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The silvery sweet scent was still in the air when he opened his eyes.
Above him was the familiar wooden ceiling of the chapel, cast in candlelight. It was soothingly quiet. A soft blanket was draped over him, enveloping his bare skin in airy warmth. The sensation tugged his mind back to the to the physical world, to the materiality of his form. His body. He felt its existence in every nerve. Experimentally he willed his legs to move, and relief washed over him when they obeyed.
He took further stock of his surroundings. The bed he laid on was situated next to his desk. It must have been moved here from elsewhere in the Hold. And to his right, on the bench that was further away, she sat. A hand on her chest, and head bowed slightly in prayer.
“How long—”
His voice came out cracked and hoarse. Hastily he cleared his throat. Her shoulders gave a small jump as she turned towards him. Her eyes, open wide, gleamed like amber.
“How long have you been here?” he tried again.
The Undertaker paused, curling the hand that rested by her side. “Not long.” Then she added, “Don’t worry. I haven’t been watching the whole thing.”
Before he could ask what she was referring to, she said: “How is that body of yours holding up?”
He lifted an arm from under the blanket and held it up, turning it around, inspecting it. It looked, and felt, exactly as it did before. “I haven’t a complaint.”
“I…talked to the Recluse,” she said. She seemed uneasy. Both of her hands clutched the black leather habit over her lap. “She said normally your core would need a host, another body—but that it may not be necessary in the Roundtable Hold. She was right. It took some time, but your form grew back.”
A fascinating theory and result. Ordinarily that was where his mind would go, to hypothesize about explanations and causes, but right now his concern was elsewhere. Trepidation crawled in his stomach as he looked carefully at her face, her expression. “Yes,” he said, “indeed, that is my being.” Then, with more difficulty than he anticipated: “Do you…find it distasteful?”
She blinked. Then, for a split second, a deep sadness flashed in her eyes. She shook her head.“No,” she said, with a force that took him by surprise. “It’s astonishing, that’s all. I never imagined something like this was possible.”
Her eyes brimmed with sincerity. The rawness of it returned to him a fragment of his memory at the Research Annexe, still mostly a haze. His hold on his consciousness had been slipping. Despite that, he remembered seeing his core held in her palms—bloody, visceral, and pulsing, cradled like the rarest of gemstones. And the sense of safety the sight brought, before all went to oblivion.
“I see,” he said. A smile rose to his lips. “I’m glad. Truly.”
She didn’t respond, beyond a silent nod. But he saw that she was holding back words. One of her hands toyed with the pendant around her neck.
“You don’t have to remain so distant,” he offered. “…Do you care to join me?”
After a moment of hesitation, she rose to her feet. She retrieved a stepping stool from beside the bookshelf and set it by his bedside before taking a seat. She didn’t speak immediately. He waited.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked quietly.
“Pardon?”
“Are you angry with me?” she repeated. Her eyes were cast downward. “I couldn’t keep my promise.” She let out a brief sigh. “I couldn’t tell them that you were dead.”
His heart sank. “No. Certainly not,” he said firmly. “In fact, I should apologize to you. I shouldn’t have imposed such a request on you.”
He came to regret making the bargain with her. That he depended on her to excuse his absence was not untrue, but telling her so was a move of diplomacy, meant to sweeten the bitterness of the leverage he had. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She was brutal and relentless in battle, and was no stranger to the dead, so he had assumed her to be hardened of heart. But he was proven wrong when he looked into her past out of curiosity. While she was away from the chapel he inspected her favored mace with his monocle. It would be a lie to say he was not shaken. A curse of an insatiable hunger; bodies piled high without a shred of pride or purpose. Shame, guilt, and loathing, all directed inward, and a profound loneliness that endured throughout an unfathomably long life.
They nagged at him—the memories he glimpsed, and the desire to help in some way—even as the Great Hollow dazzled him with wondrous discoveries and the prospect of long-awaited salvation. It was why his first thought upon finding the stabilized crystal was of her. He hoped that it would undo her resentment and restore the cordial relationship they had. Even make her glad, perhaps.
And as it turned out, that hope had saved him, for it was the thought of passing on the gift that kept him from becoming lost in despair in that forsaken Annexe.
