Chapter LXXXV: The Edge of Mourning
And yet the problem remained.
Lucian confident as he left the roof, about to head…immediately…for the East Wing…and then stopping. Like a mortal standing on a cliff, acknowledging the boundaries of his thirst, seeing that the water was there, but uncertain now how to reach the water without breaking his neck. His path then leading him to his quarters again where he lay pondering his ceiling, trying to chart his way from west to east…and back again. Questioning whether it was sanity, whether it was better to quell or quench what could be a passing thirst after spending five hundred years in sacrifice to the war, only to falter near the end for the very reason he'd lost everything in the first place.
A knock on his door briefly calling his attention to the presence of Weylan, who stood uncomfortably holding out a folio. A development, the man said. The first of twelve missives that were to be sent out in the morning. It was called signing by counterparts. Each copy translated into code before receiving a scent-mark and seal as part of its legitimacy. In this case for…an annulment…removing Reinette from her commitments to the North and allowing her to apply for guarded citizenship. According to the terms, she'd be given her own tenancy, her own staff, right of movement…
…and a new contract.
And it did not surprise him. He knew the Council would eventually use Freyja as their pawn, that every time he ignored one of their letters requesting unhindered access to Reinette, he was playing a game of recompense. No. What surprised him was the signature.
Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche.
She'd signed it.
o…o…o
One hour later.
Weylan was now gone. Waved away at some point while he continued to stand there, staring at the annulment, going through every emotion from shock to anger to despondency…and then denial. His instincts leading him to first question whether it was a mistake. Flipping back and forth between the pages. Reading every line. Every word. Assuring himself that no…it was not a mistake. Before taking another hour to…again…study her signature…
Another moment going by as he considered whether to simply confront her. Pound his fist on her door. Break the lock with his knife…and demand to have it out. Holding the folio like it was dung…so that he could ask her…what the fuck…she had been thinking.
At which point, she'd explain herself.
Likely shout at him.
So he in turn could berate her over the position she'd just put him in. Because if she'd just asked him, he could have told her that Morrigan was the key problem. That the moment she signed a document sponsored by Morrigan, it became Horde business. Which meant every council member had to be notified within forty-eight hours. During which, he'd either have to approve it…publicly…or do the opposite…also publicly. Not in a games room. Or a secret council meeting. No—they were in the middle of fucking Hangrove—which meant everyone…from the printer's son to the blood-forsaken telegraph operator's wife…would soon become aware of this document. And regardless of what he did now, all eyes would be on his official response.
But no.
He was past that.
The argument already complete in his head, leaving him disorientated now…and surprisingly empty. Like he was standing outside her quarters…and she'd just slammed a door in his face. Caring not so much about the official response, but the unspoken point she'd made on the paper. That she'd seen no reason to ask his opinion, he realised. Lying on the floor now with the folio resting on his chest. Trying to quantify the…extreme…confusion he was now feeling…
…and the hurt.
Why the devil…
…had she signed it, he wondered.
Despondently.
o…o…o
Until…
…it came to him.
An hour later.
Still on the floor…but lying on his front now with his head to the side. Staring at the folio, which he'd long since thrown across the room. The words already memorised. And as long as he studied the terms as she'd studied them…without anger…or denial…he could see that it was a strategic move. That if one were alone…completely alone…in a foreign world without power or choices…then it was a good deal. She would gain autonomy. She'd be released from her Northern obligations…and if the Council approved…and he signed it, then she was as free as an exile could be in their society. With gainful employment and her own household, courtesy of Morrigan, to boot.
Which meant all Freyja had done was improve the circumstances of Reinette, using her connections in the North to do what he'd failed to do in twenty-three years. Wisely choosing a moment when her brother would have a right to sign by proxy. And the boy likely foolish enough to exercise his right, possibly for the sake of his sister's happiness, but more likely to flex his power in front of his father.
And yet it felt like a betrayal.
From all sides.
