by Kallysten
Marc's hand slipped to the back of Kate's head, and he tilted it up toward him. Her eyes were full of the same tears he had heard in her voice, though they hadn't spilled yet. He pressed his mouth to hers, wishing he could have swallowed her fears along with her words.
"Don't,” he whispered when he pulled back. “Maybe it's the case and maybe it's not, but blaming yourself won't help him."
"But knowing for certain might. Did you ask—"
"Kate, he can't talk, remember?"
She looked around as though searching for inspiration. Her gaze stopped on the books lined up on the mantle of the fireplace. “How about writing?” she asked very fast, her voice louder now as excitement made her forget Blake was asleep. “If his hands are fixed, could he write? You could ask him a question, and he'd write an answer. Do you think it could work?"
Marc didn't answer, and instead turned toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “He's awake,” he said softly. “I think he's getting up. Do you want to stay and see him?"
When he looked back at her, Kate seemed torn. “Want to see him, yes,” she said with a light shrug. “Want to upset him so much he has more nightmares, really not. I think I'll go now. But I'll come back tomorrow if that's all right?"
Marc nodded and brushed a kiss to her forehead before accompanying her to the door. In truth, he wasn't too upset that she was leaving. If Blake truly had bad dreams about her, Marc wasn't sure he wanted her to know.
Keeping an ear on Blake, Marc went to the kitchen and warmed blood for him. He then rifled through the drawers, finding a pen and an old notebook marked ‘Mom's recipes’ that had been abandoned by the house's previous owners. He flipped the notebook over and opened it on the last page, leaving it and the pen on the table next to the mug. Suddenly impatient, he went to stand by the kitchen door, arms crossed as he surveyed Blake's progress. He had just come out of the hallway, and was looking around the living room as though expecting to find someone there. He must have recognized Kate's voice. When his gaze fell on Marc, Blake gave a small start, and for an instant he looked ready to retreat.
"Your dinner is ready,” Marc said. “Come eat before it gets cold."
With slow, hesitant steps, Blake came to the kitchen, shoulders hunched as he slipped past Marc. He sat at the table as he now did most nights and wrapped both hands around the hot porcelain as though to warm himself. After a few seconds, he raised the half-filled mug to his lips. Marc's throat always tightened at that gesture, which was so innocuous yet had been so hard to relearn.
He sat across from Blake and watched him feed, tapping his fingers on the table in an impatient rhythm. When Blake put down the mug, Marc pushed it aside at once and nudged the notebook in front of Blake instead.
"Here,” he said triumphantly as he held the pen out to Blake. “Talk to me."
Blake took the pen Marc was offering him and even looked down at the paper in front of him, but he didn't make a mark on it. Marc's excitement deflated at a sudden thought.
"Do you remember how to write?” he asked cautiously. “Can you write your name?"
Blake's eyes returned to the paper, and he went as far as to put the tip of the pen to the paper, but he stopped there and looked back at Marc, uncertainty fluttering across his face.
"Your name,” Marc repeated. “It's not a trick question. I just want to see if you can write."
Same look down, same hesitation. Marc let out a quiet frustrated growl.
"Come on, Blake. I'm not asking for an essay on how to heal fucked-up half vamps. One word. Just one. Hell, write my name if you don't want to write yours, write the first word that crosses your mind, just—"
The light scratch of pen on paper stopped Marc mid-rant, and he leaned a little over the table, reading upside down the letters Blake was scrawling. His hand trembled slightly, as though he didn't quite remember how to form the letters, and the handwriting in no way resembled the slanted but regular cursive script that had once been his, but it was a beginning, Marc thought happily. A beginning that started with his name, as Blake was just tracing the curve of the ‘a,’ slightly crooked next to the capital ‘M.'
"That's it,” he exclaimed. “That's my name. At least you..."
A knot formed in his throat as Blake continued to write, adding too many letters and looking up at him expectantly.
Master.