He looked into her eyes and wished she would see that he was speaking from the heart. “I would really be dead now, if you hadn’t come. Thank you.”
Her pupils wavered as she bit her lip. “I don’t deserve your gratitude,” she murmured. “I only sought you out because I couldn’t trust you. That is all.”
He could tell this was not true. “Even if so,” he smiled, “I am thankful regardless.”
“And speaking of,” he shifted the topic, “the shard of crystal I handed you when you found me—do you have it?”
She nodded. “Yes. I left it by your books.”
“It’s for you,” he said. “I took the liberty of looking into your background. Your curse requires that you take strength to maintain your own. The crystal is imbued with Night, but it’s reached a state of equilibrium, perhaps following a long turmoil within itself.” He paused. “It’s no cure, and it isn’t much, but it’ll sate you, at the very least.”
“I…” She looked conflicted. For a moment anxiety seized him. Maybe she found it unpleasant that he'd done research on her. He would not blame her. But to his relief, her expression resolved into one of warmth. “Thank you.”
“I have something for you too.” She reached inside her leather mantle and retrieved the monocle case he had left with her. “I don’t need to hold onto this anymore,” she held it out gingerly. “You should have it back.”
He took it, taking care not to brush against her hand.
“I won’t hold you up for longer,” she said as she rose from her seat. “You must have plenty to do.” She approached his desk and picked up the shard of crystal. Then her eyes caught on a neatly folded pile of garments set to the side.
“Ah, right. Your robes,” she gestured towards them. “The Iron Menial’s recreated them, quite faithfully in my opinion. But he said that you should speak to him if you need adjustments.” A small but genuine smile bloomed across her face. “Who knew that tailoring was among his talents?”
With that she left the room, softly closing the doors behind her.
He turned his gaze back to the monocle case in his hand, familiar and warm. Come to think of it, he hadn’t parted with it since it was fist given to him by his mentor. This lens reveals the truth, were the words that accompanied the gift. It was at once a promise of boundless possibilities and a note of caution, for truth alone did not suggest a course of action. That choice lay with the beholder. The Cleansing Tear would not save his people. But surely that did not mean this was the end.
Something stirred in his head. It was as if a distant voice was calling out, not unlike that which he heard when he was adrift in his dream. It belonged to an entity distinct from him, but one to which he was undeniably and fundamentally connected: one born of the same silver blood.
An epiphany struck him. The path forward was inward. He knew where to look next.
But before he rose, he allowed himself a few more moments of indulgence—in the comfort of the bed, and in the calming fragrance that remained in her wake.
---
She shut the doors to the chapel. For some reason she felt like standing in the sea breeze. As she made her way towards the cliff, she gingerly closed her hand around the crystal shard. It was as he had said. The gentle traces of Night within soothed her churning thoughts and silenced her gnawing hunger.
She thought back to the room where she had found him. Her skin turned to gooseflesh when she recalled: despair so thick it seemed to have crystallized into the monstrous overgrowth, and the Scholar encased in its midst. It was inconceivable that someone in such a state would have the capacity to think of another, let alone her. What significance did she have to him? Yet, as hard as it was to believe, the shard was proof that he did.
Light flitted through the sparse canopy of the grove she walked underneath. The Roundtable Hold was an odd place. A mismatched group of strangers mingled here, entrusting their backs to one another on a perilous battlefield. Stranger yet, they saw it fit to include her amongst them. Granted, they did not know what she was. The fear that had fueled her hallucination still whispered from a corner of her mind. When they find out, it warned, they will turn away. That is how it’s always been.
Her hand tightened around the crystal. That fear was so powerful, she realized now, because for the first time since her childhood she hoped it wouldn’t become true. She wanted to believe that her allies would accept her even if they knew. It may be a far-fetched dream. But…the Scholar had given her a trace of hope. He had seen her at her lowest: consumed by appetite in the aftermath of a mad rampage, no different from a wild beast. Nevertheless he called her an equal, one with whom he could negotiate; left in her hands a prized possession, and then his very being. If he could still trust her, perhaps the others could too.
She had reached the edge of the cliff. She closed her eyes as she breathed in the scent of the ocean carried on the wind. The clouds in the sky were translucent, lit with sunlight that shone through with insistence.