He groaned.
o…o…o
Which left him…not on his carpet, but in the bath now…another hour later…having gone through the gamut of his emotions and finding himself back in the weeds of his melancholy. Because to have signed as she did…meant that she did not care for his opinion…or she did not realise…how…he felt…
…and why would she?
From her perspective, she was the river. Carrying on her way. Unaffected by his thirst. Unreachable. And perhaps it was…as Allegra had intimated…for the best. He carrying on his way…and she hers. The four years since she'd gotten her youth only seeming to have made the cliff higher. The water more enticing, but their previous years spent in…all manner of sensible, elderly pursuits—as it was once described by Sabine—having put a damper on his ability to enthrall her in any other manner besides suggesting an evening walk…
…and the thought taking him aback. Because in the past twenty-four hours of…admitting…his deepest thoughts, it had not occurred to him to dwell on how Reinette actually felt about him. That perhaps she did not even think about him that way. That they got on…but would never actually…
…get…on.
Making him realise now why Sonja had been so…odd…in the years before their affair started. That she had in fact been trying to get close to him. Breaking her weapons more than usual. Requiring an extensive redesign of her helmet, one that had her critiquing his work for half a year before she scrapped the entire business, citing his inability to have 'vision' as her reason.
His bitterness causing him to avoid her when he could, only to be pulled into the worst of it. The annual cull. A time of cleansing on the hills. Or in their case, the culling of runts on the western reach. The few that had escaped. Four at most. All of them branded. Unable to take human form. And yet somehow…she managed to convince an entire court that putting such creatures down was both wise and merciful, even when it was clear that winter would do the same job in less time.
And it…did…take time.
Three weeks of time. Three weeks of tracking and ranging. Forcing him to swallow his bitterness and bile. The exhaustion of having to track all night…and then do his work—his actual work—in the morning. All so he could watch a self-serving brat range farther out than was safe, so she could feel…good…about killing something. Good until one's fingers began to freeze in the effort. Until even the other death-dealers began to roll their eyes, turning their steeds around, unwilling to go further without informing the other outriders. After which he'd stood there. The cold seeping into his bones as he waited by her horse. Its name wiped from his memory, but the measurements for its armour as fresh as the year he'd built it.
Long before then.
A memory within a memory, one of waiting patiently in a courtyard where horse after horse was paraded before Viktor and his daughter. The fastest and strongest horses in the land, gifted by mortals seeking the favour of the coven. Each decorated in silver with ornaments braided in its mane…
…but all eyes taken by the graceful palfrey. Thirteen hands. Ambling gait and therefore a smoother ride. For a lady…was the unspoken implication…though it would never be said aloud in a court where Amelia reigned. The debate between Viktor and his daughter drawing eyes and ears as they discussed the shortcomings of the steed. That it was beautiful, but hardly suited to a battle. After which, the lady's eyes moved on to the proud destrier. Fifteen hands high. The most expensive horse in the courtyard. Prized among knights. Strong physique and the most likely to survive a joust. Or a lycan. Therefore making it the preferred horse of most death-dealers…
…and the steed recommended by their training master. A man whose name he preferred not to remember. One who sought to ridicule him at every turn, whether by assigning him the filthiest of tasks or simply throwing horse-shit on him while he slept. And then putting him on the spot. In front of the coven. Turning his back to the courtyard and seeking his opinion, stating that the Lady Sonja could not decide between the palfrey and the destrier…and that if she did not trust his advice, then perhaps—to the courtly amusement of all—she would listen to a hound instead. Asking…him…a dog…what he thought.
And it became silent.
Dozens of vampires watching him. Judging him, the dog of Viktor's house. Newly returned from his apprenticeship. Afraid to raise his eyes, yet so eager to win approval. Not from the court or Sonja…but Viktor. The one who watched all from on high. Content to let his daughter fight her own battles, never mind the hound he did not call son. Viktor who preferred the palfrey, perhaps thinking his daughter's life would be safer if she abandoned her training…
…and the training-master who thrived on the stench of death. Only too familiar with the gut-wrenching sound of a lycan's back breaking as it was trampled by a destrier. Creatures that were powerful, but would last a year…maybe two…before they succumbed to the endless circle that was a death-dealer's life.
