As always, reverence for the Great Lord Toby, for his wonderfully tragic world, and his wonderfully tragic creation Hal Yorke.
Musical Inspiration is "Whisper of a Thrill" by Thomas Newman. Poignant, yet discordant, the perfect fit for this one.
Saemay and TJ4ev, thanks for helping me streamline this chapter. Alot!
I own nothing. All mistakes are my own.
Ch. 23: Her Friendship
On the bed combing tangles out of her hair, Sylvie watches Hal seated at the vanity, its oval mirror facing the wall, as he prepares to shave. Slim fingers close around the brush handle and wrist rotates smoothly as he whips the soap before bringing it up to his whiskered cheek. He brushes the foam on methodically, blanketing the lower half of his face in creamy lather. Satisfied by the feel of the placement, Hal strops the razor precisely 50 strokes before bringing it up to scrape away the detritus of the night.
Many mornings she's sat thus, entranced by his movements. Not a moment's hesitation, no misplaced stroke - despite the lack of visual guidance. Smooth and sure as a maestro painting a masterpiece, a picture fully formed in his imagination, simply waiting to be released onto his canvas. It's a soothing exercise, going beyond the superficial; a transformation as Hal rids himself of the darkness, a softening moment before donning his armour for the day.
But today his hand stops halfway to his face, a trembling betraying another hard night. She had been out of her sick-bed two nights and into their own, but it brought him little relief. The snowstorm finally stopped, but the pass out of the valley remained closed off, keeping them all prisoners. The impending full moon had the two werewolves on edge and the friction between Federico and Hal escalated. The division between she and Hal, briefly reconciled just before her illness, morphed - from her fiery ire before to his cold wariness now. And although Hal kept his distance, the constant barrage of extra humanity was clearly wearing on him.
The first night she woke to an empty bed and found him pacing the hall downstairs in his sleep again - how he never managed to fall down the stairs remained a wonder. He was mumbling over and over "skin feels tight", fingers twitching sporadically. Sylvie could never be certain, during these somnambulant episodes, if Hal would wake and how he would react, so she approached with caution. She almost succeeded in leading him upstairs without incident. But she hadn't anticipated that her weakened state would make her dizzy towards the top of the stairs, causing her to stumble backwards into him. They fell - only a couple of steps and he cushioned her fall on his lap - but it woke him to confusion and he manifested. Arms gripping her in a vice, Hal spoke low and rough, his breath raising the hairs on the back of her neck. While she didn't understand the language, she caught the slur in his voice that indicated the danger of his fangs. She had to talk fast, persuasively, to get him to wake up properly and recognize her. By that time their guests had come out of their rooms, Federico rushing to assist her. Sylvie had insistently rebuffed his help in order to hide Hal behind her while he composed himself. When finally they were alone in their room, Hal collapsed onto the floorboards to do press-ups, coming to bed only after regaining complete control.
Last night was worse. Jarred awake by his sudden movement, she found him sitting at the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, shoulders knotted tight with effort. She moved to touch his back but his adamant "don't" stayed her hand. Sylvie couldn't see his face but knew what was there. Finally, with a deep sigh, Hal's shoulders relaxed minutely. Turning to look back at her briefly with sad eyes, he departed with a warning that he was locking himself in the attic. From the sounds above her, he did rounds of press-ups until he collapsed in exhaustion, waited a bit, then drove himself to more. She fell asleep counting and woke in the thin dawn light to find Hal still absent. She'd been contemplating storming the attic when he finally returned, far later than his customary wake-up time. Wordlessly, Hal went directly into his morning ritual.
Now she watches him stare at the razor in his trembling hand, concerned about his thoughts. Sylvie throws down her hair brush onto the white coverlet and crosses over to his side. He looks up at her with reddened, wild eyes, a hint of desperation in them. If sleep had found him, she couldn't possibly tell. Taking his hand in both of hers with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, she pries the razor from his rigid fingers, nudges his knees apart, and kneels down in front of him. There is an understanding between them to never discuss the night terrors. Instead she takes over his task, doing this one simple thing to sooth him in a soundless ritual that has been repeated many times before.
She starts with his right cheek and quickly loses herself in the pleasant repetition, gliding the blade against the dark whiskers with just enough pressure to lessen but not eliminate them altogether. Down the curve of his cheek, from sideburn to jaw, along the contour of his neck. She switches to a backhand stroke repeating the pattern on his left side.
