âFear not the endless night. It is only befitting of creatures like us."
Sergei winced slightly as he put weight on his favored leg, but it did not stop him from ascending the rest of the stairs to the roof. Ivan had long ago invented a particular kind of toxin that would slow the natural healing processes of vampires, though he seldom used them in open combat, as the toxin had the additional effect of sharpening the mind. It certainly made one aware of oneâs pain, but it also allowed for greater-than-usual mental computation speed, and had since been modified into a pharmaceutical. Of course, fortunately for Ivan, this side effect didnât make much of a difference when the recipient of the toxin was Sergei, as the dhampir already possessed information processing speeds abnormally high for a humanoid creature anyway. So for him it was simply more pain.
He supposed that in some sense, his fatherâs disciplinary methods were cruel, and certainly if visited upon a human or someone else, they would have been cause for great concern on his part. But⊠Ivan never did anything without a reason, and the one time that sympathy had stayed his hand in such affairs, the results had been disastrous. So if this, ritualized punishment with poisoned weapons, was the kind of thing one could get used to, then Sergei was used to it. It was not as though the Lord Rasputinov would ever visit such harms upon his human wards or his other servants. Sergei was a unique case, and perhaps rightly so.
It was what he told himself, anyway, lest he assume that Ivan simply despised him. He couldnât bring himself to believe that, even if the man did hate Lilith with a ferocity well-hidden by his unruffled exterior.
Emerging onto the roof, Sergei lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the wind with a sigh. He was already nearly recovered from that incident this morning, anyway. His own body wouldnât let him dieâhe knew this quite well, in fact. For years after the incident, heâd searched for a way to accomplish such a feat, but it was not to be done. As much as his human side reviled everything that he was, the part of him that was her refused to be put down in such an inglorious fashion, and stayed his hand more times than he could rightly keep count of any longer. Ah, but to be the ash he made of others⊠it would be only just retribution, but alas, such things were denied him. Perhaps to live on was more painful than to die, and this was why he was consigned to life everlasting, restless.
Tipping his head back, Sergei stared hard at the moon, perhaps trying to read something into her face. An answer to a question that he did not know how to ask, mayhap. There were many such questions, and as ever, there were no replies to be found. A night breeze tugged playfully at his unbound locks of moonsilver hair, but went ignored. It was hard to embrace the little things when the large ones weighed so heavily upon you. Death, past and to come, something that filled his mouth with the leaden taste of black dread. Metallic, sourâlike diseased blood, or something worse. Ichor, bile, acid, caustic and callow and sitting in a festering pool somewhere his heart should be.
âA trip, is it? To ease the festering in our souls? How quaintâŠâ he murmured, dropping the stub of his cigarette and grinding out the cherry-colored ember of it with his heel. Perhaps Ekaterina will have woken by then, else he would be staying behind. Not that he thought going would make much of a differenceâthey could toy with the boundaries of physical distance all they wished, but psychological distance was not so easily attained. Surely, they would know. Sacrilegious, still troubled by an ancient history that had once driven him to the sleep of oblivion. The twins, who had watched two friends die in such quick succession. Takeru, burdened with duties that should not have fallen to one so young. And himself, forever haunted by the blood on his own hands. It was no other entity that haunted his nightmares, not being to creep up and slaughter while he watched helpless. No, the being that lurked in the shadows of his sleeping mind was just himself, and he feared none other.
And Kitty? Who knew what she dreamed? She would never speak of it, not even if it troubled her. She would not give the details of her foreboding, only the sensation itself, and he knew she concealed these things for her own reasons. Ivan would press, but he would achieve nothing. She had become strong, in her own way, while none of them were looking.
He wondered if she would be strong enough. If any of them would be.
Sergeiâs errant thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a fleeing figure, heading towards the forest. The scent carried to him on the wind allowed him to identify Amaya, but he did not move to chase. Whatever she was enduring now, there was nothing he could do. What had his father said? Ah, yes. Useless. He was not for soothing or helpingâhe was for maiming and killing. And how little he wished either of those things to befall her. Any of them. Distance was best, surely.
Perhaps, if it took her too long to return, he would find her sister.
