It is a strange kind of détente that persists in the house of Valentine in the weeks following the altercation between Siegfried and Isabella. There is never an apology from either side, not for the initial provocation or the terrible injury dealt, but there is peace of a sort; a peace that lies in limited interaction and in as few words as possible shared. In the way he ignores how she spent over a week almost limping from the extent of her bruises and the way her eyes don't quite meet his face to avoid the livid line of the scar that bisects his right cheek.

888

If there is ever a turning point in this strange relationship they have, then this surely is it. Siegfried has been wary of Isabella ever since that morning, and it is easier to avoid her, to avoid having to speak as it seems the only things they have to discuss have far too terrible repercussions.

It helps that Isabella appears to be in complete agreement with him over it. Two days she spends locked in her laboratory and he spends sat in the library reading, since he has nothing else to do than try to improve his English. When she finally emerges it is Master Beckett who kindly ejects him so she can claim the room back from him again; Siegfried takes the book with him, doubting she will miss it since it has nothing to do with science, sorcery or cursed swords.

When Margaret comes to him the next morning bearing breakfast, she also brings more books, courtesy it seems of his brooding hostess. It is followed later that afternoon by the sword he had left in the menage, extracted from the firewood Isabella had made of it following their bout.

"She said you might find the desire to practice with it," is the old man's explanation as he carefully props it up against the wall by the dresser.

Siegfried wonders if Beckett has omitted any sneering emphasis on the word 'practice'. He can almost hear Isabella speaking the words clearly in his own mind, but the butler just meets his blank gaze, steadily and without any hint that the sword is being presented as a mockery.

Siegfried watches him leave and wonders if he ought to consider doing the same.

88

The weeks pass though and he is still here, and perhaps it is because he can't think of anywhere else to go. Or perhaps it is because he can't bring himself to leave Soul Edge, sleeping beneath the house of the woman it spawned, just in case, just in case...

Siegfried isn't sure what he will do should 'just in case' come to pass and what 'just in case' might actually be, but he's too engaged in his own internal struggles after a while to think about it too deeply.

If Isabella actually cared any more, perhaps she would be pleased that Siegfried is finally doing as she so wants and entertaining his inner demons. Or to be more accurate: his inner demons are entertaining themselves with him. The voice that drove him during his fight with Isabella has yet to materialise with the same strength and fervour as it did then, but it's soft, sibilant whisper has began to permeate his nightmares. Sweetly coaxing, gently reminding him of all of what he did, and why he did it, and how good it had felt...

He prefers the dreams where he languishes in the void because it doesn't bother him then, and in the harsh light of a summers day, glaring at the sword still leaning against the dresser gathering dust, he thinks how terrible it is that his only solace is a different kind of nightmare.

Siegfried takes up the sword in the end, driven by a long ago remembrance of the peace it used to bring to his adolescent rages when he would go through the practice forms, and praying it would bring him peace of another sort now. He almost feels the muscles in his shoulders uncoil as he swings the claymore up into chief hold and as he begins, he finds the single-minded concentration required is the cool tonic he has been searching for.

Yes, it is good not to think at all...

888

The night is old when he awakes, into the darkness that lies between moon-set and the onset of dawn, and for a moment the black oblivion of the room about him causes a surge of cold panic at the thought that he may still be trapped in his dream. Trapped in the awful void that held him for a countless time before being spat out into searing daylight and the sight of a burning blue sky that nearly blinded him.

Siegfried struggles without thought, tangled in the bedclothes, senseless to the soft blankets that surround him. Instead what he feels is the barely tangible tendrils that wrapped round and round his body and soul, twisting the one while binding the other. The pain was very real though, and when he hits the floor it jerks a strangled cry out with his winded breath. Ironically it is the pain of impact, a different kind of hurt, that brings him back to his senses and he lies gasping on floorboards, staring into the dark space above while trying to convince his mind that he is in reality on the floor of his room. His room in the house of Isabella Valentine, who, he reminds himself, will soon be returned from her fortnight long trip. There is no void about him, it is just the plain darkness of the night that has come and gone for aeons. There is no wicked sword lying beyond, waiting for the time to seize his mind back from him for that abomination still lies in crumbling repose in the cellars below, bound by what sorcery Isabella commands. The only thing to fear, as always, is the horrors within his own soul and that he has some control over.

