by Cooper, R.
“You left a child to the dark.” James turned from him, and yet René’s trembling would not cease, his body begging for the end but twisting away, his hands closing over his middle as he wondered why he did not feel the wet heat of his guts slipping out into his palms.
“James…” The name was dry, rasping, and others echoed it, proud voices echoing his pain. James would not. He could not speak of what he was never to know, what he could not know of. There had been none left alive to tell him, René’s own hands had assured that.
“A child…” James’ voice rose, and René thought he fell back, white ceilings far above him, as white as snow, as chill and sweet as the water that James had allowed him to drink. Oh, God, he could not close his eyes to this. He had dreamed in his madness, and James had heard his screams. “A child left alone with nothing but wicked men for protection.”
That name was buried beneath black waters; James had no right to speak it. René felt the blow to his chest, at his back. The air was sucked from his mouth, leaving only the tang of his blood on his tongue though his sticky hands went out to his sides. He was empty, of blood, of life and breath, and so it could not be he who moaned when James said no more, revealing with his silence afterward that he knew enough.
This was not his place; it was for René to list the charges, to dance away as the heart’s blood sprayed out. It was René’s place to feel the steam rising from the blood that would stain his blade, to lay in the dark of night and pray for morning. This was not for James but James would not stop his slow steps forward, and again René wondered what the others had demanded of James to make him do this, now when he knew each childish act and every vile sin that René had committed.
His face was hot, and he lowered his eyes, seeing his steel laid at his feet among the splotches of dark red. He felt the beat of his heart at his wrists suddenly, a fierce throb that seized all of him. He cast his gaze up to seek out James but could not meet the eyes of the man who turned in his direction.
“René.” How calmly James spoke his name, and as before, as always, René felt his heart leap from his chest and his belly tighten. Up from his wrists through his arms his blood was pounding, rolling waves of pain that reached his shoulders, sharp at his healing wound before they descended into his chest and stomach, down into his bowels. His legs gave way too before this James, but he did not cry out as his knees hit the hard marble.
Others gasped, his sisters behind their door, Etienne Saint-Cyr moving as though he might have come to René’s side, but not James, and not the man whose blood James wanted this day.
“Who are you?” Their father spoke softly now, fear and not respect keeping him quiet, fear of the man who had brought his forgotten bastard to his knees without even pulling out his pistol. This man who kept his two weak sons at bay, this man knew of things that he had thought long dead and rotting. He had asked twice, and the hunger for knowledge must be as deep as his desire for escape, making him foolish. “I am not a rich man.”
His kept his chin lifted as he offered the truth, perhaps the only truth he knew and he used it to bargain, and René knew without looking that James would be smiling, a twist of his mouth that he had learned only from the Saint-Cyrs. René had brought him to the sins of this house, had let James try to kiss them from his lips, as bitter as rouge. It was a taste James had learned well, and René laughed to realize what it meant.
Their father had never been forced to await another’s mercy, had never begged to escape what could not be avoided, and he could not know there would be no quarter given here, that James had never cared for treasure.
“You are unrepentant.” His laughter ended abruptly. James’ voice was rough, thick with words held back. “You value nothing.”
René’s eyes opened wide, turning his head up despite his body’s shaking to see the disgust in the muddy English eyes, flinching when he did not see the shining plea for kindness that he had first seen in them.
Only the gold in his ear sparkled in the light, gleaming as James raised his head. Candlelight flickered off his glasses, turning his eyes to flame, and then his shoulders went back to leave him as straight as he had once stood over René, trembling with a rage so strong it could not be hidden. Now he did not shake, and his hand did not form a fist.
His fingers curled tighter for one moment, and then he was pulling the pistol from the sash at his waist, extending his arm and lowering his head to aim straight before him. His hold did not waver despite the pistol’s weight, and René heard his own breathing, uneven gasps as he realized that for this James had the strength and would not falter.
It was not James’ soul that should hold this mark, the burden was not for James any more than it was for the child and he would not allow it. James was a fool. A fool, René reminded himself, his voice the barest whisper when he tried to speak it. The boy could have spoken louder, a weeping child, a madwoman could have screamed where he sat dumb, and he moved his arms, scratching his short fingernails over his scalp when he had no hair to pull.
It was his pain, and he could not allow this. Here, in this place and before the eyes of innocents, James would damn himself. Already, his fingers were tightening their hold on the pistol.
God could not allow this to happen. James loved his God so much he had dared to speak of him even as René had first knelt at his feet, and if his God loved James as he ought to be loved, He would not allow this to happen. He might not hold any feeling in his heart for René, but He must love His faithful son.
But once more He did nothing. He left them waiting as James now waited for René to speak. He could not speak. He had no voice; God had taken that too. The divine bastard had taken everything from him, and then given him James. Foolishly, for he must have known that René would ravage and destroy his creation.