He supposed that in some sense, his fatherâs disciplinary methods were cruel, and certainly if visited upon a human or someone else, they would have been cause for great concern on his part. But⊠Ivan never did anything without a reason, and the one time that sympathy had stayed his hand in such affairs, the results had been disastrous. So if this, ritualized punishment with poisoned weapons, was the kind of thing one could get used to, then Sergei was used to it. It was not as though the Lord Rasputinov would ever visit such harms upon his human wards or his other servants. Sergei was a unique case, and perhaps rightly so.
It was what he told himself, anyway, lest he assume that Ivan simply despised him. He couldnât bring himself to believe that, even if the man did hate Lilith with a ferocity well-hidden by his unruffled exterior.
Emerging onto the roof, Sergei lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the wind with a sigh. He was already nearly recovered from that incident this morning, anyway. His own body wouldnât let him dieâhe knew this quite well, in fact. For years after the incident, heâd searched for a way to accomplish such a feat, but it was not to be done. As much as his human side reviled everything that he was, the part of him that was her refused to be put down in such an inglorious fashion, and stayed his hand more times than he could rightly keep count of any longer. Ah, but to be the ash he made of others⊠it would be only just retribution, but alas, such things were denied him. Perhaps to live on was more painful than to die, and this was why he was consigned to life everlasting, restless.
Tipping his head back, Sergei stared hard at the moon, perhaps trying to read something into her face. An answer to a question that he did not know how to ask, mayhap. There were many such questions, and as ever, there were no replies to be found. A night breeze tugged playfully at his unbound locks of moonsilver hair, but went ignored. It was hard to embrace the little things when the large ones weighed so heavily upon you. Death, past and to come, something that filled his mouth with the leaden taste of black dread. Metallic, sourâlike diseased blood, or something worse. Ichor, bile, acid, caustic and callow and sitting in a festering pool somewhere his heart should be.
âA trip, is it? To ease the festering in our souls? How quaintâŠâ he murmured, dropping the stub of his cigarette and grinding out the cherry-colored ember of it with his heel. Perhaps Ekaterina will have woken by then, else he would be staying behind. Not that he thought going would make much of a differenceâthey could toy with the boundaries of physical distance all they wished, but psychological distance was not so easily attained. Surely, they would know. Sacrilegious, still troubled by an ancient history that had once driven him to the sleep of oblivion. The twins, who had watched two friends die in such quick succession. Takeru, burdened with duties that should not have fallen to one so young. And himself, forever haunted by the blood on his own hands. It was no other entity that haunted his nightmares, not being to creep up and slaughter while he watched helpless. No, the being that lurked in the shadows of his sleeping mind was just himself, and he feared none other.
And Kitty? Who knew what she dreamed? She would never speak of it, not even if it troubled her. She would not give the details of her foreboding, only the sensation itself, and he knew she concealed these things for her own reasons. Ivan would press, but he would achieve nothing. She had become strong, in her own way, while none of them were looking.
He wondered if she would be strong enough. If any of them would be.
Sergeiâs errant thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a fleeing figure, heading towards the forest. The scent carried to him on the wind allowed him to identify Amaya, but he did not move to chase. Whatever she was enduring now, there was nothing he could do. What had his father said? Ah, yes. Useless. He was not for soothing or helpingâhe was for maiming and killing. And how little he wished either of those things to befall her. Any of them. Distance was best, surely.
Perhaps, if it took her too long to return, he would find her sister.
âToday, I stared into the face of death, as a great chasm opened before me, the gateway into the next world. And I realized: our fates are only ours to decide."
How long had she wandered, hopelessly lost? She couldnât remember. What was time, anyway? It seemed such a useless thing for her, for anyone. All this world was could be encapsulated in any instant, but each one of those might as well have been an eternity of shifting possibilities. She walked among flowers and gardens and rainbow effulgence, softly-seeping light and warmth and light mist. Birds with feathers of every imaginable color flew by in flocks or alighted on her shoulders, her arms. Ghostly lords and ladies braided strings of flowers and shells and silvery bells into her hair, garlanding her with flowers as she walked, the whisper of their touches ephemeral and comforting. She was garbed entirely in white, silk and lace and gossamer, and the whisper of fabric sursurrated with the trilling calls of the birds and the deep purring rumbles of the jungle-cats and the forest-light treads of the great ivory stags and the pitter-patters of tiny mice feet, the creatures walking beside her like a great parade train.
And she could hear all of it. She could feel all of it. She could see all of it.
