The night is a cloak and the fog is its adornment. Violet doesn't mind that, however. It is as though her state of mind had been brought into manifestation. The senses strain to take hold of whatever information there is to garner, and by the virtue of limited sight, her hearing is amplified and stretched to accommodate with great clarity the subtle pitter-patter of light rain and the stealthy footsteps of the two men beside her, but those are not the object of her focus. Her heartbeat is deafening. Certainly they can hear it. Can they hear it? But that doesn't matter. The mysterious volunteer is taking them to her brother. She is going to see Klaus.
Then why is she so apprehensive?
That question is redundant. She knows the cause. There are many words she would associate with herself, and 'lucky' isn't one of them. There remains a tingling sensation that something is not right. It could very well be the outgrowth of unfavorable experience or the elusiveness of higher intuition. All she knows is that she can't be made happy with anticipation, nor eager with expectations. She needs to maintain her rationale. She needs to not let her guard down.
Lemony at her side seems to be just as ill at ease. His mouth is pressed in a thin line and there is a slight crease between his eyebrows, and with Tesla perched on his shoulder, his customarily quaint demeanor gains an austere feature. Every now and then, he would gaze at their guide with suspicion intrinsic to his being, but while that suspicion usually serves to secure himself alone, it now expands to encompass Violet in its defensive hold. Just as she entertains that thought with slight bewilderment, he gathers her hand tentatively in his and places it on the crook of his elbow without uttering a word. She doesn't speak either, but acknowledges the gesture with a small squeeze. It is comforting not to be alone. Even if she is the sole inhabitant of her less than amicable mind, the presence of a friend is felt through the haze of thoughts like a warm touch in a frigid day.
By the specific directionality with which they now move, Violet knows that they are getting closer. The path is obscure and ominous, with many inclinations and twists to be navigated dexterously. It seems like a place her mother would have warned her against.
But her mother is not here.
The status of maternity has been passed on to her, and the solemn duty towards her siblings and adoptive daughter quells and banishes thoughts of self-interest.
"Klaus…" she whispers, if only to urge herself to keep going. Her grip tightens on Lemony's elbow.
Their guide makes a halt before an atrophying metallic sign whose words have been wrought by rust and mold into incoherency. Neither Violet nor Lemony are taken aback by the less than welcoming entrance—they are unused to anything other. A gloved hand reaches to the door and nudges it open, and the illumination from within colors their surroundings with a warm gold that expands and grows before being lost to the obsidian depths of night. There is warmth that tickles their frozen cheeks and beckons their tired limbs. The smell of something sweet and substantial entices their starving stomachs.
The volunteer extends a courteous arm, gesturing for them to enter. Violet returns the smile on the boy's face with hesitant bashfulness and proceeds, with Lemony, grim as ever, following closely behind.
"It is preferable that you should remain near me, miss Baudelaire," he says quietly.
She nods absent-mindedly, her eyes already seeking a bespectacled face and a dark mass of hair. Her gaze is too busy to make stops that acknowledge the distrustful looks directed towards her and Lemony; she hardly registers the faces of the people dispersed around the room, but to her dismay, the object of her search is nowhere to be found.
With a frown, she says, "where is he?" Her head swishes in her companion's direction. "Mr. Snicket, where's Klaus?"
"As the tedious adage goes, patience is a virtue, miss Baudelaire," he mumbles, though his eyes carry bemusement of their own as they scan the room. He turns to look for their escort, but finds that he is gone.
"So you're the infamous Baudelaire," declares a voice with a gruff undertone. He approaches with languid sluggishness, making him seem highly inebriated. The smell of smoke hits her nostrils immediately.
Struggling to keep herself from waving the rancid smell from her immediate field, she replies quietly, "there are three of us, sir. Four, now."
The man rolls his eyes. "But you lot are like a single body, eh? What's it like losing three of your limbs?"
Violet flinches but not visibly, her face impassive and her posture rigid.
"I can immediately discern that you are not a volunteer," says Lemony curtly. "What business have you here?"
Slowly, the man's piercing gaze moves to take in Lemony. An ironic smile erupts on his face. "Ah! The retired writer who just wouldn't retire. Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"Ardy! You can't be rude to our guests!" Despite the reprimand, the woman steps in with a grin on her face, linking an arm around his neck. "He's a new recruit," she explains. "Still getting the hang of things."
"I have not known it to be a habit for the VFD to recruit the ruffians and delinquents—not since the incident with Olaf and those who followed him."
"Ruffians and delinquents? Let me guess, you compensate for your sense of inferiority with your fancy wording, am I right?" His smirk is infuriatingly smug. Lemony can't face him anymore.
He turns away, muttering under his breath words that Violet cannot make out. Despite his previous ardent defense of the VFD, she suspects that he holds judgements towards the organization, too, deep in his heart. Perhaps that is why he became defensive when she criticized it; he didn't want his disinclinations to resurface in his mind.
"Come along, miss Baudelaire," he then says. "Let's find your brother." He takes her arm again and links it through his own. His exasperation shows in his hasty steps, yet his visage hides beneath a shadow cast by his hat.
"You won't find him here!" the man calls tauntingly. Both of them ignore him.
Violet is uncomfortable with being hauled, but doesn't truly acknowledge her discomfort. "Isn't it wise to ask someone?" she says. "We came here on the account that some volunteers found Klaus."
"The person who supplied me with this information is not to be found…" he mutters, halting abruptly. A gleam passes his eyes. "Of course…"
She is completely accustomed to being confused by him, and so when he moves to a secluded corner, she simply follows, trying to keep her building aggravation subdued.