Marc couldn't manage to take his eyes off the word now inscribed on the first line of the notebook. Was that whom Blake saw, when he looked at him? Not his Sire, but the monster who had tortured him?
Slowly, so as not to startle Blake, he reached over and took the pen from him. With a shaky hand, he drew a line through the word, pressing in so hard that he gouged the paper. He brought the pen lower on the page and, with a slow hand that shook almost as much as Blake's had, he wrote his name before giving the pen back to Blake.
"There. That's my name. Marc."
Blake's expression remained unreadable, and Marc chose not to linger on that first misstep.
"Here's the thing,” he said calmly. “Every night, or just about every night, you have dreams. Very, very bad dreams, I believe. Do you think you can tell me what you dream about?"
A few seconds passed, and Marc wondered if Blake had understood his question, but at last, the pen touched the paper again, and letters started to appear. Marc could guess the word before Blake had finished, and he wasn't sure what to think as his suspicions were confirmed.
Kate.
Blake kept his eyes lowered this time, and somehow it made it easier for Marc to keep prodding.
"It's just a dream, not really her. You know that, right?"
There was no reply.
"What does she do? Does she hurt you? Is she..."
The pen started moving again, and Marc fell silent as he watched the new word appear, soon repeated all across the line; Blake wrote the letters faster now, but his hand shook more and more and the words started bleeding into each other, almost to the point of illegibility.
hurt hurt hurt hurt hurthurthurthurthurthurthurthurt...
Then, under Marc's widening eyes, the words changed.
hurthurthurtdeaddeaddeaddead...
Blake was pressing the pen down to the paper so hard that it ripped in a couple of places. He was panting, Marc belatedly realized, his heartbeat and breathing so fast that he was close to hyperventilating. As gently and unthreateningly as he knew how, Marc reached over the table and covered Blake's hand with his own, preventing him from writing any more.
"You're safe,” he said quietly. “No one is going to hurt you anymore. No one, Blake. You're safe, I promise, you..."
Marc wasn't sure whether Blake understood him, or even heard what he said, and became silent as Blake rested his forehead on the table, covered his head with both arms, and started shaking with silent sobs.
"You're safe,” Marc repeated, mindlessly caressing his hair. “I swear, Blake. I won't let anything happen to you. Not anymore."
He couldn't remember having ever seen Blake cry before he had been in the demons’ hands, but there had been instances where he had taken care of his Childe when attacks of claustrophobia had left him crippled and near catatonic. As he stroked Blake's hair, a tactile memory resurfaced. He had done this before. He could do it still, even if the circumstances were different. Standing, he walked to Blake and, with a hand on each arm, coaxed him to his feet. Step by step, he guided him to the windows in the living room, and then to the enclosed patio beyond them. He sat down with his back to the low wall, drawing Blake to sit between his parted legs. At once, Blake leaned against him, the back of his head resting against Marc's shoulder as he looked up to the sky. He remembered, too, Marc realized with a spark of relief.
An hour passed before Blake's body stopped shaking. An hour more, and his frantic heartbeat finally calmed down. They remained in the patio until sunrise started lightening the horizon.
His Master had given the stars back to Blake.
Blake could har
dly remember the last time he had seen the stars. His cell had been four stone walls, with only one metal door that opened on an endless, narrow corridor. Five strides from wall to wall. Seven and a half from corner to corner.
From the moment the door had closed on him, Blake had known it would happen. It hadn't been long before the familiar feeling had taken hold of him, like a fist tightening over his heart, squeezing until Blake had been ready to dig it out of his own chest. He had curled himself into a tight ball, blocking out the sight of those walls closing in as they pressed on him from all sides. When hours—days—millennia later the door had opened again, he had been too lost in his own fears to even bolt for it.
That was when his Master had first punished him, replacing a pain that was crippling though intangible with a very physical one that left him unable to move for days.
