vojvode | [oom] Come down into the Garden, Eve.

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[oom] Come down into the Garden, Eve.

The night is cold and bright. The moon casts a pale light over the world, throwing it into chiaroscuro.

He stands on the hill over looking the Bar and his thoughts turn to the gold of her hair and the gentle lilt of her voice.

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

He covers his face with his hands, trying to recall the sound of her laughter.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

He can still taste the sweetness of her mouth.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

He can still hear the beat of her heart.

Kate. Wake up.

I need you.

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He surprises her.

"'Some worlds'?"

There's a line between her brows, and a tempest in her eyes.

"Then, what are you saying? You come from more than one?"

"No, Kate," he soothes, shifting closer to her again. He puts his arm around her shoulders and draws her close, looking down into her face.

"I have spoken with -- others here. Others not from my world. Others who knew my name, if not my countenance."

This time, she resists him a little.

"And the things that you've done?"

She doesn't pull out of his embrace, neither does she feel the urge to get up and run. But it's like she's more awake. The dreamlike state of things over her mind clears just a little, and a seed of worry that was planted a while ago, before they ever met, is allowed a little room to grow.

"The things that these people have said?"

His demeanour shifts, darkens a touch. He studies her for a long, quiet moment, a chess player staring at the board.

"I am not a monster, Katherine. You and I..."

He pauses mid breath, and an understanding passes over his expression.

"Our trajectories are not so dissimilar."

"What do you mean?"

"Come now. Do not take me for a fool."

He draws a finger across her brow, brushing aside the fragile strands of her golden hair. That finger trails down her jaw and lifts her chin.

"Let he who is without sin among you, cast the first stone."

She flinches, inhaling sharply and holding her breath.

Her gaze slips away, landing on the floor, as his words weigh on her in full.

He doesn't let her look away. His thumb grips her chin and he drags her gaze back to him.

His voice is low, sinister as the Devil's own sweet whisper for all it pretends at pity.

"Do they tell stories about you too? Hmm?"

She gasps when he pulls her back to him, a shiver ripping down her spine.

She looks at him through her lashes.

"Five hundred dollars. Dead or alive," she breathes.

"Mmmm, impressive. Sounds like murder to me."

"No," she says quickly -- too quickly. The word is practically dripping with guilt. "It... it wasn't like that."

His finger falls across her lips, and with it, the sense of warmth and calm re-exerts itself.

"Shh. Your sins are your own to keep. But you understand now, why I bid you not believe the fanciful tales of those who imagine themselves -- violated, or worse?"

She can't help but be seduced by the suggestion of calm, when her insides are curled in on themselves like paper set aflame, curling into ash. His finger touches her lips, like a magic wand sending a blush to her cheeks, and at length she nods.

And pauses.

"But I got... I got my side of the story. Not your side of yours."

Her eyes are pleading.

"What would you have me tell you?" When he speaks, his words are pitched low, soft. "That I have lived for many centuries, that I commanded an army that withstood the siege of the Ottoman Turk? That I have committed atrocities in the name of God and his Holy Empire? Hmm?"

"Or would you hear about my Elizabeta, a woman of great passion and devotion, who took her own life when she heard that I fell in battle? Would you hear how the priests condemned her to the Pit for all eternity, and refused to bury her body in consecrated ground?" Even speaking so softly, there is a fierce and terrible anger bleeding into his words. "Would you hear of the day I renounced God in all his cruelty, of the day I chose Love over Faith?"

"Or would you hear of the blood I must drink, of the souls I have sent down into the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"

She shivers, and it's not from a chill in her skin, but rather her heart, as if confronted by a great and terrible wind.

In this moment, he is to her so dark with his passion for revenge, so powerful, so fierce, that she feels like a card house built on a naked crag, just threatening to buckle. She's reminded too much of some of the places she's been, eaten with her grief and anger.

(Don't go there again -- blind and stupid like Fira said; reckless, childish...)