"What is that?" he breaks his customary silence.
"Hmm?" she asks absentmindedly, tilting his head to better reach under his chin.
"That tune," he says when it's safe to talk again.
Her eyes focus on his. "Was I humming again?"
"When are you not?" he replies, though not unkindly. He had, on many occasions, lectured her on the virtues of silence - usually after arguments when she out-shouted him. But during one of those quiet talks in the dead of night when they lay tangled, half slumbering but unwilling to let sleep separate them, he had conceded to finding comfort in her unconscious habit.
"The tune is different, yet vaguely familiar..." he trails off thinking. Sylvie takes the opportunity to scrape the blade on missed areas. When she turns away to clean the razor thoroughly, Hal speaks again, conversational tone deepened. "The night I killed your dog."
She meets his shamed look. With all that had passed between them, she had somewhat buried her memory of that night. Now it comes rushing back - his vacant eyes, her dog dead at his feet, the blood drying on his lips. She'd done what was necessary to in order to avoid more bloodshed: buried grief and shock while enlisting Federico's help to bury her dog, cleaned up Hal, and disposed all evidence of his misdeed. Then she'd gathered Hal's unresponsive body to her and rocked him in comfort - for both of them - humming through her tears.
Traces of those tears thicken her voice in her reply, "That was Elliot's song." Sylvie tries a sad smile; Hal's face freezes in a careful mask.
Blinking back tears of loss and bewilderment, she pretends to examine the razor in her hands before closing and putting it in its resting spot. Then she pours hot water from the ewer into the waiting bowl and dips a strip of flannel. As she wipes all remaining traces of soap from his face, the sense of déjà vu conjured up causes her hand to shake a little. Wiping around his lips, she resists the urge to check for fangs.
He breaks the silence again. "What you said. Is that how you see me? As a substitute for your brother? Or even as your... penance?" His tone is wary.
Ahh. Hazy memories stir, shedding light into his cold detachment. She replies dryly, "Even Genghis Kahn wouldn't deserve you as penance." Her jive fails to elicit a response. Flustered, Sylvie picks up a bottle from the table, messily splashing aftershave into her hands and dabbing it on his face with more force than necessary. As the clean aroma wafts into the air, she automatically breathes it in deeply. His scent. It acts as a balm to her agitation. Sighing she gentles her final strokes, then cradles his jaw and leans forward. "What I said in my feverish state was not in any way meant as a depreciation of my love for you, nor an accusation. I simply meant that, in you, I found something of what I had lost. Is that so unnatural?"
Hal stares back, searching, before replying, "No, it's human." A smile finally breaks his impassivity. She smiles back warmly with relief.
Using him as a prop, Sylvie stands up unsteadily. Then she grabs his comb, running it through his unruly mass of hair. Enjoying the indulgence, she fingers the silky strands that tend to curl, her fingers picking out grey hairs. Despite his youthful face, his hard human life had left a mark on him. "With your gift for growing hair, you'll soon be hairier than the werewolves."
Hal snorts at her.
"Shall I give it a quick snip?" Sylvie teasingly reaches for the scissors. She has a knack for the shaving, but the one time she'd convinced him to let her cut his hair had not gone well. Not well at all. Laughing at his horror-struck expression, she settles for smoothing the unruly mass with a dab of pomade.
Finally pronouncing him acceptable, she moves aside so he can stand. Hal straightens the implements on the table, takes the towels and dirty water basin out to the hall where they will be collected shortly, then comes back in to pick his clothes from the armoire along the back wall. Grabbing her discarded brush, Sylvie flips over the mirror and deposits herself into the vacated seat gladly. She makes quick work of pulling her hair into a chignon, then slides over the tray that had been left at the other end of the vanity when the hot water had been brought up. Pulling aside the heavy linen towel reveals a pot of tea and cups, a plate of rolls, and a small lidded bowl of melted chocolate that Beth had thoughtfully included for her. With a smile, she ignores the knife and dips her finger, bringing it up to savour the rich sweetness.
"Not this again," Hal says behind her. Unable to see him in the mirror, she turns the seat towards him in time to watch him button his fawn breeches shut.
"Don't fret, Hal. I will not be letting this go to waste." She brings the bowl to her lap and licks more chocolate. "Would you care for some?"
He pulls his sleepshirt up over his head. "No, thank you, I do not care for the taste."