This is what Siegfried tells himself as he picks himself up from the floor, blindly seeking the curtains so he can at least let the starlight in and reassure himself. Once he has some semblance of sight Siegfried wraps his robe around himself and leaves the room. He hasn't any idea of where he is going, but the wandering helps when he has just woken from one of his nightmares; better this than to stay lying abed, waiting for sleep to come and whisk him right back to where he doesn't want to be.

He is somewhat surprised to see light seeping from under Isabella's door as he passes by; he hadn't realised she had arrived home that evening, it must have been quite late and he already abed if so. Given the choice between the darkness of his own ruminations and Isabella's company it is a decision of a few seconds thought to stop and knock. The response from within is somewhat muffled and Siegfried chooses to accept it as permission to enter.

Isabella is hunched over a small fire in the grate of her fireplace, steadily feeding it pages from a book in her hands. Her head snaps around as the door opens.

"I said 'go away,' you idiot!" Ivy snarls at him, snapping the book closed in her hand. "Are you deaf?"

Siegfried shrugs without answering and ambles further into her bedroom, settling himself on the stool of her dresser.

She rises from her knees, tall and angry and very intimidating, but Siegfried sits, unmoved by the display. He has been on the receiving end of her temper enough times to know the danger but he has ceased to care, now, when she is angry or why.

"Don't just sit there," she snaps after a moment in which the man across from her doesn't react, "begone!"

"I know why I'm awake at this hour," Siegfried observes, quite unperturbed, "but you," he takes in that the robe she wears is covering underclothes not a nightgown, "you don't look as though you've even gone to bed yet."

Isabella takes a step back, defensively pulling her robe tighter about herself, the small black book still in hand as she fumbles with the belt. "That's because I haven't, you imbecile," she utters, turning from him. "I only got back several hours ago and I have had things to do, which you have just interrupted, now kindly take yourself elsewhere."

"What was so important it could not be done during the light of day?" Siegfried stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back against the dresser, his very pose telling her he has no intention of going anywhere just yet.

Of course it infuriates Isabella immensely, and he wonders if it's too early in the morning for even her to consider violence. He has no doubt he'd find her sword buried in the bedclothes somewhere, or at least at hand by the side of her bed.

Surprisingly the response he gets is a defeated sigh and a question in return. "What are you doing in here, Siegfried?"

He shrugs again, staring down at where his toes are busy pushing trails in the lush pile of a sheepskin rug. "I had a nightmare," he tells her.

She seems somewhat unimpressed, when he glances up to take in her reaction to an admission he had previously refused to give, but overall her expression is inscrutable as she eyes him; which is somewhat unexpected. He thought she would at least sneer at his almost blasé announcement of something she had been quite well aware of for months without him saying a word.

Apparently not though, apparently she is going to stare at him with almost blank eyes, standing in a way that Siegfried fancies makes her look quite vulnerable: one hand clutching the small black book to her chest, while the other is wrapped protectively round the knot of the belt binding her robe shut.

He wonders almost idly if she might be concerned about her virtue, what with him being in her bedroom. It would be a fair enough concern to have, if she knew anything of his past before that damnable sword, since the women of his earlier youth had enjoyed a great deal of attention from him.

Then Siegfried remembers the day she found him, and what she was wearing, which was a great deal less than what she is wearing now, and completely discards the idea that Isabella Valentine would ever be concerned for her virtue.