Her eyes moisten, and her hands curl into small, trembling fists at her sides. He appeals to her pity, but his age and power is a terror to her soul.

"Is there no other way?"

Her voice is hardly an exhalation, a breath lost through barely moving lips.

"My very existence is an affront to Him. He taught us the lesson, did He not, my dear? When we were small children, did we not learn this simple truth? That Blood -- is Life."

He gathers her hands, clasps them between his own, strong and warm.

"I tell you these things because you understand, Kate. You understand in ways the others cannot. You rage against Him as well. You need not wage this war alone."

She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, but deep down, some part of her believes it's true.

'God will punish you!'

Her eyes are unfocused, head still shaking.

'God, what have I done?'

'How could you do this?'

The moisture in her eyes builds to tears that brim over her lashes.

"Alone?"

She feels like she's in a tunnel, wide and dark, with no light to guide her save for where their hands lay.

"You are so beautiful, my dear. Fearless. Breathtaking."

Again he touches her chin, and then his fingertip is brushing away a single tear.

"And you are not alone."

He draws a breath and lets it out in a slow sigh. His breath feathers over her skin, roses and wood ash, frankincense and myrrh. With it, a flickering of faces plays across her mind: Doc, Ben, Fira, Bela, Will, Jasper, Jim Kirk, Bill & Kate, Weyland, Demeter. History unfolding in the span of heartbeats.

She sees the faces of her friends, her breath coming in slow and ragged, and shuts her eyes to cling to their strength.

"I'm not."

She swallows hard and shakes her head again, but this time the motion is pronounced and full.

"I'm not alone. I'm not alone."

She breathes in sharply, lifting her eyes to his.

"They'd be beside themselves if they knew I was here."

He chuckles at that, his chin tucking in and his eyes glittering.

"As well they should be. But you," he says, looking down into her face with genuine affection. "You know better. You walk in darkness as well, and if it is darkness you crave, you know where to find me."

He makes it sound like a refuge, impenetrable and steadfast. A place of solace and comfort.

And it's seductive, the thought of a place to hide and seek comfort from all the atrocities of her life.

But to seek out the dark path, and abandon what's left of her faith? To turn her back on her God, as he says?

You are already cursed.

She looks away again, breathing tremulously. Something feels wrong, through the warmth and the comfort. Something feels not-quite-right.

I just can't reach it.

"Vlad..."

Her voice is like wind through wheat fields, whistling quietly, sweetly, warm and dusty.

"...Tell me what to do."

He reaches out a taloned hand, and the shadows around them both darken and grow long. His fingertips graze her temple, curving along her scalp until he holds her skull in his palm.

He turns her face up to sky and the moonlight kisses those pale cheekbones. Around them, the snow drifts and the crisp cold night unfolds in obsidian and diamonds. But she is swathed in warmth and softness, a golden warmth permeating her limbs, an intoxicating and heavy bliss that washes away all her concerns.

"God does not deserve you," he whispers.

Her chest rises and falls with the rapidity of her breaths, deep on the inhale, shallow on the exhale. She's still staring at a grand ceiling in a warm castle, shadows dancing in the flickering firelight, like wicked specters circling a roaring fire.

She's warm and heavy, skin buzzing with the faint thrill of his hands in her hair, his breath on her skin.

'If it was punishment, then I ain't got no use for him ... He's foolish, not knowin' what He's losin'.'

Her heart beats a tattoo in her ears, like music rich and deep.

"You don't ... don't deserve -- to be alone."

His eyes fall closed and the ghost of a smile drifts over his features. He pulls back from her a bit, and opens his arms, inviting her into his embrace.

"Then stay with me. At least, until sunrise."

She feels dizzy, almost drunk with the warm spell he's cast over her mind, and finds herself willing when he opens his arms for her. She nestles into his embrace, closing her eyes as she seeks out his heartbeat.

"I'm safe, here."

It doesn't sound like a question, but it's not a statement either.

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vojvode - 2010-02-21 03:37 (UTC) - Expand

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