"This from the man who drinks blood! How could you not like chocolate, it's divine! Hmm, I am struck by the sudden urge to throw it at you after all. The thought of then licking it from your chest has quite an appeal." Sylvie smiles coquettishly.
He makes a face, mouthing 'sticky', then answers smoothly, "I'd rather not be made to look like I rolled around in a pig stye." He slides a fresh shirt over his head and smooths it over his abdomen.
She pouts. "You have no sense of adventure."
"A healthy sense of adventure is what got me to this unhealthy state in the first place," Hal counters, as he slides on his waistcoat and works up the double row of buttons. Not as deftly as usual, however. That trembling is still there.
He had been all but treating her as in invalid, as had everyone else. And truthfully she still feels the effects of having been ill. But clearly the press-ups and other exercises are not enough. She needs to bring Hal's focus back to her; it is the best way she knows to keep him calm and in control. With a wicked smile Sylvie dips her finger and smears chocolate on her neck, uncaring that it dribbles on her night dress. "Come now, how can you possibly resist this?"
Hal rolls his eyes at her. "Really, one would think you were raised by wolves." He picks up the snowy cravat, proceeding to tie it in knots around his neck.
She sighs in defeat, turning to look at her reflection. Dark smudges under her eyes, pale lips, and protruding cheekbones greet her. Putting the bowl on the table, she loosens the ribbon of her bodice and pulls it down to reveal her shoulders. Her clavicle forms a sharp shadow at the base of her neck. "Looking like this, I suppose I cannot blame you for your disinterest. And it is just as well. In my current state, a culinary tryst might undo me."
"It isn't unreasonable to expect it might take a while for you to have your full strength back."
"And what if I never fully recover? Right now I feel the weight of my years."
Hal huffs before saying, "You can hardly be considered old."
"Well of course, not strictly in comparison to your chronological age." She touches the raised scar just above her heart. Most of the bite marks had faded to nothing, but a few had been deeper, skin bitten away. "But my body will continue to age and deteriorate, while yours remains forever youthful. It's quite rude of you!" Sylvie expects a retort but he remains silent. Wiping the chocolate on her neck, she sucks her fingers and continues to examine herself. She'd never considered herself vain, but a niggling doubt has entered her thoughts. She voices it in a whisper, "What will we do when I lose my beauty and you no longer desire me?"
The feel of his hands on her shoulders makes her jump. Damn his lack of reflection. Sylvie opens her mouth to admonish his lack of noise, but his low, seductive voice in her right ear stops her.
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies."
He places a gentle kiss on the nape of her neck, sending a delicious chill all the way down her spine. Then she feels his breath travel along to her left, where he continues, his voice roughened.
"One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place."
Kisses trail down her neck and his tongue licks along where she had smeared the chocolate. Her stomach clenches with sudden uncertainty, but Hal pulls away and twists the chair around, taking her hand to help her stand. "And on that cheek," he leans down, kissing her cheek sweetly, "and o'er that brow," his lips press right at the apex of her eyebrows, "So soft, so calm, yet eloquent," Then he rubs his thumb on her lower lip, which makes her knees wobble, forcing her to lean against him. A nervous energy replaces her lethargy. "Old be damned," she says, burying her fingers in his hair.
Hal's lips twist up in a crooked smile before finishing the poem.
"The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent."
Scarcely letting him finish the last word, she pulls his face down to kiss him none too innocently. When she finally pulls away breathless, he licks his lip and says, "Divine." His smouldering look makes no question his reference.
She presses herself hard against him, clutching at his arms. "Can we tell everyone to sod off, let them fend for themselves, and spend the day in bed? I can have a whole pot of chocolate brought up, we can take turns licking every inch-"
Hal interrupts her, clearing his throat self-consciously, "As tempting as that sounds," he disentangles himself from her embrace, straightening his cravat and smoothing his hands over his hair, "I think it wise to continue playing dutiful hosts until our guests have departed. I would rather Federico not make assumptions as to our activities if we remained in bed."
Sylvie rolls her eyes. "Hal, I'm fairly certain he knows exactly what our activities are."
"To know in the abstract is one thing, but that man treats you as a daughter. Add to that the fact that the wolves are already restless and their senses sharpened from the lunar effect. He already despises me, I have no doubt he'd knock down our door and stake me at the first... well..." he trails off with a blush.
