Jenna had always been there for him.
Always.
“I’m sorry that I can’t talk about the accident yet. It’s just too…painful, I guess. Raw.”
“I understand. But remember I am here when you’re ready to talk. I hate seeing you like this.”
She softly touched the bandages outlining his face, sending a mixture of peace and agony through Ien. He shifted his weight, inhaling every moment of anguish.
“Ien?” Jenna touched his shoulder. “What can I do?” Her eyes reflected the suffering he endured.
“Nothing.” The pain engulfed him as every movement, no matter how slight, caused his stomach to clench and his vision to blur. “Just leave me alone,” he managed to say through gritted teeth before the torment overtook him completely. “Leave me alone!”
~
Days and weeks blurred together in a haze of thoughts and emotions. Ien found Jenna by his bedside every morning. Most days she would make mindless chatter while Ien tried to keep his thoughts from imploding. On rare occasions, she coerced him into talking about his memories.
“Ien?” she asked one rainy morning. “Do remember playing in the barn? The day it started pouring?”
Ien laughed, something he rarely did anymore. “You mean the time we planned on running away?”
“Yes, that time.”
“I remember that you dared me to kiss you.”
Jenna blushed. “I think it was you that did the daring.”
She was right. He had dared her. The memory opened in Ien’s thoughts. The soft smell of hay and rain. The smooth feel of her skin, her lips. The kiss lasted only a moment, but it was enough to fill Ien with thoughts and feelings that surprised him; feelings he shouldn’t have for someone of her station.
Ien felt his cheek grow hot as the memory wrapped around him. Silence grew between them. Until Jenna sucked in a sharp breath and turned away.
“When did you know that you loved Kiera?” she asked, the words turning her voice gruff.
The question surprised him. He furrowed his brow and reached out to Jenna’s arm. “I knew it the moment I saw her.”
Jenna nodded and turned, pinning him with a look that reached into his soul. “What happened the night of the explosion?”
“I asked Kiera to marry me, Jenna. Earlier that night. That’s why I was in town. I was walking back from Whitehall.”
The color drained from Jenna’s face, making her more pale than usual. “Marriage. That seems—”
“Rash? Yes. I know.”
“I was going to say uncharacteristic.”
Ien rolled over, unable to handle the intensity, the pain, in Jenna’s eyes.
“You’re not exactly the run-off-and-elope type, Ien. At least I didn’t think you were. Something had to have happened.”
Ien clenched his jaw. “Mother was forcing me to leave her. I just couldn’t let that pass.” He swallowed hard. “I need Kiera. I won’t leave her. So I decided on marriage. It was the only way.”
Ien had expected a quick rebuke from Jenna. Instead, she greeted him with silence.
“Jenna?” Ien rolled back to face her, half expecting that she had somehow left. “No sharp remark?”
“I understand why you did it,” she said after a long pause. “You were willing to sacrifice everything for love. I understand the feeling. I really do.” Jenna stood and walked to the window that faced the gardens and, in the distance, the family cemetery. “I’d sacrifice anything for love too, even if it meant giving up the one I needed most.”
Ien chewed on her words. Should he have given up Kiera? Could he? He lowered his head, allowing the thought to fill the whole of him. No. He would never give her up. Not then. Not now.
Not ever.
He touched the bandages still covering his face, sending fresh waves of pain rippling through him.
“What will you do?” Jenna asked, still staring out of the window. “If you don’t heal, I mean. What then?”
Anxiety tightened the muscles in Ien’s shoulders and back. His arm shook as he propped himself up on his elbow. He released a ragged breath, pushing out the agony such a simple movement still caused.
When will this ever end?
“Kiera and I are promised to each other now. Nothing will change that.”
He didn’t tell her that he feared for their future. Nor did he tell her about the ghastly images that plagued him every night. Deep inside, where he hid his darkest fears, grew a monster—one that threatened to undo him. He was too afraid to tell Jenna about that, too afraid to tell anyone.
Jenna turned back toward Ien, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “That’s what I thought,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Releasing a heavy sigh, she changed the basin water and fluffed Ien’s pillow. “Get some rest, okay? I want more stories tomorrow.”
“Alright,” he said as Jenna started to leave. “Jenna?”
She paused at the threshold, the air thickening around them.
“Thank you for keeping me company. I’ve missed you, missed our time together.”
She nodded, retreating from the room without a word. Ien rolled over, smiling despite the ever-present pain he felt.
Sleep descended quickly, robbing him of the few pleasant memories of Jenna. His thoughts refocused into the nightmares he wanted most to avoid. Images of Kiera screaming as his body ignited. It all seemed so real…
“No. No!” he screamed, unsure if the sound existed only in his head. He tossed and turned, consumed by the thoughts of fire and ash, love and death. His death. And Kiera’s.
“Fantasizing again dear brother? Isn’t that what got you into this mess?” Erik’s disembodied voice floated through the never-ending pictures in Ien’s mind.