And though he knew what he ought to say, he could feel his resolve sharpening. His mind turning like an executioner's wheel, seeing his way through the dilemma. Seeing that there was a freedom to knowing a battle would end without victory. That regardless of what he chose, someone would beat him…savagely…for opening his mouth. And by the look in his training master's eyes, it would be him.
Come, boy, the man had said.
Taunting him.
Tell us your thoughts.
And he'd raised his eyes…
…and told them.
After years of watching death-dealers in their battles. His years of watching death…and planning death…and living death…lending a dirge-like poetry to his voice. That the palfrey was not suited to battle. That the destrier was stronger, but it could not take a multitude. That eventually the creature would be overrun along with its rider. Therefore the only steed worth its silver was not in the inner courtyard, but the outer. A place relegated to the lowly mortals waiting on their favour…
…including the messenger.
A terrified man whispering a prayer beneath his breath, the bridle of his horse clutched between shaking fingers. But the horse did not shake. It had made the journey too many times. Always the same courser. But a different man each time. One whose task it was to deliver horses…and then return to his mortal lord with a message of approval…or disapproval. That being his head either attached to his neck…or the side of the horse, which was by now trained to return to its masters. A plain steed. No silver. No ornaments. Comfortable with the scent of blood.
Swifter. Lighter.
More agile.
The only creature that—short of a massacre—would survive most battles because it could outrun them. Just as it had done over the last four deliveries, none of which had been met with approval.
And she'd seen it…after that.
They both had.
Viktor and his daughter keeping the horses, but choosing the courser as her steed. Training it. Lightening both her armour and that of the horse. Focusing their attention on speed, so that when they bred it, they did so in a manner that would allow her next horse—and the horse after that—to outrun every other on the hills. The training master eventually seeing the purpose behind their choices, but always holding it against him.
As though he could sense what it had done. The pride he felt. That after four decades, the Lady Sonja still rode the coursers. The first one long dead now…but this one as fast as its original sire, he'd thought. Once again in the freezing shell of that memory.
Four decades later, standing on a wintry hillside, knowing exactly which way they were supposed to go, but like her horse, trained well enough that he would make no move without orders. A good animal, he'd thought, stroking the horse's ear beneath its bard. Watching their mistress struggle to read the terrain. Unable to see that their prey—the runt that they were hunting—had gone beneath ground. And that if they waited longer, it would soon come back…
…but it was a game to her.
The hunt.
Once a terrifying ordeal, only written about in scrolls depicting the monstrous teeth of his brethren. Those whose rabid nature overwhelmed the countryside. Pushed back by Amelia…and Markus…and Viktor. And now a game, he thought. Capable of taking them forward. But keeping his head down until she called. Knowing his place as he pointed out the trail in silence. The two of them tracking until they found where it had left the ground…
…and again, he knew exactly where it was. Sensing it behind him, but keeping his peace. He and the horse. Both of them harnessed by silver and leather…only to be unleashed if the Lady Sonja willed it. A petty game of hunting runts in the dark. Creatures that had not taken well to the Change…unable to return to human form…and therefore relegated to sport. Or mercy, as she liked to call it. And so his mind had wandered. Even when surrounded by its fear and confusion. Smelling the change on the air, that the creature they were hunting was now hunting them. But it is not your job to warn, as Janus had once told him, working a twig between his teeth before pointing at the trail he'd missed. No, the man had said. Keep your head down during a hunt. If they tell you to track, you track. If they tell you to kill, you kill.
Simple as that.
But his mentor had been wrong, he'd thought. Looking up at the stars, thinking of Janus all these years later. Still soothing the horse as though it could reverse what had happened. Soothing the horse…and wiping the blood spatter from its hide. Thinking not of the blood, but the grim acceptance on Janus' face as Viktor cut him down. If they tell you to hunt one of your own, then you hunt, he'd said the night before…
…and so he'd stood there. The night silent…and Sonja standing across from him, staring in wonder. That he'd not stopped in his task. As though it were not important. The kill. How close the creature had come to tearing out his throat. The blood at his feet. Only the soft crooning for the horse as he waited for her to finish her hunt. And that had been the moment.
