The day's duties for Julien and the count concluded with a startling abruptness; The sudden appearance of that enigmatic ghost from times past sent a shock through the castellan. Those in the court, already used to his resigned veneer, were taken aback as he almost literally leapt from his seat, his face betraying a mix of shock and recognition as he saw the old ragamuffin: A truly rare glimpse emotion. With swift strides, Julien ushered the cryptic visitor into a secluded chamber, its entrance almost concealed in the shadows of the grand hall. The count slowly lurched behind them.
Within the room's dim confines, Julien started to light a few candles, their flickering flames casting long shadows that danced across the walls. With a decisive click, he locked the door, sealing them away from the rest of the world. He, then, gestured towards a time-worn but well-made table, inviting the elder to sit. Retrieving a bottle of aged wine from a dusty counter, he poured the red liquid into two wooden goblets with a steady hand.
For a short stretch of time that felt like an eternity, an uneasy silence filled the room. Julien fixed the visitor with a piercing gaze, his eyes sharp as blades, cutting through the quiet. The elder, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed, sitting there, his expression unreadable.
“The whispers... they deafen me,” the elder mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly echo. He lifted the wooden goblet to his lips, taking a long, deliberate sip of the wine, a single droplet escaping and tracing a crimson line down his chin, staining his unkempt, ashen beard. “You can hear them too, I assume?” His eyes, dark as a raven feather, met Julien’s, conveying an eerie, unsettling calm.
“Yes. Yes, I can,” Julien replied, his voice showing veiled concern, betraying the relatively cool demeanor he demonstrated up to that point. Shadows played across his face, deepening the lines of fatigue that he could no longer hide. “The lengths I go to, striving to offer them a semblance of stability and peace... And yet, they conspire against me.” His words hung heavy in the air, a testament to the weight of the leadership and constant vigilance for his lord and people.
The visitor’s gaze slowly drifted towards the count, who loomed silently near the door, a motionless pale sentinel. “He looks healthy for a corpse,” the visitor remarked, a wry smile briefly interrupting the solemnity of his features, “after all these years, I half expected to see a heap of decay following you all around.”
Julien's eyes followed, resting upon the count with a faint trace of something complex, perhaps respect or regret. “Fresh blood seems to stave off the rot,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I find myself scraping away rotten flesh from time to time. The stench... it becomes quite intolerable after a while.”
“And who else is aware of your secret?” the old man inquired, his voice now barely rising above a whisper. He took another long, deliberate swig of wine.
Julien's response came laced with a somber tone. “Only the countess knows,” he admitted, the sorrow in his voice unmistakable, “a poor, young soul... she is trapped in a life she never deserved. Her blood, however, is essential for sustaining Robert.”
“Is your own blood inadequate?” the visitor queried, his tone carrying a hint of challenge as he drained his goblet to the last drop.
Julien refilled their goblets. “Feeding him with my own blood takes its toll,” he confessed, his voice tinged with fatigue. “It's quite the taxing endeavor to maintain his semblance of life; it requires focus, strength. Each time I feed Robert with my own blood my exhaustion only deepens.”
Julien was indeed the very image of relentless fatigue. His once healthy, dark brown hair now lay thin and lifeless atop his head; His eyes, once sharp and vibrant, had dulled, encircled by deep shadows that spoke of countless sleepless nights. His skin, sickly pale, stretched tightly over his face, eternally etched with a frown. Each day spent maintaining the count's illusion of life was a day stolen from his own vitality. In stark contrast, the old man appeared untouched by the passage of time; He seemed no different from Julien's faint recollections of him seven years prior – perhaps even more vibrant and spirited.
Despite the near surreal circumstances, Julien found an odd comfort in the visitor's company, sharing a drink with an old friend whose name he never knew. In this rare moment, he could speak freely, unburdened by the constant need to weigh his words, to tread cautiously. As they exchanged words and sips of wine, a semblance of ease settled over Julien.