"I promise, I'll control my volume. Somehow." She looks at him hopefully and lets her nightdress fall to the ground. But his face is set, eyes averted. She sighs in defeat once more. "You are a cruel tease, Hal Yorke, with your pretty words and your pretty looks," she bats at his arm. "Very well, I suppose you are right. But we must find something to keep you occupied. The wolves are not the only restless supernatural beings in this house."
She's gratified to see Hal look at her and swallow hard before turning and walking to the door. "I must go see if William has checked the pass this morning."
As he goes through the doorway, she hears him say to himself, "Fucking werewolves."
"Can you put a leash on your pet?" Hal's words bite out sharply from his post by the window. Sylvie glances up from her embroidery to gauge his mood. He's staring with deceptive calm out the window, but his left hand keeps coming up to nervously stroke the wall, as if checking for dust. She swings her head to Federico standing at the doorway in time to see Mark, who had been pacing the hallway, lean in to whisper something in Federico's ear before walking away. A moment later the front door slams shut. Federico's jaw tightens, but before he can say anything, Sylvie speaks up.
"Hal, stop wearing away that spot on our pretty mural and come sit by me."
"Thank you, I'll stand," he says stubbornly.
Sylvie makes a face at his back. Despite a glimmer of hope brought on by the winter sun shining in the sky, they remained trapped. William had reported signs of melting, but most of the valley remained blanketed in many feet of snow. The servants busied themselves with their usual chores, and the doctor prefered to spend most of his time solitarily in the library, which suited all parties. Hal, trying to avoid confrontation, had gone back upstairs for a time, but had been forced to come down again to discuss plans for the werewolves' transformation on the morrow. The plan is straightforward - the two werewolves would leave at midday to make their way to the woods north-east, putting them well away from any habitation. Hal estimated that on foot and with unknown conditions the trip might take up to six hours. That would put them well ahead of moonrise, but they wanted to be sure to make it to the woods by sundown. However, Hal had taken offence at one suggestion.
"I will not leave Gemma here, nor the rest of you, until he agrees," Federico addresses Sylvie, as if reading her thoughts.
"Out of the question." Hal retorts, swinging around to face the room.
"I assure you it isn't necessary." Sylvie tries once again.
"Your servants tell different tales than the ones I was led to believe. How far can I trust your assurances?" he accuses her.
She opens her mouth but makes no immediate reply. His accusation stings. Over the years he had, as Hal stated, treated her as a father might, or an older brother. With a mixture of protectiveness and indulgence, he had delivered many lectures in the guise of 'advice', and quite often had questioned her sanity. But she'd always managed to convince him to trust her. In her silence Hal interjects, "She's done everything you've asked of her."
"How can I know for certain? It appears she's been lying to me for years."
"And your hypocrisy? You haven't exactly been completely honest with her."
Federico takes a step forward in anger. "Tus cohones! This from the man who makes the father of lies seem a saint."
Sylvie finds her voice, pleading. "Please, there's no need for pointing fingers. You put your trust in me to help Hal stay clean, to keep him from killing. And so I have. Had I detailed each and every one of his struggles, I would have had time for little else! However, Hal, perhaps his request is not unreasonable. If it will ease his mind..."
Hal tilts his head at her condescendingly, "What, pray tell, is there to stop him and the pup from turning back around and staking me while I'm tied up and defenseless, hmm?"
She pauses speechless again. That thought had never occurred to her. "He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't."
"How sure can you be of that?"
"Because he is our friend. I'm as sure of this as I am that you pose no danger."
Both men snort - she has no problem ascertaining which part each took exception to.
Sylvie rubs her temples in exasperation. Exchanging a quick glance with Gemma, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, she tries a different tactic. "Gentlemen," she stresses, "this has been a trying time. For everyone. But I know we can weather the, erm, weather, with friendships and trust intact." She challenges Federico's glare, then persuades Hal, "Come sit calmly and show Federico you are as safe as a lamb." Gemma immediately moves over to make room on the settee.
Federico opens his mouth, but at an imploring nod from his wife he shuts it again. Hal purses his lips but finally obliges.
After a few minutes, Hal begins tapping his fingers in a nervous quick succession, his lips moving silently to some unheard litany. Hardly reassuring behaviour. Sylvies shoves her hoop into Hal's hands. "Here, why not try some embroidery?" He stares down at it doubtfully.