So long ago now that he could hardly remember it.
Only that she'd kissed him.
And left.
Just as quickly.
Leaving him on a hilltop with a dead lycan.
o…o…o
Which brought him back to his present. Staring at his fingers in the water. As wrinkled as they would ever become in his immortality. Opening and closing them before letting it all go again. Wishing that he did not know now what Sonja had not known then. That power could change things. And it was different when the person in power made the first move. Because a kiss on a hilltop could be devastating. That she had taken it…and left him in an extreme state of fear and confusion. Slow to do his task. Slow in cutting off the head. Slow in retrieving all the bolts. Making mistakes. Burning his fingers several times in the process.
He'd been…
…ruined.
For weeks after the kiss. Months. Thinking he'd imagined it. Feeling unsure of himself…wondering if it was a trap. Some kind of trick. A means for getting him killed. It had taken years to peel back those layers. The numbness he'd built into his mind. The little rooms of time, each filled with a memory of pain. Or abuse. The distrust he'd felt. His belief that she could not possibly…want…him. That his training master had been right—that he was worthless…
…and then decades to sort through that moment. Decades before he told her what it had really been like after she kissed him. That yes…he had wanted her. Yes…he thought about her…constantly. That if he could go back, he would not change anything. But that no…he…had not had a choice. How could he possibly have had a choice when she was the…daughter…of…an…Elder…
The one with all the power.
His admission…after years of keeping his peace…causing an argument of epic proportions. Each whisper like an avalanche on the side of a mountain. She at first refusing to hear it. He trying to explain that…for him…as much as he loved her…
…in that first year, he had been terrified. A twig caught in a flood. Every meeting one she had orchestrated. Every hesitant kiss one that she started. That she could easily have had him killed if he'd displeased her…or not reciprocated. And in time…an entire year of time…as with the horse, she'd seen it. And in time, they found their way into something deeper. The marriage that gave him…everything…for so many decades.
But not at first…
…and he did not want that for Reinette.
He did not want her to feel…compelled…or trapped.
And there lay his problem.
Because…
…he had…put her in a catacomb. Then compelled her to follow him…and then trapped her in a glass-bowl, one that she could not leave without council approval. Safe…but a glorified prisoner.
For twenty-three years.
Walls for walls, she'd said to him. Because she could see through his lies. That as long as he was trapped, she was trapped. That they were both living in a splendid cage, one that he'd built out of investments…and marriage treaties…and inheritance rights. Bars formed out of broken promises. Fortunes that would be lost. Insults that would not be forgiven.
In short…
…he had fucked up.
And if he was wise, he would marry Freyja and leave Reinette alone. Even if it made him sick. At which point, perfectly on cue, the anxiety began to mount. His breath short. Like he'd fallen off the cliff…and missed the water. So he did the only thing he could when things began to spiral. Slipping out of his quarters, for a second time that night, going to his forge, starting to meditate, failing to meditate, and promptly taking heroin instead.
A ridiculous amount of heroin. Until it all began to fall into place again. His confidence. His ease. Every piece. Every breath. Every spiral. Only then seeing how he could proceed with an absurd clarity of foresight, one which gave him license to not only decide his fate, but to act as a king without consequence. Decisively and with no concern as to how his choices could affect other people. Simple as that. And within twenty minutes…
…he'd solved everything.
o…o…o
One hour later.
It was during this same clarity of foresight that Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter found herself seated on a stool in her quarters. Unaware that such thoughts were going on, but experiencing a similar listlessness…and therefore situating herself in the only place she could think of sitting in an aftermath that felt emptier than she'd expected. Aligning eight of her fingers over the strings of her harp, but playing no sound.