Finally coming to a decision, Isabella turns from him and back to the fire, dropping once more to her knees, her back completely to him so he can't see the book once more open in her hands. "I do plan to find my bed before daybreak, you have till then. Stay if you must but do not come any closer than that."

And just like that, Siegfried feels his body relax and uncoil. He is just a little surprised at just how much he desires her company; harsh and irritable as it can be, it feels better to have her brooding silence in the room along with his own than to spend the remaining hours wandering the empty corridors of her large, desolate home.

Siegfried watches her silently as the time passes and Isabella slowly tears each page from the book in her lap to feed it to the flickering, hungry flames. It is the only light at that end of the room and it delineates her sharply in lines of light and shadow. He comes to realise only after watching for a time, that her movements are steadily slowing, shoulders hunching and head drooping. Siegfried wonders for a moment if she weeps, but no sound is coming from her. She pulls one more page from the book, and it must be the final one, because she doesn't move again after that.

Isabella remains in place, silently watching the dying fire it seems, and all remembrance of Siegfried being in the room gone from her thoughts.

Carefully, slowly, like a man approaching a sleeping bear, Siegfried quietly gets to his feet and closes the distance between them till he can see her clearly. The book's binding is a scrap of black leather in her hands, while she stares into the glowing embers with that same almost-blank gaze she had fixed him with earlier. Except, he finally realises, that it wasn't just him, but his face she had stared at, eyes fixed upon the scar that she had given him.

For a moment, there is a powerful desire in him to know what had lain between the covers of the book, to know what has been chasing her through the days and nights since their last, rather violent, exchange. To know what has brought her to this point where she looks at him without pity or disdain, without even anger, and it punctures the apathy that has rounded his days since waking to the sunlight.

Perhaps that is what causes him to reach out a hand to catch her attention by touch, rather than safely calling from a distance. His fingers barely brush her shoulder but it is enough; she spins to her feet, a rising force that catches him off-guard enough to propel him across the room. Falling back against the bed, Siegfried lands on the mattress, only missing the bedpost by bare inches; but he is more mindful right now, however, of the woman approaching him.

There is no anger in her expression, but the look on her face is still terrible, and when she comes close enough he can see the deep, haunted look in her glassy, blue eyes. It is a moment of recognition for Siegfried, almost like looking into a mirror, the depth of the despair he suddenly sees in her, so wide open to the world and to him. Something that feels like a kindred emotion stirs in his chest. He knows this, he knows this very well, and so it seems does she.

He pushes himself up off the bed, takes her slender waist in both hands and draws her closer. Her arms flex as though she is about to move, to perhaps fend him off, but they drop to her side again and her posture changes once more, to slump wearily before him.

Siegfried finally comes to his feet, his hands moving from her waist to wrap round her neck and cup her jaw; he pulls her head down slightly and presses his lips to hers.

Isabella doesn't resist, but she doesn't really kiss him back either, he takes it as a consent all the same. He continues to tease her mouth with his own until she finally opens against him, she jerks a little when he slides his tongue in against hers but relaxes quickly enough. By this time her fingers are clutching loosely at the sides of his robe and Siegfried decides it's an improvement enough from when he started.

He pulls out of the kiss to gaze at Isabella, just a little warily, not sure if she will allow him to follow through on what he really wants to do with her. The despair is still a little too naked on her face, but not so terrible as it was before. She seems to sense his question without him having to utter it and her consent is in the way she still stands before him, not moving away, arms back by her sides and not moving to stop him.

In another time, in another age, Siegfried perhaps would have balked at taking a woman this way, but he is no longer that boy so full of himself and the lust for life and death. He feels no better than she in this moment, and to find some kind of brief escape in this release is all that he cares to do.

He unties the belt and pushes the robe from her shoulders and Isabella gamely assists in the removal of her underclothes till she stands bare before him. Siegfried then shrugs his own robe from his shoulders and leads her to lie on the bed before crawling on beside her.