He surveys the wall long enough before muttering a satisfied 'aha!'. Much to her surprise, his form disappears when he steps forwards and then sideways. He remerges then, a hand appreciating the architecture of the structure. "An optical illusion to divert attention from the passageway," he explains.
And indeed, when Violet inclines her head to the side, she makes out a change in contrast between the walls that appear to be continuous, but are actually parallel. Her heart skips a beat and she moves quickly to enter after Lemony. At first, there is only darkness. Their eyes struggle to adjust before spying a distant light at the end of the hallway. He proceeds with heedful acuity that Violet cannot afford to possess. She marches in its direction, ignoring the exasperatedly hushed calling of her name. She reaches her arm at full length closely before arriving at her destination, pushing the door open completely without abating her speed. Once she is in, she looks around, heart palpitating and eyes wide.
"Klaus?" she calls, walking about the room that is interspersed with many beds that resemble those of a low-budget establishment. "Klaus!"
"Miss Baudelaire!" reprimands Lemony as he enters. "Miss Baudelaire, you are—!"
"He's not here!" she exclaims, eyes wild and emotive. "He's not here, Mr. Snicket, Klaus is not here!"
"I never said—"
"You said your colleagues found him! You said he was in London—in this place, Val's Foundation of Delegates, that's what you said!" her voice quivers as it rises beyond its normal volume and her limbs thrash desperately with so much contained desperation. He dares to look in her eyes and finds betrayal and distrust. It hurts him. He is surprised by that much.
He opens his mouth, ready to defend himself and rectify the situation, but she charges forward in a sudden move. For a moment, he thinks she is going to hit him, and so readies himself for the assault, yet such a blow does not come, and he is instead met with a cold wave of air as she runs past him.
"Miss Baudelaire!" he calls.
"Leave me be!"
Bemused faces appraise the young woman as she rushes through them, bumping and colliding into persons and objects but not stopping for a second. She only halts when tender snowflakes touch her cheek and melt in wet trails. She looks up at the sky, a scream brewing in her heart but refusing to leave her throat. Her lips sting against the pressure of her teeth, and her fists are curled with pent-up frustration. She feels like she might explode. But the frozen air is so tranquil around her that it works to deafen her senses. A pained, tearful moan escapes her at last and she crumbles to the ground, sobbing silently and bitterly.
Lemony stands silently behind her. His eyes are pools of sorrow whose depth extends for decades of weeping and heartache. He understands her pain. He understands that she should hate him. He understands her so very well that it disconcerts him. Because that means she understands him as well. He would not wish that upon anyone.
What is there for him to do?
He inclines his head downwards, his throat constricting. For a person as well versed in misery as he, he doesn't know how to give solace; how to reassure and comfort against the demons of the mind and the parasites of the heart. To do so is to lie. There is no reassurance, and no comfort; only the grim acceptance of what is.
And so he stands still, hearing her tears wash her thin frame away, feeling her fears meld into the atmosphere until they touch him and he can see them with his mind's eye.
He waits until she is finished crying; when she sits with slumped shoulders and silent nerves. Then does he move towards her, sitting on the accumulating snow that drenches his coat and looking straight ahead. He doesn't need to see her face to know of the hollow expression it holds.
Words have no meaning in the context of loss. How he would hate to say that he is sorry. How helpless a response it is. He hates it because he is helpless, and it is his fault. His fault that he didn't save them from the very beginning; that he allowed things to escalate to the point where children were no longer children; that in a way, he betrayed his promise to Beatrice. Should he offer his sorries, his soul would be exhausted and his body expired long before he was able to apologize for everything that he has done.
A slight tremble catches his eyes. He looks sideways to see that Violet is shivering.
He doesn't feel he has the allowance to hold her. Not when he is so corrupt. When he's the cause of her dejection.
But his self-hatred is selfish, and it's not truly fair to have her suffer all the more at its end.
Tentatively, he reaches a hand towards her until his arm surrounds her shoulder. She stiffens at first, holding her breath, but reluctantly allows the touch with heedful slowness. The proceedings are mutual, then, begotten by a too-human instinct. She rests her head against his chest, and he envelops her securely.
They sit in silence, shivering and unintelligibly observing the descent of snowflakes. The raven, perched on a lamppost before them, regards them with a solemn air, its inky blackness contrasting with the white of snow. Both their frames are frail and weary; their souls dark and laden; and their hearts discordant with mixtures of despair and an ever-present, painful hope. This hope is the source of the rejuvenating pain that strikes them like a knife in the back.
Lemony's conscience tingles and prods, his mind battling a manifesting image of Beatrice, painted by memories and association. And Violet's mind berates her, recalling her to all the times she trusted and fell and suffered.
But the wintry night is long and cold, and everything is asleep. Violet and Lemony want their thoughts to become sedate alongside the present tranquility, just for once. Just for once, they want to be free from suffering and anguish. Just this once.
And so, she closes her eyes, and he cords his fingers through her hair. She never knew a touch could convey so much sadness. Chancing a glance at him, Violet finds tears confined in his eyes, giving them a most vulnerable mien. She looks down again.
The sound of crunching snow retrieves them to the real world, but it is the voice that causes them to look up, eyes rapidly widening and mouths falling agape.
"Violet?" The voice bears just as much astonishment.
"Klaus…" she whispers.
And all forms of premeditated action disappear as the two siblings enclose each other in desperate grips.
It has been a while since I updated, and when I finally do, I return with drama and angst. But I suppose that you, dear readers, like drama and angst, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this story. (:
The reason of my tardiness is due to my enrollment in university (I'm studying biotechnology & genetic engineering, which is as fascinating and complex as it sounds), and a slight loss of interest in the story. But the reviews revitalize that interest, and so I thank you all, dear reviewers, for urging me to continue.