The voice startled him. “You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real,” he said, willing his words to be true. But the phrase brought little comfort as the images faded to black. They reformed, revealing the woods behind his house. The sound of galloping horses filled his ears. “No!” he yelled, unwilling to be forced into that nightmare. “No.”
“What’s wrong? Not interested in reliving my death?”
You’re not real. This is just a dream
“Go away!” Ien’s thoughts began to spin out of control as a silhouette formed in front of him, removed from the other images streaming past his vision.
“I assure you, I’m as real as you.” Erik’s voice exploded against Ien’s skin. “Didn’t you miss me?”
Ien hadn’t been bothered by dreams of his dead brother for more than two months, not since Kiera came into his life. She had managed to stop the chaos in his mind, as well as the nightmares of his brother’s death.
Until today.
“Must we again relive my death so you can remember why you need to live?” Every word dripped with disdain.
Ien pushed against his brother’s voice.
It’s just my imagination. It’s not real.
“Suit yourself. But you will find out soon enough that I am more real than you’d like to admit. I always have been.”
7.
“But, friends, I do not want to die,
I want to live, so as to think and suffer.”
~Alexander Pushkin (Elegy)
~
The nightmares continued night after night, as did the memories of Kiera. They coiled in and out of Ien’s thoughts while he floated somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. He stirred in the bed, his mind wrestling with the illusions he clung to and the realities that tethered him to a life filled with misery. Pain.
“How is he today?” Mother’s voice pulled him into consciousness.
“The same. He still suffers. His wounds are still raw.”
Jenna was the only constant in Ien’s life now. Still present every time he woke, she cleaned the sweat from his brow or replaced the bandages on his face. She never turned away from his gaze. Unlike the other servants that tended to his wounds, she never held horror in her expressi
on, never seemed revolted by whatever it was he was turning into.
“Why doesn’t he heal?” Mother’s words were more of a thought than anything else.
Ien looked at his mother, trying to gauge his wounds by her expression. In the days since the accident he was not permitted to leave his bed. All he knew of his injuries were the raw, tender flesh on his arms, legs and torso, and the excruciating pain he still felt in his face.
His mother looked at him once, sighed heavily and turned away. The frustration grew within him. He was sick of everyone’s reactions, tired of the anguish everyone expressed when they dared a glance. He raised his hands to his face, desperate to feel what he could not see.
Mother caught his hands before they reached their target. “No, son. You mustn’t.” It was not a request.
Ien ignored her, pushing against her hold. But she was strong and tightened her grasp on his arms.
“Get help!” she barked to Jenna as she wrestled with him. “Ien, stop! You have to let your face heal.”
Ien stopped fighting against her.
“It will heal, son. I promise. You will be whole again.” The desperation in her voice was palpable, and Ien wondered who she was really trying to reassure, him or herself.
Ien’s father entered the room, bindings in his hands. Ien struggled again. He wasn’t about to become a prisoner to his bed. He writhed as his parents bound his hands and tied him down, moaning as pain wracked his body.
“It’s for your own good, Ien. You have to trust me.” Mother’s voice carried no comfort.
But he couldn’t. Not anymore. “You did this to me, Mother. I know you did.” The words never escaped his throat and Ien collapsed on the bed, drained from the struggle. You did this.
Moments turned to hours, and hours to days as Ien continued to merely exist, bound to his bed. Nothing Mother tried eased his pain or healed his wounds. Not the doctors, with their medicines and talk of permanent disfigurement. Not the prayers offered by the Church as nuns and priests performed everything from quiet vigils to pseudo-exorcisms in an attempt to heal Ien.
“I don’t know what else to do.” Ien overheard Mother’s stilted conversations with Father. “I’m asking Madame Alexandra to do what she can.”
“You’re wasting your time, Katherine.” As always, Father sounded angry. “What can she do? Rub a cream over his face? Read his future? We already know what his future holds. We always have. I will not have you waste my money on spiritualists. Not again.”
Mother’s voice turned cold. “It’s my money. And I will thank you to stay out of this.”
“Stay out of it? He’s my son.”
“And mine. I will not let him die, not after everything he’s already endured. I have to heal him.”
“And if you can’t? If there is no way to fix him.”
Mother dropped her voice, the words muffled and lost. Ien struggled to hear her response, desperate to understand the future Father feared. Nothing but muffled sounds reached through the heavy mahogany door. Ien sighed, part of him hoping this Madame Alexandra could help.
He rolled to his side as sleep washed over him, bringing more images of death. Lost to the dreams, he wondered how long it would be before they consumed him completely.
He woke to a loud thud as the door to his room closed tightly. The room was dark, illuminated with a soft candle. Strange scents mingled in the air as tendrils of cinnamon and sandlewood smoke wove circles above him.
“What—” Ien tried to sit up, his wrists still bound to the bed.
“Shhh. She’s here to help you. She can release the demons, Ien. Heal your face. Your mind.”
He fell back, uncertain what was real and what was a dream. A strange woman appeared in his line of sight. Dark skin and round eyes flickered in the candlelight. Thick black curls peeked out from a colorful scarf tied around her head. She looked surreal.
Definitely dreaming, he thought.