He leans over and kisses her again, moving his free hand up over her belly to cover one full breast and gently kneads the soft flesh with his fingers. She makes no sound, except for when he finally pinches the rigid nipple and she gives a slight gasp.

Siegfried moves over her fully then, and Isabella obligingly parts her legs for him, though that isn't quite his intention just yet. He presses his lips to her throat first, then her left shoulder, then lower, lingering on each breast in turn, and now one of her hands comes up to cup the back of his head while the other slides against his shoulder. Her breaths deepen, but still no sound of pleasure comes from her.

Siegfried is past caring on that now though, his manhood is heavy and throbbing with need and he will take her in whatever way she is offering herself.

Finally his hands reach down to her thighs and part them further, the flesh between her legs is slick to his touch and she squirms just a little when his probing fingers stroke over and over her tender bud before finding her entrance and press inside. It's enough, he decides, and positioning himself just so he leans forward and begins to push himself in.

Isabella does moan then, though it seems more like a sound of discomfort, she arches her back beneath him and clutches at the covers with both hands as Siegfried tries to push through the tightness without hurting her. He perseveres though, and once he has partly sheathed himself inside her, he leans further over to rest his arms either side of her shoulders.

Slowly, he starts to move. Isabella's hands come up once more, to press against his ribs and curve under his shoulder, her thighs moving to cradle his. Siegfried drops his face into the crook of her neck and he can feel her breath against his right ear. She moans again, softly, just under her breath.

He does not know how long it lasts. Siegfried's world narrows in till all that exists lies between her belly and his thighs. He feels he is barely himself any more, just a rampant need slaking it's thirst as nature intended. Still Isabella lies quiet beneath him, though the initial resistance is long gone and her breath continues to blow hotly against his ear in gentle gasps.

Siegfried grunts as he begins to move quicker; the gentle rocking of his hips against hers giving way to hard, decisive thrusts, as he feels the slow start of the wind-up towards his climax. He rises up from his elbows, head bowed and his lover hidden from him by the curtain of his hair and closed eyelids, his hips dictating the rhythm and speed without thought. It's enough to start carrying him away, but finally, finally, his ears discover that he has managed to force sound from between her lips; and he focuses on that, even as he feels the tension grip his body and the pleasure start in his balls.

Then suddenly the world is ending, crashing down in a cacophony of heat and sound, which is all him and him alone. His eyes screw shut, and for a second, he sees a flash of bright daylight.

After a while, Siegfried opens his eyes and raises his head once more. Isabella lays still beneath him, eyes closed and breathing softly. She could be asleep, or falling asleep. He shifts inside her and her expression flinches. Ah well, he thinks, not quite asleep yet. Gently he pulls out to fall to her side and Siegfried watches her for a moment to see if she will wake.

Slowly her eyes come open and she stares up at the canopy of the bed, one hand coming to rest between her breasts while the other strokes an idle circle on her belly.

"Are you well?" Siegfried asks after a moment, when it becomes obvious she will say nothing on her own or even acknowledge him it seems.

Her head turns towards him, eyes finally meeting his in frank consideration; he then sees the hand on her belly move further down between her legs and she winces. "I'm a little sore," she says. Her hand comes up again and she holds it up to inspect her fingers as she rubs at them with her thumb. "I believe you may have made me bleed, but I suppose that's to be expected."

Siegfried's brow furrows as he struggles to understand her meaning, but then it dawns and he stares at her in horror. "Isabella, you... I... You..." he sputters, unable to get the words out.

Isabella looks back at him again, irritation once more marring her expression. "What? Did you believe I had lain with a man before?"

Siegfried's mouth opens before he has words to speak, desperately searching for an answer that wouldn't offend before finally leaving his jaw to flap open helplessly.

Isabella sits up, the fire now back in her eyes as she pins him with a glare. "For heaven's sake, Siegfried, I'm unmarried! Do you honestly believe I've spent my years dallying with whatever man happens to catch my fancy?"

