Silent Rhythm

Dracula

She was so peaceful in her sleep, so utterly tranquil and oblivious, enclosed within linen sheets that made her seem somehow smaller in the sizeable bed.  I watched her soundlessly, strangely glad that she was unaware of my vigil and unable to respond.  We had not spoken since that night and I had very little desire to breach the silence.  With sleep came forgetfulness; I was as grateful for the inertia that possessed her during the interminable carriage ride as she must have been.  It hastened the hours and made silence a blessing.  In sleep, in avoidance, there was no need for reckoning.

I could watch her features, stilled by sleep, tirelessly.  It was when the vibrant eyes were open and still expressionless, the firmly-set mouth deliberately sealed that the undisturbed calm became unbearable.  I had been wrong at Marseilles; the tears, the staggering dismay would have been an improvement over the resigned, stony silence.

But we were in Arad now, having crossed the border into my own land, and it would matter very little, presently.  The thick curtains parted slightly at the touch of my hand, revealing the familiar terrain outside of the window, stretching on toward the sun as it sank below the meridian.  It was set now, entire, waiting in the untamed landscape for the pieces to lock into place, pieces of a covenant already set in motion.  Against this backdrop stood my veiled and silent queen, whose repose I guarded and against whom I was most assuredly pitted.

As well as I knew the covenant�as thoroughly as I had known its terms�I had never anticipated its outcome quite like this.

A harsh, grating sound broke through the stillness; I spun around sharply and saw a slight form outlined against the fireplace, its thin, tattered coat hanging in ragged shreds.  I had not heard the door open, yet it stood ajar, granting the small intruder entrance.  The young boy added wood to the fire, stoking the flames to spark a warmer glow.

�You,� I called out severely, savoring the feel of my own language once more.  �I do not recall requesting firewood. Were you sent for?�

�Nu, domnul,� he cried, twisting his starved fingers around the hem of his tunic.

�Then leave, and don�t return until you are expressly summoned.�  I admonished, not answering the many apologies he offered quickly, almost without drawing breath.  He bent low, a bow befitting an uncultured farmer, and in his haste, stumbled on the floor.  I placed one hand on his arm to pull him to his feet, releasing him with a firm push toward the door.  He ran through it hurriedly, turning only to shut the door behind him, allowing me one look at his wide, startled eyes.

Children are remarkable for their na�vet�, for their artless, ingenuous candor.  I knew this child had nothing beyond his sincere and frightened regret; that as he ran down the wooden corridors and back into the bright security of the lower floors, he had no notion of what effect his open, direct gaze had upon the domnul upstairs; how his clear, youthful eyes reminded me so strongly of another, one who maintained every outward aspect of childish innocence.  I sank into a chair near the fireplace, hardly knowing where I sat, flooded by a wave of memories that almost felt like scenes from the life of a perfect stranger.

At first there was only one thing comprehensible: the throbbing, smarting, escalating disease that cut through skin and bone equally, stifling the air from his lungs and pulsating through his bloodstream.  Pain.  It was beyond any mortal capacity, something no agony could give voice to, a pain that must only be felt and tasted.  He was bound to it; there was solely the pain to hold on to, solely the pain to grasp, solely the pain to be sensible of.  Anyone might have faltered under its pressure, its tantalizing effect on sinew and organ.  He sensed it yet did not cry out; savoring it instead as one would savor a sweetmeat.  His teeth bit down, clenching together sharply but not drawing blood, keeping his exquisite agony all his own.  He lifted his gaze to the one standing above him, to the infinitely gentle blue eyes that suggested concern as they bore steadily into him.

The first time he had invoked the Dark Lord, He had appeared as an magnificent figure of indescribable beauty, at once imposing and elegant.  Now that He had come a second time, His appearance nearly undermined His own strength.  The diminutive form standing before the massive fireplace, its dancing, skittish flames surpassing His head, expressed none of the potency hidden within that deceptively fragile frame.  The fair-colored hair fell across His brow boyishly; He lifted one small hand to clear His view.

And suddenly he knew, the proud, pained man who sat without ceremony on the floor, his thin, bejeweled fingers clutching his arms tightly.  He, with his furs and his titles, his arrogance and his honor, could not match the pride this graceful child possessed.  He understood.  To seal his fate, to receive the kiss that was both life and death, he been obliged to lower himself to the child�s level.  The eyes of clearest blue lit up just then, as if He were privy to the man�s thoughts, he who had knelt before the Dark Lord, and was still kneeling before Him now.