Her eyes, no longer dim and sightless, were opened to the light of this world in which she dwelt, and she could have wept for the sheer beauty that she saw before her. And yet, something in her heart made her uneasy. She felt tugged forward, pulled by the vibrating, musical strings of her heart towards something. Something that she at once knew and did not know, waiting at the center of this garden for her. Her meandering path led her gradually towards it in ever-tightening circles, her bare feet soundless over the blessedly-soft coating of pine needles. The radiance here grew ever-brighter as she went, and her sight was blurred, but she continued forward, following the call in her heart.
When her vision next cleared, she stood at the end of a long aisle, carpeted in flower petals and palm thrushes, the great branches of mighty trees arching overhead in natureâs own perfect symmetry. The way things were supposed to be, she knew. Flanking the aisle were many people, dressed as she was in shades of white, gold, and silver, and all were glorious to behold, as though wreathed in the very light that illuminated the garden. But she could not linger to look at them, for at the opposite end of the aisle, accompanied by a few standing people, was the one who drew her eye and her heart towards him.
Seated on a throne woven from living branches of smooth, pristine wood, the man watched her approach with eyes blue enough to drown in, or were they silver, or violet, or sun-gold? It was so hard to tellâas though there were multitudes of hues for the light to play with at its whim. Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed ineffectually; there was no doubt that, for as few years as she had seen, she had never seen anything so beautiful as he, and she doubted anyone else ever would, either. His hair was a grown of gold, bright and shimmering, and though he wore no more ornamentation than any of the rest, she knew she stood now before a king, and sank to one knee, almost afraid to look for too long.
So she stared at the floor instead, and only the faint whisper of fabric and the sudden appearance of a garment-clothed leg in her field of vision alerted her to the fact that he had risen to meet her. Crouching, he fitted his hand under her chin and tilted her head with incredible gentleness so that she looked again into his face. âYou shall not kneel before this throne, child,â he said, and the words, simple as they were, fell upon her ears like the music she had always striven to but never quite grasped. âYou shall not kneel before anyone.â His voice was so soft that she scarcely heard it, and the figure grasped her hand, brushing his lips gently over her knuckles. Rising, he bid her do the same, and she knew not what else she could do, so she complied.
His smile, perhaps, could have shattered the world.
He turned to the assembly, speaking much more loudly now, though his tone lost none of its music. âYour queen, and long have you waited for her,â the man pronounced, and she swallowed. Queen? No, no, she wasnât queen of anything, surely. But⊠who was she? The question, she could not remember having occurred to her before, and now that it did, it troubled her greatly.
âPlease, there must be some mistake,â she protested softly, and her own voice was music, too. Had it always been so? âI am not⊠I am not this, am I?â At least, she didnât think she had been so beforeâŠ
Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, the figure looked at her out of the corner of his eye. âYou were not yourself, before. Trouble yourself about it no longer. You are here now, and this is where you belong.â
So she had been different, before. Before the silk and the lace and the garlands. Sheâd been⊠what? Why were these things so strange to her? It was almost like⊠she knew how it felt to be garbed so, but it had never been right. Sheâd preferred something else. A faint memory flickered at the edge of her mindâsomething about satiny flowers and cotton, the feel of steel in her hand. She hadnât wanted to be encased in silk. It was too⊠something. Too fine. Too rich. TooâŠpretty, for her. What did that mean, though?
The figureâs attention was now turned fully upon her, and he locked eyes with her as the assembled crowdâs cheers faded from her perception, as though they were no longer there. âYou should not let such things trouble you. You were never meant for that world, but this. Surely you can see that?â
See? Why did that word, that idiom, strike her so strangely? She⊠could see it. Could she? What was there to see? She remembered, not nothing, but darkness. Always darkness. But the darkness had sound, so she wasnât simply drawing a blank. But these memories⊠why did so few of them have color? A frown marred her features, her brows drawing together in confusion. A strange sensation shot through one temple, seemingly rebounding off the other side of her head. Raising her free hand, she pressed her fingers to it, wincing. Something was trying to break through.
Her name, what was her name? She had one, she just knew it. A stream of names assaulted her, like a great onrushing tide. And each resounded with the sound of a different voice, not hers, not his, not any she had encountered since arriving here.
Sacrilegious. She liked that voice, she remembered thinking so before.
Amaya. Stubborn strength in light soprano. Someone she knew, cared for.