The Devil would pay for corrupting that gift, for bringing James here and showing him the use of the weapon. He would never have found his way here on his own. “Please, James, not for them.” His voice was that of the shipwrecked but James heard him, a strange fire flaring behind the glass as he turned and looked down, looked down as René groveled at his feet. Before those he had sworn to kill René knelt on the ground and begged for James, his many sins obvious in his lack of shame.
Tremors took James’ strong form, the arm leveling the pistol wavering for one small moment as James stared down at him with eyes that knew the fury of Heaven, and then James was turning away from him, René’s name only a fevered whisper that could not be real.
He knew he was frowning, blinking too many times to fully see what lay before him, but aware that this had turned James from him once more, that James thought him crazed, his tongue too slow to say what it ought.
He thought his father also knew this fear, that his mind was spinning as he stood there awaiting judgment he could not deny, trying to seek escape, a momentary respite to slow the coming agony. But he could not know the words if René did not. René alone had been allowed to bury himself in James’ sweet body, had been held as he slept, and had allowed James to take all there was from him. How softly James had spoken then, rain falling from his lips as he had given René his whispers and promises, as though he had possessed knowledge René had not.
It is my gift. His gasp flooded his chest with air and he turned his face to the floor as he coughed and shuddered, imagining how the marble would feel against his lips if he were to fall forward, remembering the smooth kiss of it on his cheek as he had curled his body away from his father’s feet. He had not let his cries escape, had turned them into laughter, knowing that no one would come even if they had heard him and knowing his father had wanted him to beg.
“Not for me.” His own voice startled him into raising his head, and then his mouth was moving again, saying the words once more though his breath would not have made a single candle flicker. “James…” James was mad and it was René whose thoughts were clear. “Not for me.”
He swayed as he tried to stay upright, his legs aching to k
eep this position, his head up even if he was on his knees. It was nothing for him to beg now, and they would see, no matter how they made noise and fluttered their hands and stepped from behind the doors that would have not have kept them safe. Deniau would have slit his throat on seeing this and René would have bent his head back for the blade if it would have taken James from what he planned.
He could hear the horror in his father’s voice as he still bargained, as he called out the names of the women so stupid as to leave their place of hiding. They would have stayed safe, tucked into the shadows behind the door, one eye each to the crack of light. René spared a moment for them, looking into wide, horrified eyes as they realized they too would be offered up.
“My daughters…” Their father spoke, his meaning clear before he mentioned their beauty, before he lied about possible wealth and sold the ancient blood he valued so highly to his killer. “They are both fair enough…”
James would step over them as easily as he had once stepped over diamonds.
“Do you fear me to tremble so?”
James had asked, dared to ask as though the truth were not laid plain for the world to see. James was not a creature meant for the earth and not a man bound for Hell.
“Yes.” René sighed his answer, laying his head back and partially closing his eyes to room’s brilliance, the white-hot flare that left them all pale and shadowed. “Father!” They screamed their newest betrayal in shrill voices, outrage and hurt making his lips curl into a sneer that none would see. This was no time for their grievances, even if the man had cared to hear them.
“James.” Their cries did not make James flinch or bow his head, and yet his mouth firmed into a hard line, displeasure marring his brow that could only hint at the disgust and fury behind his clouded eyes. It was an effort to bring to mind the name, an effort to look forward at what he had done to the tender, handsome Englishman who had fallen into his care. “James, you must not. He will not have you.”
This was not what should be said either, and René made a rough noise in his throat, wishing he were only an animal that could not say these things aloud. A dog. “If not you, who will care for…the boy?” Did James think that René would allow James to doom himself and not follow him? “Who will protect your precious child?”
Etienne had argued for reason and faith and James had not slowed as he did now. But he only lifted his chin and angled his head. René counted ten breaths, but James did not sway. “René,” James said his name as though it were a struggle to even think of him, as though he wished it as buried as another. Marechal remained, a great, looming beast that James had called back here with them. “…He will no longer harm you.”
Black followed James’ words. Black that should have held red from the candles around them, but which swallowed even that small light. He was shivering, shaking blindly on the floor as James knew his thoughts and shared them. He had only to open his eyes again to be granted the light, for James would not leave him to this. He would wash his skin and leave him cold and naked in the waters but he would not abandon him to the dark.
“James you cannot.” His soul would sear away until there was nothing, did James not see the truth of this? Nothing was worth that, no matter what madness had come into James’ mind. “This… He is not worth you, James. You cannot do this…” He was being held down to the ground so hard that he could not have fought if he had had the strength, even knowing it was so much better not to fight. Living through the pain was fight enough; James did not need this.
“James I will…but you cannot.” He had not pulled the trigger yet, he was listening, each of his short, careful shallow breaths as weighted and precious as gold, and glimmering just as brightly.
“No.” James seemed on the verge of laughter, his voice rising as he refused him, refused as he had once said that René had never done to him. “No, RenéI cannot allow it.” And though his eyes were closed, René could feel the air shift as James moved the pistol back to correct the small space he had allowed it drop, heard the slick glide of James’ fingers over the trigger, the silence after he pulled in a breath.