For as long as she did not touch the instrument, it would remain as she was. Perfectly tuned with elaborate scrolls of gold leaf along its neck. Garlands of flowers painted on the soundboard. Flowers that never wilted. Or died. Though they had grown faded in the four decades since her advisors informed her that, upon careful study of the lycan-master's movements, they had determined conclusively, after seeing him attend several music recitals, that he must enjoy the harp…
…and therefore, she must play the harp. And though she did not enjoy the harp, she learned to play it well. Along with a host of instruments suggested by her advisors, including the pianoforte, the violin, the cimbalom, the flute…and most recently, the cello. A desire for control causing her to become proficient in all of them. Practicing every day. For three hours. In a room where she could be surrounded by all the things her lord had given her over the course of their engagement. Ivory figurines. Enamelled boxes. Perfume. Furs. Things she had truly relished…
…even in the wake of their differences. Taking a single step into the East Wing…and stumbling across the irony. A great channel of irony filled with all that she had feared. All that she'd ignored for so many years, from the night her father had signed her engagement to the morning she received news that the old blood-seer was young again. Telling herself it did not matter. That Lady Morrigan was right. That every rumour was simply a stray thread requiring a needle to guide it.
But she saw it now.
Each thread was a tipping point…and for the sake of her future, unless she unpicked one of those threads, her tapestry would begin to pull on one side. Her plans would become unrecognisable, no longer a masterpiece of patience, but a distorted tableau, intended as a warning for future generations of northern women.
And though for years she had prided herself on remaining aloof…untouched by riches and appropriately hardened by her years in the North, even then, in what ought to have been a victory, all she could think on was the height of the ceilings. The expanded entryway leading into the private sitting room. A place where a Turner, magnificent and tumultuous, could be eclipsed by a framed piece of battered wallpaper with butterflies scratched into its surface. As though every season had brought its share of peculiarities.
Realising as she handed the folio to the woman that her own quarters were an exact match for the East Wing…before…it had been retrofitted. And the thought expanding as she began to see the theme to her own surroundings. That there was no theme…and each year, someone in his inner circle travelled to the finest of auction houses, bid upon the most expensive item of the season…and placed it in her music room without a second glance.
So she found herself sitting before her harp. Telling herself that she had done the right thing…and a cage was still a cage, whether formed out of affection or purchased from an auction house. There would not be tears. Or sorrow. And whatever they required of her, she would fit those stitches into her tapestry. For she was very…very good at what she did. Whether that meant shooting a boar between the eyes or offering herself up like a bitch in heat…
…or now…
She touched a string.
Playing…
…a harp.
The sound reverberating through the air, matched by a chord, discordant from the other side of the room. And she knew…and hoped. Protected by a treaty of Gathering, but praying she'd not made a terrible mistake by showing her hand. That not only Allegra, but Morrigan had been shaping her for this life. The sound already made, but the echo still hovering on the air. Prompting her to quickly sweep off the stool, bowing her head low as she dipped into the curtsy. Almost on her knees.
"Milord," she said. For like the flowers, though her will might be faded, she did not wilt from the life she was destined to live.
And it sat between them. The apology he was not speaking aloud. That which she would not receive, she realised suddenly. Listening for another chord without harmony, but hearing only its echo as he continued to sit at the pianoforte, staring at the keys. His face shadowed by certainty. Giving her reason to regret being alone, for it was not lust she saw, but the expression of one who'd made a judgment…and was now coming to deliver a verdict. One that did not necessarily play by the rules of council territory. Rules that did not take into account how far one might be willing to go to start a war. Perhaps in revenge for the sins of her father.
For why else would he be carrying a knife, she thought in quiet resignation. Wary of the signs, the stillness on his right side. The readiness. And she continuing to hold her position like a lamb ready for its slaughter. Eyes to the floor, listening so hard for the sound of his knife that she missed his steps crossing the room, coming to stand before her…and finally saying her name.
"Freyja."
She dared to look up.
Something she'd been told to avoid after that first meeting. Over a decade ago, trying to tempt him in a forest until her advisors concluded that a wilting flower would have greater odds for success. And immediately she regretted that success…because he could see through it now. And again…they were back in that forest, she hunting her prey, thinking she knew precisely when he'd reach for his knife. In her gut, knowing the North had served her up to a monster and shocked to see what appeared to be a sleeping shepherd rather than a king. Handsome but gaunt as though he'd not slept in years.
