~ Dvoday, 30th of Septembrie, 11831 ~
“Is there anything you haven’t told me about yourself?” her husband asked into her curls, kissing her head and tracing a mindless pattern up and down her side. Dawn’s light peaked through the curtains, illuminating the tired newlyweds that refused to sleep, for it would mean being apart while in their dreams. They had drifted off a few times throughout the night, but woke to move closer to each other, or to re-consummate their marriage. Now they were huddled close again after another bought.
“Mm—no,” Lizzy murmured. “If I think of something when I am more awake, I’ll tell you.”
“Alright, my dear.” He tilted up her chin, lifting himself up on his elbow to kiss her from above.
“And you?” she asked when they broke apart.
“You know some of my cræft,” he hedged. She was not comfortable with his magia, though accepted him while he continued to practice it. He kissed her neck, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent. “My crimes. My true name.”
“The magia that is also blancræft,” she countered, wrapping her arms around him, holding him, steadying him. “And your good deeds. You—” her words ended in a squeak when he bit her gently.
“Pierre!”
She was naïve. Sweet and kind. She had feared for a short time when realizing he practiced necrocræft, but Mora had already guided her, introducing her to the magia, revealing that there was a light within the darkness that she could cling to, while ignoring the shadows. But death was death, and at times it was most gruesome in the light.
“Elizabeth… I have never known you to remain ignorant if you could gain knowledge. When you found out about my cræft, you said you know of my evil deeds, but do not understand why. And that you do not wish to understand… I thought I could leave it be, and keep this from you as an open secret. But you are my wife, and I do not wish to keep myself, any part of myself, from you. Please. Will you—Can you try to understand?” When she tried to ease his guilt by calling his magic healing cræft, she was not wrong. He could heal. Wounds that would be fatal and no other doctor could mend, he could make disappear. The dead he could return to life, their spirits following him out of the Mists of Judgment. But he also harmed, and killed, and the souls of those who had died by his hand howled in injustice when they were not acknowledged. He was no saint, and it was blasphemous to paint him in such a light.
“It was exhilarating when it was theoretical,” she said in a whisper. For the first time that night, her eyes were not on him. She stared behind him, into the room, focusing on the edges of dawn. Her grip tightened on him and he felt her nails. She clung to him in fear, not passion. “When it was just magical discussion, about what could be, but not what was. And when I was reading about it, after I found out about your cræft, I tried to find any meaning as to why. I told myself perhaps it was just for medicine. That those who died by your hand were meant to. But it was too much. I… I wanted you to stop.”
“I won’t,” he whispered back.
“You won’t,” she agreed. She sighed, turning back to him with wide, innocent eyes. Her grip lessened, but she did not let go of him. She was still with him. Still his wife, in his bed. In their bed. “You told me your necrocræft would make it difficult for us to have children while we planned our wedding. But that is not entirely true, is it? What was Mora’s gift to you tonight?”
“In most circumstances, I, as a lord of death, would be infertile,” he said. “I found out that this was not always the case last summer, and I thought to research and overcome this to have children with you. Research it on our honeymoon when I had time. It would have been a challenge, no doubt, but I do love a challenge, and I could not let this stop us from having children. Lady Mora, though, unbound me from being so close to death that I could no longer beget life, at least for a time.”
“Would you have told me? If she had not unbound you, and we tried, and failed?”
“Yes, of course.” And he would have studied harder, found more arcane magic, gone to Faery. Anything for her.
She sighed. “I accepted you, but thought to ignore it. As perhaps a husband who is wont to drink too much in the evening, or may have a mistress… But I cannot be ignorant. This is part of you, and I wed all of you, with full knowledge.”
She kissed him then, tightening her arms around him again, her legs as well, pulling him down so that he enveloped her with his body. “I want to know, but I am frightened. If I understand, if I agree… what would that mean for my soul?”
“Oh, Lizzy… you are my dear, beautiful friend, and I love you. I will allow no harm in coming to you. I merely wish for you to know me.” Now that she knew, and he did not have to hide, he wanted her to know. He would show her all of himself, darkness and light. And pray she still accepted him and loved him. He could not lose her.
“And your soul,” he continued, “is light, and good, and shines.”
She blushed as she had not even when they had discarded their clothes for the first time last night. “That’s right,” she said. “You have felt my soul.”
“Several times,” he confessed. “When you were ill, and I wanted to save you, I used cræft to try and find out more about the sickness.”
She laughed. “When I am ill; when I am dying. And what of now? When you are my husband, and have been with me, and I am well.”
Without replying, he untangled himself from her, reaching over to the bedside table and grabbing his pocketknife. He opened it, paused while considering what exactly to cut, and then pressed the edge to his mouth.