Federico's dark look becomes a sneer and he approaches them. "The great Lord Harry doing needlework with the women. Or I should say attempting needlework. This should prove amusing."
Hal narrows his eyes, pressing his lips in a hard line. Then with a huff he grabs the dangling needle, and after a quick look at her design, his nimble fingers start taking precise stitches. She's gratified to see his hand steady and sure. The clock on the mantle ticks in the ensuing silence. Finally he hands it back to her and Sylvie examines his addition. At the end of a branch of her tree there is now a bird, caught at the moment of impending flight, wings outstretched and perfectly formed. She exclaims in delight, showing Gemma.
Vampire smirks at werewolf. "Care to try your hand?"
"Show off," Sylvie whispers, though with amusement. "Had I known you were skilled with the needle, I would have set you mending socks long ago."
Federico looks far from amused, "So you seek to show me how domesticated he is. But even the most loyal lapdogs are born with an instinct to kill and can turn on their masters."
"Something you are intimately acquainted with," Hal says dryly.
Federico's olive skin turns red and he growls, "Cabrón vampiro. I call no one master!" As he lunges Sylvie stands up, putting herself in the way. Forced to stop in his tracks, he seethes. "Señorita, get out of my way."
Gemma goes to her husband's side, speaking with reason. "Calm yourself. Please."
"Calm myself?" He spits out, his eyes still locked over Sylvie's shoulder. "How can I calm myself when he sits there with his ego and deceit, putting this whole house in danger?"
Sylvie feels Hal stand behind her. And then he says the most unhelpful words. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in the stables, with the other beasts."
Sylvie snaps, thrusting her hands out to hit them each square in the chest. "For fuck's sake, stop this pissing match! I had hoped rising miraculously from my deathbed would have granted me more than a bloody hour's peace, but you two are worse than cocks in a hen house!" She glares at each of them back and forth, waiting for one to make the next move.
Hal finally breaks the shared glare, looking at her while working his jaw in anger. Then his anger melts into chagrin.
"I'm sorry," he says. He makes a small bow to her and Gemma, then storms out of the room.
She makes to follow him, but Federico grabs her hand still on his chest. "His corruption has you in its grip."
Sylvie blows out tiredly, "I don't understand what you want of me, of us. Why you are trying to exacerbate a precarious situation. I can see how excluding details may have been poor judgement and I beg your forgiveness. But I can hardly bring myself to excuse your behaviour, even knowing the influence of your curse. You certainly have succeeded in making my task that much harder. Now please let me go."
Caught between her sincerity and his wife tugging at his sleeve, Federico finally relinquishes his grip on her.
With purposeful strides, Sylvie goes in search of Hal.
She finally finds him huddled just outside the attic door.
"There you are, you sneaky bugger. I've been searching high and low for you. Apparently I hadn't searched high enough," she says in a berating tone, breathless from the climb. She stops two steps below the landing, nearly in line with him, hand over her pounding heart. "I swear you'll be the death of me..."
Hal remains still as stone. She extends the cup she'd been carrying. "Hal, drink this," she urges softly.
Hal raises his head slowly from where he'd been resting it on his knees, eyes large and worried, making no move at first. Then, catching the scent, he reaches for the cup, gulping the contents all in one go before sighing contentedly. "Where have you been hiding this?" he asks after a moment.
"Where you will never go poking around." She tuts at him. "You should have savoured it, that's all you will get."
Hal smiles ruefully, licking his lips then looking into the cup - his urge to lick the inside clearly written on his face. Decorum, however, wins. He voices his thanks and closes his eyes, relaxing his back to the wall. She waits quietly, watching tension ease from his shoulders.
Having put him at ease with her offering, she mulls over pressing him with the questions she'd come to ask. But press she must - in a house seething with tension, she does not have the luxury of ignorance. "Hal, please help me understand this escalation in hostility. Less than a week ago Federico came here as a friend. Now you two are at each other's throats. Did something happen while I was ill?"
"Nothing more than than expected," he says enigmatically.
"Hal, I have no patience for riddles."
He remains quiet for a few moments, a pained expression crossing his face. When finally he opens his eyes to answer her, they contain the hint of tears. "He means to take you away from me."
"Has he said that? It's far from the first time he's tried to convince me to leave. But, as you often deride, he's all bark and no bite. Federico can't force me if I do not wish it."