And the memory causing her downfall for she'd already missed it. The knife already out. Pointing at her throat, prompting her to rise shakily until she was standing. Still staring into the eyes of her lord, afraid to breathe lest she accidentally cut herself on its edge. Afraid…yet thankful that he'd finally shown his colours before the end. Shown himself for what he was. A gentleman whose smile would walk you into a gallery…and then slit your throat in a room filled with his gifts.
But.
He did not.
And as they stood there, surrounded by the scent of death walking, she saw that which her fear had masked. Not just a knife in his hand. But…the…knife. The infamous mourning knife of the lycan-master. That which rumour had speculated on for centuries, but which had never been seen in public. Not even after the engagement for even by the terms, there was nothing to force his hand into giving it up. A gift that was almost in her grasp.
Held to her throat…
…and then turned at the hilt.
Ivory.
"I have a proposal for you," he said.
And there was a chilling glint in his eye. Its colour making her realise now what the trick had been. How the blood-seer had spent twenty-three years in his company…and handled him with ease. For how else could one see warmth in a creature who carried so much death on his scent. Terrifying those around him, thereby solidifying his existence as the lycan-master and no one else. Making her see how lucky the blood-seer was to be leaving this place.
Lucky because she could not smell it.
How mad he was.
And yet...
...it did not stop her from taking it. The hilt of the knife. Daring to meet his gaze as she listened to his words. Each syllable holding her up until he was done...and gone. Only then seating herself once more on a stool before her harp...and again...plucking a string. And then a second. A third. For the first time, realising how much joy could be had from playing a harp. Until the notes became so intertwined, so woven together in perfect harmony that one could barely tell them apart. Until the last note fell...and all she could hear was its echo. Humming across the air as she began to smile, the harp silent and the mourning knife nestled on her lap.
A/N #2: Regarding Sonja's necklace, apologies to any who were searching for it in this chapter (I noticed a new review with the question, so hopefully the person sees this). That is entirely my fault. I indicated it might show up, but it did not. Not even a little bit. But it is still among Lucian's things. The last time we saw it was in Chapter 17 Murder on the Orient. It was in the wooden box Sabine was handling right before the attack. (And typically when he's "home," it's in his quarters.)
A/N: Arggh, sorry for the wait...the concussion turned out to be awful...and then I had another (fun) issue and was in hospital (so much fun). But I am picking myself up and rather than waiting to post tomorrow, I am throwing the chapter out and will check it for serious errors tomorrow. Because I'm impatient and my track record has not been great, so...posting! Hopefully the next one comes soon as it's (again) mostly written, so...that's good. More importantly, thank you so much to all who are still following this story. As always, please feel free to read and review.
Love in Halsey: I am okay! (Mostly ;)) So glad you loved the last chapter. I too needed a moment after Lucian and Sabine made up (it was about time)!
MermaidVampire: I too am planning to print it and FINALLY stick it on my bookshelf someday. (Surprisingly, one of the earliest smut scenes was written over a decade ago. Someday it will see the light of day.)
Hannah-Brietom65: He definitely needs grounding!
Barbara Dias: It was indeed exciting to begin our foray into certain words being used in this fanfic. I figured the time has begun.
Celine: Will he sign...or won't he sign...or will he...
ArielThinker: Will there be smut...or won't there be smut...(At the very least, we'll get a bit more detail as to Lucian's absurd clarity of foresight in the next chapter)
Guest: The second day of Hangrove will dawn soon...I promise.
Guest: Thank you for being here since the beginning (my heart is warmed)
LovingBitch: I am getting the sense that more cock is required. Duly noted.
Wynter Phoenix: Thank you!
Mackenzie: Next chapter is definitely back in Hangrove...although I have to put things in order because I wrote a WHOLE bunch of snippets.
Guest: This story is home to me as well. I will be terrified at its conclusion. What will I do with my time...?