Lizzy hesitated, then kissed him deeply, sucking at his bottom lip, ingesting his dark blood and the spirits of death that lived in him. Her touch, that of a blancwitch, healed it at the same time.
Her soul filled him. Warmth and love and caring. Healing. Her heartbeat quickly thrumming in his own chest. Her tiredness, her soreness, a headache that would bloom in the next hour if she did not rest. Her soul, anchored as he had tied it to her flesh months ago, unable to be moved, and protecting her from death unless severe circumstances tore it away.
He kissed her in return, with touch and movement using his cræft, taking away her pain. Brushing away her hair quieted the headache, his legs against her, easing the soreness he had brought with taking her maidenhead. A snap of his fingers and she was lulled into comfort.
“I trust you, Pierre. Tell me what you believe I should know.”
“It is… not always pleasant.”
Her smile waned, but she nodded in understanding. “I know. But I trust you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Rest, my dear wife,” he said, holding her closely, and feeling the spirits of healing that lived in her wanting to help him as he was helping her. Did he have more spirits of blancræft in him now? Could he heal more effectively?
“I want to hear more.”
“When we wake. You, and I, need rest.”
When her soft breathing confirmed she slept, Pierre finally closed his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Both to his beloved in his arms, and to his goddess, who was always near.
Lizzy snuggled up as if she heard. And a cool wind blew through the room as Mora, too, accepted his thanks.
A meowing at the door woke the lord of death. Pierre groaned, pulling the covers up over his head. Some helpful maid had come in while he and Lizzy slept, opening the curtains and letting in the now midday sun—at least she had been quiet and not woken them.
“Pluta, I love you, but you are not coming into my quarters on my wedding night.”
“It is no longer night.”
He ignored his familiar in hopes that she would leave, snuggling back up to his wife. Pluta meowed again and then began scratching at the door.
“It is afternoon,” his cat said. “Vivien left a note for you and said it was important.”
“Not important enough that it cannot wait a few more hours.” If it had been that dire, his steward would have woken him. But it was too late, the last vestiges of sleep disappeared from his mind, and he sat up with an annoyed yawn.
“Mm?” Lizzy stretched out to grab his arm and tug him back.
“Sleep, dear,” he told his wife. He kissed her forehead and adjusted the covers so she would not feel a chill when he left her side. She made a small noise of contentment that thrilled him, but before he could attempt to make her repeat the noise, Pluta meowed again.
He cursed, getting out of bed and yanking the curtain halfway closed so the light would at least be dimmer on Elizabeth’s side of the bed. Feeling petty, he ignored Pluta for a few more moments, relieving himself in a chamber-pot before putting on a pair of trousers that had been left out for him. Their wedding attire, which had been strewed across the room, was gone, taken to be cleaned, no doubt. A shirt, and a simple shift for Elizabeth, along with a stack of papers to write for any wants or needs, were also laid out. No one at the castle expected them to leave their quarters for the next few days.
He grabbed the note that had been slid under his door before finally letting Pluta in. The black cat chirped her thanks and then dashed over to the bed, jumping in, and curling up next to Lizzy where Pierre had been before. Elizabeth wrapped her arm around the cat, and he could hear Pluta purring from across the room.
Pierre smiled as he shook his head and opened the seal. A lock of dark hair fell into his hand. His smile faded. Pigeons bred with magic would find anyone as long as there was a piece of the receiver with the letter. Vivien was leaving, but thought that Pierre’s reply would be important enough that it could not wait until his steward was at the capital of Piques. Or perhaps his cousin was merely being very cautious?
Your Grace, it has been brought to my attention that Lord Frederick has sent no gift. Neither did I see him at the ceremony or reception last night. Given the circumstances, I thought it best you know as soon as possible. I will be leaving for Spadille after breakfast to take care of Piques while you are on your honeymoon.
Charlot is at the castle and reaffirms he is still your advisor. Send a pigeon if you have any orders.
Lord Frederick, Comte de Feuilles, had snubbed him by neither appearing nor sending a gift. It was not mere rudeness, but a message that meant he did not see Pierre as worthy of any attention. The knowledge did not overly shock him—Frederick had tried to have him killed, after all. A slight at his wedding was a concern, but not an escalation.
Pierre added some more wood to the fireplace and threw in the note. It was hardly incriminating, but he thought it best there be no evidence. And the room had grown cold now that he was no longer underneath covers and beside his wife. He rubbed Vivien’s lock of hair between his fingers and thought.
Feuilles was still a problem then. Pierre had hoped after all of the death Frederick had endured lately in losing both of his sons, the comte would stay in his place. Jourdain’s death had been a mistake, but one that even Pierre had not been able to change with his necrocræft. And Renaud had brought his own death upon himself by attacking Elizabeth, half-mad as well as a newly-turned vampire. Snarling something about not being under his father’s control… It was entirely possible that that had not been Feuilles’ plan, but one that Renaud attempted on his own. He had even called himself the comte.
