfort she gave him by playing when he was strapped in the chair. If she could even hear it. Christ, he had even taken one of her torrid novels from the library, and read to her, hoping to entice her out of her stupor.
From the bed, Sylvie begins mumbling, head moving from side to side. In some of her more feverish moments he has heard quite a bit of confusing and, at times embarrassing, words bubbling out from her unconscious mind. Her brother featured prominently in the former, he in the latter. He only hoped the others had missed some of the more colourful imagery.
Hal gets up, hovering over the bed. She looks so fragile, so mortal. He had become accustomed to her constant exuberance, rarely quiet or still, a presence that surpassed her small frame. The life practically shone out of her - his own guardian angel. But now that light is dimming, dying out. Just as it had died out for so many people - good people like her - while he continued his horrid existence. He is oh so tired of the incessant hunger, the constant battle for control, the inevitable pain of loss. Bile and tears rise as he stares at the gaping maw of emptiness waiting for him upon her death, stretching out infinitely.
Permit nothing to cleave to you that is not your own; nothing to grow to you that may give you agony when it is torn away. Too late.
With a guttural sound erupting from the back of his throat, Hal swipes the paper flowers from the nightstand in a sudden rage. Even in this he is denied the satisfaction of violence; they fall with a whisper-soft patter onto the oak floor. The impotency of this life burns acidic in his belly. This life has to mean something, otherwise what is the point in continuing? He'd lived over three hundred years to reach this time; there had to be a reason Fate had thrust him in this path. A reason that army surgeon in Belarus had chosen him. He had been snatched from death, given a gift. He can't sit idly by and watch another senseless death. He has to do something.
The human surgeon is powerless to save her. But Hal is not.
Ripping his sleeve up, Hal kneels on the bed gathering Sylvie in his arms. He shakes her none too gently. "Sylvie, wake up," he repeats until her eyelids flutter, her eyes turning to focus on him. He bites his wrist and puts it to her lips. "Drink. Please. Do this, for me. Drink."
Time ceased to flow in the normal manner, ceased to keep pace. It became fragments that alternated between peaceful oblivion, sweltering heat, and teeth-rattling chills. A heavy paralysis settled, allowing only a ghostly impression of reality: the feel of wet linen, cool water trickling on heated skin; the pungent taste of herbs on her lips; the painful constriction of her throat; vague words penetrating the haze, slurred replies struggling to break through. And then the comforting cradle of darkness would beckon her away from the physical pain for a time.
Interwoven within that darkness was a different reality, a fluid narrative of long ago memories: warm sun caressing bare shoulders; the sweet-tart taste of gooseberries; the smell of grass, the feel of rough bark beneath her feet; the gentle weight of a puppy, the giggling delight of children at play. She lets herself get lost in those reminiscings gladly, shying away from the painfully bright images of blurred faces and too-loud voices. But there is pain here as well: an oppressively dark room, muffled moans and whispering voices. And the beautiful boy looking at her with sad eyes.
He had been gay once, full of light and mischievous laughter. Now his chilly, wasted hand touches her face, his tired, small voice echoing in her skull, crossing the distance of time. "Please. Do this for me." She reaches out to comfort the boy. "Of course", she tries to say; she couldn't possibly deny him anything. But his face wavers. She blinks, trying to clear her vision. The voice repeats it's plea, just as tired, but richer; not the boy, but the man, just as beautiful, his eyes full of deeper sorrow. "Of course", she wants to say, but something is pressed across her lips. "Drink," comes his command.
How could she possibly deny him anything?
That taste - salt, mineral, sharp - not water, nor tea, not broth nor tinctures. It hits her with instant lucidity, like jumping into a frigid stream during the mid-summer heat, like smelling salts after a swoon. In an instinctual reaction, paralysis gives way to action. Gasping and gagging, she pushes against his cradling arms. A thought idly crosses her mind. Normal. She'd expected his blood to taste different, somehow. She turns her head away, doubling over, retching.
"Sylvie, you must drink! It's the only way I can save you!" Hal pleads.
"No," she manages to croak, amidst coughs and tears.
"But you'll die!" he sobs. "If not today... inevitably. And then there will be no one to save me from the monster, from drowning the pain in rage and rivers of blood."
Sylvie says nothing, grateful for the sputtering that prevents her reply. She can feel Hal trembling as he holds her.
After a few moments Hal asks in a subdued voice, "I thought you wanted this?" His voice cracks.
Sylvie grabs a handful of linen blanket to wipe the remnants of blood from her lips, then huddles upon herself. She has no words to comfort him. A silence falls, each waiting for the other to break it.
Finally, Sylvie falls back against him, laying her head sideways to meet his gaze. Sunken, red eyes, hair disarrayed; a trace of blood on his quivering lips. He looks... hollow. Her poor Hal. She brings one hand up and traces the wet path on his cheek. She tries to put all her love into her gaze, a silent plea for understanding. His eyes reveal nothing, but he doesn't attempt to feed her blood again.
She breaches the silence, deflecting, "You look like death warmed up."
Despite himself, Hal huffs at the irony. "You look... awake." The last word is said with a trace of relief. He gives her a weak smile, letting his question remain unanswered.
Sylvie relaxes, taking his smile as an understanding. "I suppose that is the best that could be said about my current condition. I feel like death."
Hal feels her forehead. "Your fever continues. If it doesn't abate..." he says, another tear spilling down his cheek.