The pain penetrated to his very core, and he could feel it center around his heart.  He had the terrible impression of peeling, tearing, ripping.  It was as if he were being wrenched away from reality by a  force stronger than himself, stronger than the blood which bound him.  It was prying his soul away, his heartbeat slowing with each passing moment.  His hand curled defensively against his chest.  He barely knew who or where he was.

The small hand reached out toward him now; he turned away in the most basic of instincts, unable to bear being touched, like a wounded animal.  Every inch of his flesh shrank from the tender, pitying touch.  Soft and low assurances were murmured in childish accents, and instead of the contact he so dreaded, the hand opened to reveal a vision.

�What I bestow upon you, I have endowed to no man,� says He, in a light tone.  �What others pass as a curse, I give to you: your greatest Gift. With every intake that pulsates through you, each source of lifeblood that reanimates your frame, I renew my covenant with you.�

Pale eyes offset by paler skin turn toward Him.  The eyes are narrow, focused, conscious of something other than the pain.  He slowly leans back in a steep recline, barely aware of what he is doing, throat exposed in a line of pallid, vulnerable flesh.  He tries to speak, but it is too painful.  So strong, so great, so enveloping.

�You are going to die,� remarks He, conversational.  �When you awaken, I will not be here.�

Coldness sets in: it ploddingly, steadily replaces the pain with a new sensation, entirely numb.  The pale eyes settle on the far end of the room.  Something is there.  Something dark.

If the Dark Lord had departed or lingered still, the man did not know.  His blood was at war in his veins; he could feel his own cells dying as something infinitely stronger set in.  He pulls himself up; he forces himself to walk firmly.  His entire being is centered in one corner of the room.  He throws off the shroud, dispersing the shadows and looking beneath.

It is a child�a very small girl with large eyes, dark hair plaited and heavily ornamented, the headdress overpowering her young, childishly round face.  She is indeed a child, not merely disguised as one, the shadow of a child yet to exist.  The man understands this without question, almost without any reason.  Her skin is painted with intricate, complicated markings: sacrificial runes that darken her tiny features, bleeding onto her arms, weaving a web of artistic, beautiful bondage.  He holds out his hand to her; she accepts it, placing her own hand in his, looking up at him beneath dark lashes as though she recognizes him.  He reaches toward her face, lightly rubbing at the marks.  She draws back as if in pain.  Suddenly he is calling out to her, assuring her in a language he does not yet recognize, but that she appears to understand.

�My darling, my dearest one�I had to try.�

She says nothing but continues to gaze at him, allowing one small, solemn nod.  She folds her hands beneath her sleeves demurely.  It causes the pain to flare within him once more, the sight of this quiet, somber child, who sits as though she were already on the altar for which her runes have destined her.

�I am sorry, my princess.�

The ornaments in her hair sway slightly; she is nodding again; she stares at him with confidence, as though they share a secret.  A flicker of a smile crosses his features.  He is certain the Dark Lord has left; certain that the covenant is sealed.

Carefully, the small girl picks herself off the floor, head held high as she makes her way to the window.  She opens the casement with deliberation, gathering her skirts that she might climb up into it.

He sees the scene before it even happens; his cry dies in his throat before it can reach his lips.  He reaches for her, vainly.  At the exact moment she jumps, her wide sleeves catching the wind, his heart finally stops�heavy, leaden, still.  It weighs against his chest; he claws at it uselessly, turning his back on the window and dreading the sound of the sickening thud that is sure to follow.

When he awakens, alive and yet not alive, nothing is left of the little sacrifice�no shroud on the floor of his chamber, no ornaments or cloth.  Even the grass beneath the window remains uncrushed.

Kelantha stirs slightly in her sleep, turning toward me, the firelight dancing on her features.  They are clean and pale, no swirling paint to mar them.  Relief floods my core and I reach for her; my gloved hand touching her cheek softly.

�Yes,� I say quietly, �The pieces are set. Now it must play itself out.�

>> on to next chapter

This fan fiction is for enjoyment purposes only. You may not reproduce, duplicate, or otherwise quote the written text without written permission.