Had anyone even seen Frederick since that night?
Pierre grabbed a piece of parchment and a dip pen. How had he missed this? With the whirlwind of his wedding and the grief he had caused (and endured), he had not bothered to keep in touch with anyone in Feuilles, thinking they wished to be left be. Was the comte still alive? Or had Renaud killed his father before going to the engagement gala two months ago? Would not the kingdom know if a comte had been killed? Unless Feuilles’ advisors were hiding it. The comte, and both sons, deceased, left the land without a ruler or an heir. Such a thing could be a disaster if made public.
Except Cordelia, Jourdain’s widow, had returned to Folia. She was with child. The babe would be heir to Feuilles. Cordelia could be instated as comtesse until her child was of age, of course, but should she remarry, her husband would be comte.
Either way, if Frederick was dead, there was an open spot to gain power by either overthrowing the current family or marrying into it.
Pierre had felt so ashamed in his part in Jourdain’s murder that he did not contact his former advisor’s widow with the invitation to his wedding, letting Elizabeth do so, as the women had known each other somewhat. Cordelia had declined, but sent well-wishes, and a small gift. She had made no mention of her father-in-law.
Charlot had been in Folia as well. Younger brother of the princesse Hélaïse, the future Duc of Diamonds had gone to the comte’s home to pick up Perdita, his betrothed and Cordelia’s lady-in-waiting, before heading to the duchy of Carreux. With Pierre and Elizabeth’s wedding so soon, the two had stopped by for the ceremony, as the castle was only a few days out of the way. They had arrived the day of the wedding, and Pierre had seen them at the reception, but not spoken with them beyond a greeting. But Vivien assured him Charlot was Pierre’s advisor still, and so his loyalty was to the Duc of Piques.
He wrote a quick note to Charlot asking that he stay at the castle and meet with him as soon as possible. He would need to first find out whether Feuilles is alive, and if the comte still wanted him dead, or was merely going to be an annoyance. To Vivien, he wrote that he was getting things under control, and to await more instructions.
He sighed. Perhaps this was too much to take upon himself. He had kept much of it a secret as so much of it was tied to his cræft, his magia, which was, even with his status and bestia, illegal. And he, too, wanted to solve this issue himself. He was to be duc, he could not go running to his older brother and father whenever there was a problem. They had helped enough.
But he would speak with his brother, Aimé. The prince of Triumphe, who had been ruling Piques for the past few years while Pierre was at school, would hopefully have some advice to give. His family had not pried about the incident with Renaud, instead letting the wedding become the center of attention.
And Lizzy knew little of this as well. She had already been in the middle of the skirmish, losing her life (and he thanked Mora daily that his cræft had saved her), but Pierre had not discussed the details with her, only mentioning things in passing before their wedding. That Frederick wished Piques, and that Renaud had been involved, hence his attack on her. The other things, that it was Pierre who had killed Jourdain thinking the elder son of Feuilles was also privy, that Pierre himself had been poisoned months ago, that Sabine sacrificed herself to save Pierre, was not known to her.
He sighed once more and began yet another note to his brother.
“My love?”
Lizzy nudged her way under his arm. “I can see the worry-lines forming on your face already. What is wrong?”
“So much,” he replied. “Feuilles, and I have not spoken to Brother about it, or Father, and then there is what happened with Renaud. So much of it is tied up to my cræft that I did not want to—”
She kissed him and stopped his rambling.
“Come to bed.”
“The notes!”
She grabbed the notes, wafted them in the air so the ink would finish drying before going to the door. Pierre could not tear his eyes from her, as she had not bothered to put on any clothing after getting out of bed.
“These are the duc’s personal notes. I understand that reading them unless you are the intended, would be a punishable offense?”
“Oui, my dear, that is correct.” She nodded and opened them to read over—he hadn’t had the time to seal them with wax.
Pierre smirked.
“I do not quite understand all of what you have written,” his wife said after she finished, folding the notes over and slipping them underneath the door so that servants would take them to their intended recipients. As she had pointed out, reading it if you were not the intended was criminal, and so a seal would not be needed in the castle. “But we will work through this all. Together.”
Her earnestness was on her face, in her tired great blue eyes, and in her soul, which he still felt in his own breath and flesh.
“Yes, we will,” he said. Even if he involved no one else, he had Elizabeth by his side. “Now, my dear Lizzy, you read the private notes of the future Duc of Piques, what shall you say for yourself?”
“That the future Duchesse of—”
The rest of her defense was cut short by her shout as Pierre crossed the room and picked her up.
They fell back into their bed again, much to Pluta’s protest, but were soon again asleep. Today was for them. Court, politics, and skullduggery could wait.