Before he can steer them back to the hard questions, she interjects, "I can't die yet. You still haven't shared with me the deep dark secrets of that bloody trunk up there. Though admittedly, if I died now, I could simply pop up there and find out for myself."
Hal's shoulders relax a bit, now that she appears well enough to be more her usual self. "You have always possessed that ability. I know you've sprung the lock. More than once."
Sylvie smiles up at him. "One picks up a few tricks..."
Raising his eyebrows, Hal answers sardonically, "You certainly never fail to surprise me in your resourcefulness."
"I do what I must." Sylvie means to continue in banter, but the fresh memory in her dreams lends a painful weight to that statement. Turning away from him, she hides her face in the covers as sudden tears spring up.
Hal tenses once more, shifting around on the bed to face her. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Her voice comes out muffled. "You remember what I told you, about the night my brother died." It isn't a question; she is well aware that time does not dilute his memory. But she threads her memories into a narrative. "He fell ill, for months he withered and wasted away, the physicians able to do little more than ease some of his pain. At the beginning Mother and Father tried to have me sent away. They were frightened I would take ill as well. But I refused and fought them; how could I leave my twin brother? How could I leave him alone, in his pain?"
"I wanted to save him," she says fiercely, meeting Hal's eyes. "I thought if I was strong, I could save him. I prayed and begged - I would have given my soul to save him..." She trails off in a sob.
"His mind was often cloudy from the laudanum, but not that night. He'd woken us both from our light slumber, thrashing in pain. I wanted to alert the nurse asleep at the other end of the room, but he stopped me. With conviction he told me how I could save him. 'Do this for me. Please,' he pleaded. My heart ached more than I thought possible, but how could I refuse him?" Sylvie dissolves into a huddled sobbing mess on his chest and Hal holds her patiently, letting her emotion take its course. It now makes sense, the almost incomprehensible words that he'd heard. The pillow. "It was too easy Hal," she whispers. "It should not have been so easy."
"You've always had a strength that belies your physicality. He was weakened, and he wanted it to happen."
Ignoring him she continues, "Rather than penance, I've sought to forget."
"Your intentions were pure. It was a mercy you did, nothing more."
"He died at my hands, Hal. For that I am surely damned."
What can he say to her? The truth - that even one death stains you? Half-lies - that good deeds can balance out the bad? "If there is anything I can be certain of, it is that you are not destined to go in the same direction as I am." He waits for her next argument.
Instead, with a tired sigh Sylvie concedes, her burst of energy depleted. After a moment she teases, "Of course, in comparison to you... I suspect even Vlad the Impaler would be given sainthood were he to be judged next to you."
Hal huffs, relieved and amused. Though it had been before his time, he'd heard the legends. Vlad's type of cruelty had been a savagery that lacked the finesse Hal preferred. Hardly surprising, all things considered. Would humans ever know the truth, that his penchant for impaling his victims on wooden spikes, above all his other beastly tortures, had a supernatural basis? And would the werewolves ever discover that one of their own had risen so high? Vampires are not the only monsters with a hunger for power. On a march between battlefields, the rabid dog had finally been found by Snow and put down.
Sylvie, who had become a still weight against him, surprises him out of his musings as she says softly, "I see it now, why I was drawn to you. Why I could accept your darkness. And somehow... if I could save you..." Her words trail off breathlessly.
In a panic, Hal tilts her away from his chest to look into her eyes, pleading, "Don't leave me."
She blinks slowly fighting unconsciousness. Her words are slurred with advancing sleep but somehow still holding conviction. "I won't leave you. You aren't ready." And then she says no more.
Hal settles her on the bed, stretching out next to her. He closes his eyes to concentrate on her steady heartbeat, a comfort for once, rather than a torture. He thinks about her unexpected confession. Her willingness to forgive him, over and over, he now understands with a clarity that had always eluded him. He'd always been troubled by her unwavering faith in him, by her altruism, but now he sees that there has always been more to her motives. She'd told him she was his incentive and his reward; at the time it seemed a romantic exaggeration. Now he knows, she would never betray him because, in her mind, his success is her absolution. Which is of course absurd, but by some ironic twist of logic, she truly believes it.
And that knowledge is a liberation.
Hal gives into his exhaustion, settling into an almost peace next to her. She'd assured him she wouldn't leave him, and he lets himself be assured. She would recover, he would stay clean. He would think no further than that.
Sylvie stirs in her sleep again, gripped by her memories. He gathers her in his arms, rocking her gently, soothing them both. Just before sleep engulfs him, Hal hears her soft whisper, her promise, "I'd do anything..."
Hal has one final thought as he surrenders to the comforting darkness. Anything. Except become a vampire.
Bouts-rimés, popular in the 17-19th centuries, is a game of making verses from a list of rhyming words supplied by another person.
A scarificator, used primarily in 19th century, was a bloodletting tool. It had a spring-loaded mechanism with gears that snapped the blades out through slits in the front cover and back in, in a circular motion.
A word about Vlad the Impaler - Modern folklore (and by modern I mean from 1897 on, which is about 80 years after this story) associates Vlad III with the fictional character Count Dracula from Bram Stoker's story. While Vlad was indeed called Dracula, and he was bloodthirsty in the figurative sense - known for horrific tortures and his favorite method of execution by impalement, and while Bram Stoker was inspired to use his name for his vampire, there is no real connection whatsoever with drinking blood and vampires (obviously). The exact manner, date, and location of his death are unknown, but it is known that he was dead by 10 January 1477.