For so long, those four walls and unending punishments had been his world. For so long he had thought it'd never get any better—but not any worse, either.
But then, they had locked him in a coffin.
And then, all the rules had changed, without a warning or a word of explanation.
And now...
Now, his Master had given the stars back to him. And as Blake felt the strong body behind him, as he listened to the quiet, soothing, meaningless words that caressed the shell of his ear, he let himself be drawn back to a time before those stone walls and punishments, a time when he hadn't feared his Master, a time when he had trusted him. Loved him.
He wished he could trust him again.
He wished he didn't love him still.
After the fiasco of asking Blake to tell him about his nightmares, Marc gave up on asking any more questions, at least until Blake's mental state improved. He told Blake to keep the notebook and pen, however, thinking that maybe he would use them of his own accord to express wants or needs. When Kate came back with Daniel the next night, Marc sent his Childe to the kitchen while he talked to her outside. She guessed at once why he was reluctant to let her enter the house. Her expression broke his heart. He tried to reassure her and thanked her for thinking of asking Blake to write. They agreed that she wouldn't return for a few days, even if it pained them both.
Blake's nightmares seemed to decrease in frequency again, and at first Marc thought it was because Kate hadn't returned. He finally realized that it might have been something else, though. Preoccupied as he was about Kate, it took him two days to notice how often Blake's eyes flicked to the locked windows, and the patio behind it.
He had a suspicion that Blake might want to go out again; he had to be bored to death, now that he was healed, rested, and not continuously too scared to do anything beyond sit on his sofa. But never did Blake go to the French doors; instead, he glanced in turn at them and at Marc, trying, it seemed, to be discreet, but failing miserably.
"Blake?"
With a slow blink, Blake looked toward Marc.
"Would you like to go out?” he offered. “Onto the patio, I mean. To get some fresh air."
Blake threw a fleeting glance to the window, then turned toward Marc again. The uncertainty was clear on his face; what was he hesitating about? Did he believe, maybe, that it was a trick question? Didn't he know by now that Marc wouldn't hurt him, and only wanted to see him healed?
"If you want to go, you can,” he insisted. “It's all right. Really."
A few more seconds passed without a definite answer from Blake, and then, at long last, he nodded.
Immediately, Marc stood and walked over to the windows. “I can't go with you during the day,” he said as he unlocked it, “but you can..."
Marc unlocked the windows, but he didn't open them. When he turned back to face Blake, he found him looking at him with the closest thing to anticipation Marc had seen on his face since his return.
"You know what?” he said, gauging Blake even as he made a decision. “I'm not going to do this for you. As a matter of fact, I'm not going to do anything for you anymore."
In truth, Marc had been thinking about how to proceed with this new step for a while now. He had tried to offer as many choices to Blake as he could, had restrained himself as much as possible from giving him any order, but it was more than time to put an end to Blake's complacency. More than time to let him take care of himself on every possible level.
"I know you're not as out of it as you seem to be,” he continued when Blake replied with his usual blank stare. “Your scent doesn't lie. Neither do your eyes. So here's how it works from now on, Blake. You want something? You get it yourself. I'm not your servant, nor your nurse. If you're hungry, the blood's in the fridge, and you've watched me warm it often enough to know how to do it. If you want some air, the window is right here. Get off your ass and open it yourself. And if you're hard... well, we proved you could touch yourself without being struck by lightning. Got it?"
Blake didn't move, but there was suddenly an edge of panic to his scent that told Marc that he understood the new rules. Now all Marc could hope was that he wouldn't give in before Blake did.
Picking up a book from the fireplace mantle, Marc sat back in his armchair and pretended not to pay any attention to Blake, when in reality he was focused solely on him. His eyes remained on the book in his hands, but he wasn't reading a word, and instead used his peripheral vision to observe Blake.
All day long, he observed him. When night fell, Blake hadn't moved an inch. To see him so completely still felt extremely unnatural. Marc would have given anything to see Blake return to his usual hyperactivity. Or at the very least, to see him stand and simply open a door.