Takeru. Almost unfamiliar, but somehow associated with a kindness unexpected.
Saya. Forceful, magnetic. Her very first friend.
Sergei. A lovely baritone, deep and heavy with sorrow she could not touch.
Dmitri. One sheâd known since birth, now a rumbling, sonorous bass. Her brother.
Ivan. Her warden, her shepherd, muffled in tones but for when he spoke to her alone, and cast the disguise from his face.
âAh!â she exhaled softly, and then the rest of the memories followed. Her parents, her siblings, her friends. Cross Academy, her school. Her prefect patrols, the sound of the wind through the trees. Sergeiâs fingers upon the keys of a piano. Ivanâs hands holding her own as he teaches her to dance. Why should a blind girl dance? Why should she not? The ball, her school uniform. Lilies in her hair. An attack, the smell of blood. Pain. Another. A light inside her that she reaches for, unthinking, wishing only to protect.
âI have to go back,â she whispered into the beingâs shoulder, for he had pulled her close, and she felt him tense.
âYou have seen the garden,â he said. âYou know what is here for you. You could have dominion over everythingâhere, you would be queen, cherished and loved and safe. You would give that up?â
She shook her head. âIt is not mine. What have I done to earn such a thing?â His expression morphed from one of worry back into a smile.
âYou wish to earn this? Well, I suppose I can allow that. But you will return to me, one day. And I will return to you many times, when you dream, to remind you.â Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to her forehead, and slowly, she felt the world around her begin to sink away.
âYou misunderstandââ she tried, but he only smiled the wider, raising a hand in farewell. And then the darkness swallowed her.
In her room at the infirmary, three weeks after she had fallen comatose, Ekaterina drew in a deep breath, life returning to her stilled limbs, and the vital signs on the monitors attached to her body flaring to wakefulness all at once. What had looked to be a long, slow death suddenly ceased, though she could not tell if anyone was even around to know. Something in her chest felt hollow, empty, and already she missed the lovely vistas she had seen when she walked the garden. Worrying her lower lip, she sat up slowly, calling out into the impenetrable darkness of her own world without light.
âIs anybody there?â
And she could hear all of it. She could feel all of it. She could see all of it.
Her eyes, no longer dim and sightless, were opened to the light of this world in which she dwelt, and she could have wept for the sheer beauty that she saw before her. And yet, something in her heart made her uneasy. She felt tugged forward, pulled by the vibrating, musical strings of her heart towards something. Something that she at once knew and did not know, waiting at the center of this garden for her. Her meandering path led her gradually towards it in ever-tightening circles, her bare feet soundless over the blessedly-soft coating of pine needles. The radiance here grew ever-brighter as she went, and her sight was blurred, but she continued forward, following the call in her heart.
When her vision next cleared, she stood at the end of a long aisle, carpeted in flower petals and palm thrushes, the great branches of mighty trees arching overhead in natureâs own perfect symmetry. The way things were supposed to be, she knew. Flanking the aisle were many people, dressed as she was in shades of white, gold, and silver, and all were glorious to behold, as though wreathed in the very light that illuminated the garden. But she could not linger to look at them, for at the opposite end of the aisle, accompanied by a few standing people, was the one who drew her eye and her heart towards him.
Seated on a throne woven from living branches of smooth, pristine wood, the man watched her approach with eyes blue enough to drown in, or were they silver, or violet, or sun-gold? It was so hard to tellâas though there were multitudes of hues for the light to play with at its whim. Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed ineffectually; there was no doubt that, for as few years as she had seen, she had never seen anything so beautiful as he, and she doubted anyone else ever would, either. His hair was a grown of gold, bright and shimmering, and though he wore no more ornamentation than any of the rest, she knew she stood now before a king, and sank to one knee, almost afraid to look for too long.
So she stared at the floor instead, and only the faint whisper of fabric and the sudden appearance of a garment-clothed leg in her field of vision alerted her to the fact that he had risen to meet her. Crouching, he fitted his hand under her chin and tilted her head with incredible gentleness so that she looked again into his face. âYou shall not kneel before this throne, child,â he said, and the words, simple as they were, fell upon her ears like the music she had always striven to but never quite grasped. âYou shall not kneel before anyone.â His voice was so soft that she scarcely heard it, and the figure grasped her hand, brushing his lips gently over her knuckles. Rising, he bid her do the same, and she knew not what else she could do, so she complied.