She waved the smoke over him, chanting unknown words. She touched his face, setting him on fire again. He squirmed, screamed, pulled against his restraints.
“Stop,” he managed to say. “Please.” His voice cracked as he felt a familiar fire push through his veins.
The strange woman blurred and the room faded back. Her words detached, floating above him, through him.
Kiera, Ien thought. Kiera. Help. His mind went blank as a profound emptiness brought a strange relief.
But not peace.
Never peace.
~
More time passed. There were no more visits from doctors or clergy. No more strange rituals in the night. Nothing.
Ien grew desperate in the solitude of his new existence, writhing against his bindings and weaving in and out of his pain. More than once he screamed until his throat burned, just to prove he was still alive.
More than once, his attendants pushed liquid fire into his veins to ease his suffering.
As if anything could help him now.
After another week had passed, Ien looked for anything to occupy his thoughts and keep him sane. The walls felt as if they were closing in, moving and morphing into images pulled from his nightmares. He closed his eyes to it all, relying on the comfort of sound to maintain his sanity—the chatter of the servants as they came into the room, the driving rain and wind common for late winter storms, the absolute stillness that followed a snow storm. In these sounds, Ien lost himself. He drifted away from anything familiar, praying for some kind of end to his suffering.
Time continued to pass with each labored breath.
Inhale.
The clock’s tick-tock surrounded him, echoing around the room.
Exhale.
Rain pelted against his window, adding to the strange symphony in his head.
Inhale.
Scuffling footfalls in the hall came closer and closer.
Exhale.
The door to his room squeaked. Ien wanted to open his eyes, orient himself to the sounds, to life. But he had long given up on any ability to truly live again.
“He can’t stay here anymore, not like this.” The voice, deep and heavy, was familiar. “Think of the scandal. This kind of thing ruins families. I won’t jeopardize our futures over this.”
“What are you saying, John?” Mother’s voice cut deeply into Ien, pulling him back to consciousness.
“He’s dying, Katherine. Let him go. It’s better for him. It’s better for all of us.”
“But what if he isn’t dying? What if he’s just in shock? Or still grieving Erik? Something?”
“This isn’t grief. And this isn’t normal. He’s dying. One way or another, he has no future now.”
“But John, Madame Alexandra thinks it’s just a curse. Maybe we can—”
“This isn’t something we can fix. It isn’t something anyone can fix. You have to let him go.”
Ien felt the floorboards shake as his father left the room. The Montgomery legacy, it was the one thing Ien knew he could never live up to. Even in an accident, Ien had managed to disappoint his father.
Let me die.
It would’ve been so much easier if Ien had died in the fire, so much better for everyone. Ien listened as Mother's heels clicked away from his bed. He waited for the door to close, praying everyone would leave him alone. His mind twisted on his father’s words . . . Let him die . . . he has no future now . . . There were no words of comfort, no hint of loss in his father’s voice, nothing to indicate that he would be missed in the slightest of ways. When Erik died, Father mourned for months. But now, faced with this, there was nothing. The truth of his father’s feelings jolted through him. He meant nothing to his father, nor to any of them.
Maybe he never had.
The door shut with a thud and Ien heard the click-clack of Mother’s heels as she walked back toward him. He focused on his breathing, hiding the anxiety rising through him. In and out. In and out. He kept his breaths deep and even, not wanting Mother to discover that he had been awake, that he had heard eve
rything.
Ien felt the bed sink as she sat next to him. Her touch sent fresh waves of pain rolling through his body. His focus crumbled slightly as he inhaled the moan rising up his throat. When will this ever end? Again he wished for his own death.
Ien listened closely as his mother began to pray. “Merciful Father, end his suffering. He cannot face the world looking this way. He isn’t strong enough, not like Erik. He will not survive the taunts.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And he won’t survive being imprisoned. Alone.” She choked back a sob. Tears fell onto Ien’s skin, feeling more like drops of fire. He gasped before he could stop himself.
Mother continued to caress his arm. “It’s a curse, I know it is. Made worse by that girl. Why wouldn’t she just listen to me and stay away? No good could ever have come from this.”
Her words ripped through the layers of pain, reaching all the way into his soul. He remembered everything about Mother’s warnings and how she’d told Kiera to stay away. He remembered the way he’d paced the floor in the salon, waiting for Kiera to come. He remembered how scared he’d been of what Mother would say and whether or not she would chase Kiera away. And he especially remembered how Mother had never let Kiera past the front door. He may not have heard Mother’s exact words, but he’d heard Kiera’s gasp.
In his mind, Ien recreated the conversation between them—the judgment in Mother’s voice as she’d told Kiera that she wasn’t Montgomery material, the pleading that likely followed, and the look of both pain and hatred that would’ve painted Kiera’s face when her words failed.
Ien hated Mother for that night. And now, as he writhed in agony, gasping with every tear that fell onto his face and arms, his hatred grew. How could she blame the accident on either of them?
His mother’s sobs shook the bed as Ien continued to fume. “It’s okay, my son. I’ll find a way to end your suffering. One way or another.”
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