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Chapter 20
The car turned a corner and soon came to a stop in front of Marc's house. Kate opened the door and slipped out.
"I won't be long,” she said before closing the door again and received twin nods in reply. As she walked to the door, her heart tightened a little in both hope and fear, and in response she tightened her hand on the scabbard she held. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand to the door and knocked. The first time she had come to this house, she had been filled with hope and fear, too. Hope that Blake would be better, fear that he would still be unable to remember her and how much she loved him. Today, they were different hopes and fears, but they were still centered on Blake.
The door opened, and Marc appeared. The flash of a smile quickly turned into an apologetic expression.
"Kate, I thought we said—"
"I know,” she cut in gently. “I know it's too soon, but I had an idea.” She raised the sword in her hands, showing it to Marc. “He's afraid I'll hurt him, but what if I give him a weapon? Maybe it would make him feel safer. Maybe he'd realize I don't want to hurt him.” Holding her breath, she asked, almost pleading, “What do you think?"
Marc's brow furrowed, and he started shaking his head, but after a moment's hesitation he reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind Kate's ear. “All right, we can try. Just don't get your hopes too high."
She smiled in thanks and followed him inside. He gestured for her to wait by the door, and she did so while he stepped to the living room and stood by Blake's sofa.
"Blake? Kate is here, and she has a gift for you."
Marc glanced at Kate, nodded, and she walked over to him, holding Seneca to her chest. She stood next to him and was grateful for his hand settling on her back and rubbing in a soothing circle. In front of them, Blake was sitting up on the sofa, his eyes going back and forth between them. She tried to smile, but it seemed very difficult to do so, or even speak.
"We found this,” she finally managed to push the words out. “When you were taken from us, I mean.” She glanced at Marc, wondering if it was all right to mention Blake's capture, but Marc's eyes were focused on Blake and he didn't notice her sudden hesitation. She held the sword out to Blake and continued. “I've used it while you were... gone. It was like having a bit of you with me. But I always hoped I could give it back to you some day. I hoped you'd fin
ally tell me what the inscription means. So..."
Her throat tightened. Blake was still looking back and forth between Marc and her. He had glanced at the sword, too, and his hands had curled into fists on his thighs, but he didn't reach forward in any way. She wanted to ask Marc if he thought Blake understood what she had said, but before she could say a word, Marc wrapped his hand over hers on the scabbard and pushed it forward, closer to Blake, almost close enough to bump against his leg.
"Take it, Blake,” he said. “It's yours. Take it."
There was an edge to his voice that Kate was surprised to hear there, a commanding tone that she wouldn't have wanted to use herself. After another moment's hesitation, Blake reached out, his fingers wiggling a little before they touched the hilt. He blinked very fast and drew his hand back again as though he'd been shocked by an electric charge.
"Take it,” Marc said again, and this time when Blake touched the sword his fingers curled around the elaborate metalwork and he pulled it to him, cradling the scabbard to his chest, his eyes fleeting once more between Marc and Kate, finally stopping on where Marc still held on to her hand.
Kate squeezed Marc's fingers, and he squeezed back.
"Do you think it'll help?” she asked, looking up at him.
"Only time will tell.” He leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek. “But thank you for—"
He stopped abruptly and turned back to Blake, who was trembling, eyes shut tight and hands clenched so hard on the scabbard that they were bone white.
"You should—"
"Go, yes,” Kate finished for Marc, already stepping back. Marc followed her to the door. “I didn't just come for the sword. I'm here to tell you, we're leaving town for a few days. Simon had an idea, and he wants to talk to Jen again."
His eyes widened a little, and she could see his hope already. She rested a hand on his chest and shook her head lightly. “It's a long shot, so don't get too excited. I think Simon is just getting antsy about not being able to help, but we figured it was worth a try."
Marc nodded once. “Daniel is going with you, then?"