His smile, perhaps, could have shattered the world.
He turned to the assembly, speaking much more loudly now, though his tone lost none of its music. âYour queen, and long have you waited for her,â the man pronounced, and she swallowed. Queen? No, no, she wasnât queen of anything, surely. But⊠who was she? The question, she could not remember having occurred to her before, and now that it did, it troubled her greatly.
âPlease, there must be some mistake,â she protested softly, and her own voice was music, too. Had it always been so? âI am not⊠I am not this, am I?â At least, she didnât think she had been so beforeâŠ
Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, the figure looked at her out of the corner of his eye. âYou were not yourself, before. Trouble yourself about it no longer. You are here now, and this is where you belong.â
So she had been different, before. Before the silk and the lace and the garlands. Sheâd been⊠what? Why were these things so strange to her? It was almost like⊠she knew how it felt to be garbed so, but it had never been right. Sheâd preferred something else. A faint memory flickered at the edge of her mindâsomething about satiny flowers and cotton, the feel of steel in her hand. She hadnât wanted to be encased in silk. It was too⊠something. Too fine. Too rich. TooâŠpretty, for her. What did that mean, though?
The figureâs attention was now turned fully upon her, and he locked eyes with her as the assembled crowdâs cheers faded from her perception, as though they were no longer there. âYou should not let such things trouble you. You were never meant for that world, but this. Surely you can see that?â
See? Why did that word, that idiom, strike her so strangely? She⊠could see it. Could she? What was there to see? She remembered, not nothing, but darkness. Always darkness. But the darkness had sound, so she wasnât simply drawing a blank. But these memories⊠why did so few of them have color? A frown marred her features, her brows drawing together in confusion. A strange sensation shot through one temple, seemingly rebounding off the other side of her head. Raising her free hand, she pressed her fingers to it, wincing. Something was trying to break through.
Her name, what was her name? She had one, she just knew it. A stream of names assaulted her, like a great onrushing tide. And each resounded with the sound of a different voice, not hers, not his, not any she had encountered since arriving here.
Sacrilegious. She liked that voice, she remembered thinking so before.
Amaya. Stubborn strength in light soprano. Someone she knew, cared for.
Takeru. Almost unfamiliar, but somehow associated with a kindness unexpected.
Saya. Forceful, magnetic. Her very first friend.
Sergei. A lovely baritone, deep and heavy with sorrow she could not touch.
Dmitri. One sheâd known since birth, now a rumbling, sonorous bass. Her brother.
Ivan. Her warden, her shepherd, muffled in tones but for when he spoke to her alone, and cast the disguise from his face.
âAh!â she exhaled softly, and then the rest of the memories followed. Her parents, her siblings, her friends. Cross Academy, her school. Her prefect patrols, the sound of the wind through the trees. Sergeiâs fingers upon the keys of a piano. Ivanâs hands holding her own as he teaches her to dance. Why should a blind girl dance? Why should she not? The ball, her school uniform. Lilies in her hair. An attack, the smell of blood. Pain. Another. A light inside her that she reaches for, unthinking, wishing only to protect.
âI have to go back,â she whispered into the beingâs shoulder, for he had pulled her close, and she felt him tense.
âYou have seen the garden,â he said. âYou know what is here for you. You could have dominion over everythingâhere, you would be queen, cherished and loved and safe. You would give that up?â
She shook her head. âIt is not mine. What have I done to earn such a thing?â His expression morphed from one of worry back into a smile.
âYou wish to earn this? Well, I suppose I can allow that. But you will return to me, one day. And I will return to you many times, when you dream, to remind you.â Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to her forehead, and slowly, she felt the world around her begin to sink away.
âYou misunderstandââ she tried, but he only smiled the wider, raising a hand in farewell. And then the darkness swallowed her.
In her room at the infirmary, three weeks after she had fallen comatose, Ekaterina drew in a deep breath, life returning to her stilled limbs, and the vital signs on the monitors attached to her body flaring to wakefulness all at once. What had looked to be a long, slow death suddenly ceased, though she could not tell if anyone was even around to know. Something in her chest felt hollow, empty, and already she missed the lovely vistas she had seen when she walked the garden. Worrying her lower lip, she sat up slowly, calling out into the impenetrable darkness of her own world without light.
âIs anybody there?â