"This time is different. He'd come here hoping to convince me to help him further his cause, and he feels betrayed by what he sees are lies, from both of us. Obliged to remain here, the oncoming transformation... all this has him on edge. He might resort to force. Or... he might finally succeed in convincing you after all."
"How could he come between us? What are you not saying?"
Avoiding an answer, Hal's eyes bore into hers with a fixed look. Then he carefully places the cup in the corner of the landing and stands up, extending his hand down to her. "Come with me," he says, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and pulling out a key.
She takes his hand, instinctually asking, "Where are we going?"
Pulling her up besides him, he places the key into the attic door and turns it with an echoing click. "Into the heart of darkness," he says grimly as the door swings silently inwards. Taken by surprise, Sylvie stares at him before stepping through.
Stopping just inside the doorway as he closes the door behind them, she surveys the shadowy yet immaculate space. She'd been in here before, of course, but never with given invitation. Coming in with Hal rather than sneaking in alone shifts her perspective of the room, making it smaller somehow, more intimate. Although the attic runs the length of half the house, heavy curtains separate the space, effectively closing off most of the wide expanse that holds inconsequential furniture left over from the previous owner. The trunk sits against the left wall, opposite the one dormer window not closed off by the divider. The sun is well on its way towards setting now, and Hal crosses over to a shelf to light a couple of candles standing at the ready, then waits for her to properly enter the room.
For years, too many years, she's waited, wanting to be taken into his confidence. Yet now she hesitates on leaden feet, all her hopes and fears colliding. "Are you certain?" she pronounces each word slowly, testing the flavour of her own thoughts. In answer he procures another key and inserts it into the lock. Yet he pauses, placing his hands lightly on the lid, fingers splayed out. Closing his eyes he whispers a number.
"What's that Hal?"
"Nine thousand, one hundred, seventy-five," he answers her flatly, glancing over his shoulder. His hazel eyes are unfathomably old. "Every day I wake with the knowledge that this could be the day that unmakes everything I have achieved. Every day I can add to this count is a small measure of success. Nine thousand, one hundred, seventy-five days since I last killed for blood." With those words, Hal turns back to the trunk, opens it, and steps aside so that she can take a look.
Over the years she'd let her imagination wander at what resides within. From the proverbial treasure - plundered from victims and enemies no doubt; to the fancifully benign - that bloody lute he'd gone to great lengths one day to lecture her on when she'd casually teased him about having been a minstrel. Mostly she'd imagined the horribly macabre - skulls and bones from his victims he would take out to stack in a crypt-like effigy, or a mummified corpse, its torture-induced pain captured with gaping mouth shaped in eternal scream.
Insatiable curiosity overpowers hesitancy. Resolutely she strides over, holding his eyes until she reaches his side. Then she looks.
Her brows knit as she struggles to understand what she sees - underwhelmed, confused, and relieved all at once. Inside, arranged on divided trays, there are squares of fabric - rows upon rows of gradating colours - arranged upright like miniature decks of cards stacked back to back. A myriad of fabrics - from brocades and satins to sackcloth and linen - all yellowing with age, the squares hardly bigger than a crown.
"Were you a tailor in one of your past lives?" She quips hopefully.
Hal huffs softly before saying, "No."
Frowning, she ponders their significance. The trays have built in handles along their middles so she lifts one up, to find more of the same. Lifting and placing the middle trays aside she notes that while the rows follow the same patterns of colour, each level down appears to house fabrics older than the last. And the bottom-most trays are empty. Biting her lip perplexed, she ruffles her finger along the top of one of the trays still stacked untouched in the trunk, exposing rust coloured stains. They could be dismissed as aging spots, but a particular one catches her eye and she leans over to inspect it carefully. Then she ruffles along more rows, exposing two more with that distinct feature. A fingerprint. A bloody fingerprint.
The weight of understanding hits her and she turns to him, eyes wide. "These are trophies," she says, her voice hardly a whisper above the sudden rush in her ears.
With eyes full of remorse he confirms grimly, "Once, I would have called them so. It didn't start with the first few... hundred. And there were times I was too... consumed, with hunger and bloodlust, to pause. But yes, this collection represents the majority of my victims."
