Éminence grise: Magnificat.
Posted: Fri Feb 28, 2003 12:58 pm
The sack had held food, a coil of rope, other things less pleasant. It had also contained a handful of candles, and it is these that have lit the shed these last,endless hours; the stove had exhausted its fuel some time ago, and she hadn't troubled herself to stock it again from the pile of firewood at the door.
This is the peak of Myrken Wood winter: cold, cold, and the wind threatening to tear the door from its 'frame, to steal the very shed from its own foundations. Cold, and he is suffering the worst of the pair; he is clad in more chains than clothes, this man -- loose, cotton trousers are his only garment, and she, winterclad and far more able to bear the arctic chill, can see his shivering even by the candle's meagre light.
"You've given me nothing more than threats and hints, nothing more than gossip. You're right; this is no better than the letters were."
"As you'd know; you read all of them, didn't you -- in Amaysin, in Thessilane, even in Heath. Well. Until your haughty charmer encouraged you to burn them; I assume that's the way it went. You'd never had the courage to try it before. Does he love you?"
"Which one?"
"Hah! Now you're fencing!"
His smile is bright with his approval, his features waxy and pale with cold; he is two days dying, the days dragging slowly in this hovel whose shuttered windows emit no real light. When he speaks once more, it is with some difficulty.
"I pity him, anyhow. Him or They -- it doesn't matter; either way, the end result's going to be the same. Do they even know? Does he?"
"Do they [i]care? I don't. Tell me more about Dauntle -- "
"I'll speak of what I want. This is [/i]my death, you'll recall. Still the poor, little child who thinks she'll get her way, even though she hasn't for years, now. Still the girl who thinks she can win with a few deft stabs. Doesn't work that way. Your home festers, no matter how many knives you throw at it, and it's as much your doing as mine."
His dark eyes are everything that she remembers, bright with intelligence and malice alike; they stare from pasty features grown bluish with chill. When he shivers now, which is often, it is with force enough to have his chains rattling; they provide a bitter, hollow counterpoint to his slurred voice.
"Not long now, Vargan. It's time to answer my question."
"And here I thought I'd answered so many of them. The streltsy will take the streets now, love; the wolves will walk untouched, and I'll ne -- "
"Why, Vargan? Why take my life, that very first night; why try to? Why rescue my House from poverty? Why send the first families there to begin with? None of it makes sense, and I will have my answer. It is time."
"And it is obvious. I thought you might have figured it out by yourself, having had all this time to think about it. Ahh, but smarts were never your finest trait. Well, then. I've done all these things, all these things that no-one else would ever think to do. Consider this: these things made you what you are."
His grin had lost its claws, its cruelty; it was an echo of malice past, unsteady with the cold, grey with pain.
"You are my design."
"Answer."
"My lovely, mad creation..."
"Answer. Why?"
"Ahh, my murderous, whoring, corpse-robbing love -- why? To see what would happen."
There are no words now, no sound save for the brutal tearing of the wind against roof and walls, the threnody of his chains, endless in their hollow rattling. In time, the candlelight dims and dies; in time, so does he.
This is the peak of Myrken Wood winter: cold, cold, and the wind threatening to tear the door from its 'frame, to steal the very shed from its own foundations. Cold, and he is suffering the worst of the pair; he is clad in more chains than clothes, this man -- loose, cotton trousers are his only garment, and she, winterclad and far more able to bear the arctic chill, can see his shivering even by the candle's meagre light.
"You've given me nothing more than threats and hints, nothing more than gossip. You're right; this is no better than the letters were."
"As you'd know; you read all of them, didn't you -- in Amaysin, in Thessilane, even in Heath. Well. Until your haughty charmer encouraged you to burn them; I assume that's the way it went. You'd never had the courage to try it before. Does he love you?"
"Which one?"
"Hah! Now you're fencing!"
His smile is bright with his approval, his features waxy and pale with cold; he is two days dying, the days dragging slowly in this hovel whose shuttered windows emit no real light. When he speaks once more, it is with some difficulty.
"I pity him, anyhow. Him or They -- it doesn't matter; either way, the end result's going to be the same. Do they even know? Does he?"
"Do they [i]care? I don't. Tell me more about Dauntle -- "
"I'll speak of what I want. This is [/i]my death, you'll recall. Still the poor, little child who thinks she'll get her way, even though she hasn't for years, now. Still the girl who thinks she can win with a few deft stabs. Doesn't work that way. Your home festers, no matter how many knives you throw at it, and it's as much your doing as mine."
His dark eyes are everything that she remembers, bright with intelligence and malice alike; they stare from pasty features grown bluish with chill. When he shivers now, which is often, it is with force enough to have his chains rattling; they provide a bitter, hollow counterpoint to his slurred voice.
"Not long now, Vargan. It's time to answer my question."
"And here I thought I'd answered so many of them. The streltsy will take the streets now, love; the wolves will walk untouched, and I'll ne -- "
"Why, Vargan? Why take my life, that very first night; why try to? Why rescue my House from poverty? Why send the first families there to begin with? None of it makes sense, and I will have my answer. It is time."
"And it is obvious. I thought you might have figured it out by yourself, having had all this time to think about it. Ahh, but smarts were never your finest trait. Well, then. I've done all these things, all these things that no-one else would ever think to do. Consider this: these things made you what you are."
His grin had lost its claws, its cruelty; it was an echo of malice past, unsteady with the cold, grey with pain.
"You are my design."
"Answer."
"My lovely, mad creation..."
"Answer. Why?"
"Ahh, my murderous, whoring, corpse-robbing love -- why? To see what would happen."
There are no words now, no sound save for the brutal tearing of the wind against roof and walls, the threnody of his chains, endless in their hollow rattling. In time, the candlelight dims and dies; in time, so does he.