“James!” He thought he screamed the name, but could not hear his voice. No one answered him and René frowned, moving his head back and forth. He cried the name again, leaning back as he had once done in the wet earth, his face to the weeping sky.
“You cannot do this, James, they must not let you do this.” The rain on his face should have made him shiver, but he had opened his mouth, letting the taste roll down his throat. To beg to the saints had seemed nothing. This would be nothing too. “Please,” the word hurt his dry throat, a pain easily forgotten even if others could not have borne it.
“Please…” He did not know if James looked to him, if the others spared a glance for him, but the sounds came from him without pause. “…Mercy.” His body ached but he rose up, his hands out toward James as he begged, as he had once heard James’ voice among the many. “Mercy.”
He had tried to save James, even God had seen how he pushed and yet James had stayed, as though no force in the world could tear James from this course.
“God in Heaven.” There was a whisper, as though he were answered, or echoed, and he pleaded once more. “…Please.” “René.” He shuddered to hear that voice speak his name, but leaned into the touch at his cheek, as familiar as waking now. He no longer burned; he was cold but for the warmth slowly creeping in from the soft caress. He turned his head so that his lips would brush against the softly calloused palm, his mouth curving to taste gunmetal, to know the hand empty.
He opened his eyes to see James trembling above him.
Chapter Twenty–-three
His body would not move. It was scarcely drawing breath, but he could hear the low rush fighting to get in and then out of his mouth—the only sound in the room, for the others did not seem to breathe at all.
“Why do you look at me like this?” James blinked, focusing his gaze on René, startled to see his mouth open against his palm. The lips were near to colourless, as though that also had fallen to the mess on the floor beneath them, but René’s breath was warm on his skin, and for that he shivered, cutting his own breath short to match that steady flow of life.
His head ached, the same ache behind his eyes as though he were a man too long without sleep, without dreams, and he blinked again, the action slow and difficult. He held still, and the sight of René was returned to him, sliding from specters into the solid form of the man.
“René.” The word was all his mind gave him, the only image among the light and stains of red that was clear enough to name. He spoke it, and René turned, angling his face to put his cheek into James’ hand. His hand seemed to move in its own answer and James let it, brushing his thumb across the side René’s nose, up and under one eye, sighing at the tickle of eyelashes as René swept his eyes closed.
The sparkling black that looked back at him when they opened did not frighten him, and he felt his mouth curving softly up, knowing he wished to say the name again.
James, René had said his name.James andJames again, calling out to him so loudly it still rang out like trumpets. He had not…he had not thought it René’s voice. Not even in his hellish dreams of fever had René cried what he had, not even with his body twisted with the memory of the pain that Marechal and others had wrought had he begged.
He had once thought René a man to fight and he had not been wrong, and yet René had pleaded and prayed.
His gaze had been drawn to René the moment he had appeared in the room, straightening up from the door to glare across the stairs, pulling his short sword free with the sound of shrieking metal.
It should not have made such noise, slipping free of smooth leather, and James had forgotten to breathe, knowing the state of René’s weak limbs. But René had not allowed himself to bend, not as James had when first in his place. René had stood in challenge, giving orders as though his ship were behind him.
The same set frown, the same ha
rd and determined jaw as René looked away from him, staring without blinking at the raindrops falling onto his face, as though James could not feel the fear in the trembling body pressed between him and the wet earth.
It was fear behind it all, the constant shadow not fully banished even in the light of midday. René could never be still for long, would not even with his blood red and thick all around them. Bleeding out and begging to halt the act he would have killed the Lady Mirena to perform himself only months before, praying for James to stop, to hold his hand from the act of justice that he had cried for in his dreams.
He had not known until this day that James had been there to hear him, had been forced to listen to the words of a child in pain until had James bent over his feverish body. He had found his voice at last to order the others from the room, too late for they had already heard the poison seep from René’s mouth.
It was the act of a stupid man, curling himself around the rocking, sweating body as though to shield René from wounds long closed over, as though wiping the sticky blood from his brow would clear away the visions behind it. Demons, René had named them all, accusing and pleading all at once. Vowing revenge on horrors in the guise of men, and James had not known, not until the last.
Marechal’s visitation to what should have been peaceful slumber was as raw a cut to the soul as the rough cross that René had carved into the beast’s entrails. To claim to love and yet to take, offering protection at a cost that a boy could not understand.
James wished to close his eyes and knew he could not. Not here, not when they had been closed for too long, keeping him blind even with the aid of special glass. He was a fool and a monster himself, to not know, not to see what others had obviously guessed and to go on taking without giving. He wished to be sick, and would have, if he could have left René to this alone. But his feet were rooted, planted as firmly as the oak René and the lady had once mockingly called him, his shoulders straight and wide.