After this brief lull, Julien leaned forward, the wine already having loosened the tight grip of his guarded demeanor. His voice, though still weary, carried a newfound edge of resolve. “Seven years have passed since our paths diverged, and not a word from you,” he said, draining the last of his wine. His eyes, previously dulled by exhaustion, now flickered with a spark of determination, “I've found my way back home, and I’ve lived my life; Has the time come to settle my debt?”
The old man's grin, previously a subtle, enigmatic curl hidden in the depths of his grizzled beard, transformed into a snicker. It was a calm but rough sound that echoed oddly in the dimly lit chamber, unsettling in its implications. He spoke at last, his voice steady yet filled with ominous finality. "Yes," he confirmed, slowly setting down his empty goblet. Rising to his full height, he fixed Julien with a piercing gaze: "Arrange whatever you need to, bid your farewells, complete any unfinished business. Our departure is set for dusk."
“Why?” Julien's voice sharpened, cutting through the room with a hint of aggression. “And what form does this repayment of my debt will take?” Also rising to his feet, he loomed over the old man, his stature gaining a commanding presence over the short old visitor. His exhaustion seemed momentarily forgotten, replaced by a surge of defiance. “Your audacity is truly remarkable, to step into our realm, to appear unannounced in our court, and to issue demands as if you are authority here.”
With a mere glance towards the count, Julien silently commanded action. The once-motionless figure began to lurch towards the door; Robert positioned himself as an imposing barrier, effectively blocking the old man's exit.
Julien's tone was firm yet trying to avoid any threat as he spoke. “It is not my desire to intimidate,” he stated, locking his gaze with that of the old man, “but I must be clear: I have no intention of following you anywhere, not until the nature of my indebtedness, and the means of its settlement, are made crystal clear.”
The old man met Julien's intense gaze with an unflinching, piercing look of his own. His demeanor remained impeccably composed, betraying no hint of stress or nervousness. "My life spans more than your wildest imaginings, my knowledge exceeds your deepest understanding," he began, his voice now steady and commanding. "To describe the entirety of what you seek to know would anchor us here for weeks, months even. Journey with me, and then the veil shall be lifted. You will grasp the secrets behind the corpse of your lord walking among the living, the nature of the vial you consumed long ago, and the reason behind my seven-year silence." As he spoke, his face took on a more solemn expression, his gaze intensifying. "The truth behind my own existence, how I found you, and why your path must now converge with mine." His words grew heavier in the air, "do not lead me to regret the trust I have placed in you, Julien Mazars."
With a confident pace, the old man made his way towards the door. The count, reading the unspoken command in Julien's gaze, slowly stepped aside, clearing the path. Julien, his façade of defiance beginning to crumble, managed to voice two final queries: "Might I at least be granted the courtesy of your name?" he asked, his voice with a hint of defeat. "Or perhaps our intended destination?"
The visitor paused at the threshold, turning back to flash Julien a learned grin. "You may call me Gregorio," he replied with a snicker, the name rolling off his tongue with an air of ancient familiarity. "As for our journey, we are once again bound for beyond the Pyrenees." With those words, he stepped through the doorway and vanished from sight.
For a lingering couple of minutes, Julien remained motionless, hidden in the dimly lit room. He sat in silence, his gaze lost in the void, as if trying to decipher the unseen currents that had swept him into this situation.
Julien's voice finally broke the hush that had enveloped the room: "I knew this day would come, Robert," he murmured, fully aware that no response would come from the dead count. His words seemed to hang in the air, a testament to his unspoken burdens. "I did everything within my power for the House of Omois, for the people under our care, for my father’s legacy, for your father’s legacy…" He paused, his gaze lingering on the count.
With a deep breath, Julien rose to his feet, his movements slow, almost ceremonial. He opened the door, allowing the count to pass. "Shall we?" he asked, a rhetorical question in the company of the dead. Together, the two melancholic figures traversed the empty, stone corridor, their footsteps echoing softly, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. They moved towards the grand hall.