At least this question lets Siegfried find his voice to answer with. "No, of course not! I can't say I'd even thought about it at all!" Still he cannot help but stare at the woman before him. He imagined their fornication to be little more than a brief respite from the troubles in their hearts, had he known she was proffering up her maidenhead to him she would have benefited from a much more considerate lover.

Siegfried almost winces, when he thinks of how he penetrated her with so little preamble and mercilessly pushed passed the resistance he encountered within. It was no wonder she was sore.

"Besides," Isabella sniffs as she rolls off the bed, picking her robe up off the floor to shrug back into it, "since it seems I'm to be cursed with the sins of my wretched 'father', it's doubtful I shall ever be marrying, or indeed," and she looks back at him over one shoulder, "enjoying any kind of carnal relations considering what might come of it."

Moving purposefully towards the windows, Isabella tweaks back the curtain to let in the watery grey light of dawn. "I wonder," she murmurs, almost to herself, but she might just be addressing Siegfried too, "should I be with child, would I birth a monster?"

Apparently she is addressing him, as she then looks over at Siegfried. "What kind of child would you father now, Siegfried, after what you have become?"

The horror as he stares into her face comes back to squeeze his heart, but for different reasons entirely. The question she poses is perfectly valid, but worse still as he searches her face, her eyes, he finds he struggles to see the sanity there, despair having given way to something much worse.

Isabella is just as broken as he is, he finally realises, and how could he have ever doubted that would not be the case? He has seen what has been done to her. He is, after all, in large part responsible for some of her suffering – though if not he, would the sword not have claimed some other foolish seeker to do the same? Their lives have been so hideously twisted and warped by the evil of the sword named Soul Edge that nothing good could ever come from either of them.

Blood poisoned and soul corrupted; because of this he knows he cannot touch her ever again, nor rightly could he touch any woman, for fear of what might follow. And the thought hurts. How could life dare to come from him when he has done such terrible things? How could it dare to come from her when all that might be brought forth is something monstrous? Something worse than either of them, like the unspeakable creatures that terrible sword had spawned in the past...

The understanding of all of this comes almost like a lightning strike and Siegfried feels the wellspring of his own whispering madness begin to gurgle up inside in response. Without a thought he scrambles from the bed, running for the door, mindless of his nudity and almost tripping over his own feet. His desperation to get away from her before the demon spewed forth from his soul once more to wrap him in it's coils, to make him try take and devour Isabella in a way wholly different from when they had fought.

And then it is upon him and for a moment he exults in his freedom.

Untold strength pours through him and every base desire that ever was culminates in the screaming, yearning need for more, for the sustenance it gives. This! This is what it is to have a soul! And Soul Edge could never have enough...

Siegfried screams horribly and comes back to himself with a start; he doesn't remember fleeing from Isabella and the awful stare of her madness, he doesn't remember stumbling desperately back to his room and throwing himself against the door. The door that resembles the one in his head through which he has fled from Soul Edge. He just stares at his right arm and counts the fingers over and over, to make sure that he has five and that five fingers are what should be there and that it's branded into his brain to never ever forget this again...

888

Deep beneath the living floors of the Valentine mansion Soul Edge lies. A crude platform rising up above the water level and painted with arcane signs that glow gently in the all consuming darkness is all that holds the crumbling sword back from the rest of the world.

Soul Edge has been sleeping since it's defeat at the point of Soul Calibur, sister-blade and bane-blade. Yet it's time in the void was well spent and in his dreams Inferno stretches and prepares to wake.

A/N: Well then. I wrote this fairly quickly but it took forever to edit as I just couldn't get parts of it to read properly. If anyone was surprised Ivy was still toting the 'V' plates, I swear that hadn't been my intention when I first set out to write this chapter, and I'm still surprised when I re-read it myself. I have to admit, though, that I do very much like the almost supreme irony of a character that overtly sexual as being so completely chaste. ;op