She whirls around taking in the sheer profusion, lips mouthing silently, hundreds and hundreds of thousands. She's known this of him, had accepted the irrevocable truth from his past, but to be faced with the visual implication is overwhelming. In some way, the shock wouldn't have been as strong if it had been human remains. She'd prepared herself for that. A predator with a primal urge to kill, to feed, she could understand that, could excuse it. But to imagine him in a bloodsoaked frenzie, stopping to triumphantly rip off a piece of his victim's clothing, then later with cold calculation, trim it to precise measurement, shifting what was already there to add it in some pleasing arrangement to his catalogue where he could admire his handiwork and prolong the enjoyment... Each of those squares was tied to a life. A death. The bright, incongruous forms are a mocking display.
Then she realizes the true horror behind the act. Empty trays lay waiting. Lord Harry had planned ahead. She closes her eyes against a wave of dizziness.
In the lengthening silence, she hears him picking up the trays. "I am not that man anymore," he says, with a note of pleading.
Not that man anymore, she repeats in her head over and over, as he continues putting everything in its resting place. This is what she's always held onto. Absurdly she hears herself blurt out, "Thankfully you didn't scalp your victims. Less tidy."
Realizing he is finished, she opens her eyes and forestalls him closing the lid. "What of this?" She waves at the small box she had noticed in a half-empty tray in one corner.
Hal picks up the box, almost reverently, and lifts the hinged lid to reveal the contents. She almost bites her tongue at the irony. "I spoke too soon. Were these special in some way? Taken from virgins you despoiled or some such?" More babble.
Hal's lip quivers, that way it does when his emotion spills over. "These are all I have left of them. The women that were my mothers."
Her frown clears at the pain accompanying his words. She reaches for the box, asking permission with her eyes, and he hands it to her. Balancing it in one hand, whisper-soft she strokes the locks of hair within - shades of brown, yellow, and even one red - all plaited and tied with disintegrating ribbons.
Unbidden, Hal explains. "They would tell me bedtime stories, their own impossible wishes, of Lords and Ladies, of knights receiving trinkets from fair maidens. A plait for luck, and love." He lightly touches the first in the row, the red. Tears spill down his cheek. "I don't know what possessed me the first time. Upon finding her, beaten by a patron and left dead, I closed her glazed eyes, then took out my eating knife. It felt... appropriate." He touches the last in the row. "The night of the last, I didn't even wait to braid it before I escaped that place, no ties remaining."
Sylvie absorbs the tenderness and pain of loss in his words. Closing the box, she carries it across the width of the room to the window, where she gazes in thought at the barely discernable outlines of winter-stripped trees. She cradles the lightness in her hands, so much lighter than the larger laden trays, yet such a heavier weight in his heart. She hadn't failed to note the way the wood was worn away smooth by ritual touch throughout the centuries. Unlike the morbid tokens, which would not have kept so well had they been handled repeatedly. Such a simple act.
A deeper understanding slots into place.
"Things that help me stay in control, that help me stop," he'd told her, time and time again. She had assumed it was the darkness he fears. She imagines, when Hal looks inside the trunk, it isn't the faded remains of lives he sees, but the last seconds of the deaths at his hand. He lets the horror and guilt wash over him, then locks it away once more. She's been there to pick up the pieces when it bleeds through, in his dreams, in his daily struggles.
But Hal had begun, not with his morbid acquisitions, but with beloved keepsakes. He'd carried them in his human time, through travels and battles, and even through his dark transformation. They had survived his murderous violence, his cruel amorality. The inherent goodness of a small boy and a young man clinging to the memories of people who had shown him care and love sustained him.
"Wait here," she tells him, leaving the room with the keepsake box before he can stop her. She descends to their quarters where she quickly goes about her task. When she returns, she finds him staring in the trunk with as heartbreaking a look as she would have expected. She draws up next to him. "You have been holding on to the wrong memories. This," she hands him the box, "the good, is what you keep in your heart. When you need something to help you stop, remember them. And remember me."
"The good," Hal repeats. "I don't deserve the good. This," he gestures at the rest, "is the monster I am. This is what the man I fear I will become again is capable of."
"Then burn it. Let go of the violence, of the darkness."
"As if it were so simple."
"No," she shakes her head. "Not simple. But you have to try. You castigate yourself with things you can't change. I offer you an alternative." Sylvie wraps his fingers around the box. "Hold onto what you had with them, however tenuous. Hold onto what we have. Hold onto the good with every fibre of your being, turning your back on the monster."
She shuts the lid of the trunk forcefully. "Then you stop."