Here we are, finally reaching canon. But not the end yet. Not quite.
Thank you Hal for sharing with Crumb the heartbreaking story, anecdote really, that inspired this lush journey.
Thanks to everyone who's come back to read. And thanks to my wonderful friend Sae, for giving me another pep talk and all the fabulous input.
Mood music is Sleep Paralysis by Gabriel Bruce, which was actually used in the ad/preview for the final Being Human episode. Serious props to the show's sound department; they really were on point with all their choices.
As always, everything belongs to Toby Whithouse. All mistakes my own.
Ch. 25 A Warmer Coat
There are no tears.
The shock of his betrayal is too strong for tears. No, not betrayal. Hal had been completely transparent with her from their very first meeting in the cellar when he had warned her to run. Hers is the shock of discovering that the life she lived had been a lie of her own making. Hers is the shock of an entire belief system being shattered. Sylvie had never been very pious; the drunk priest with the roaming hands had robbed her of godly faith. The death of her twin had disavowed her of any earthly convictions.
Then she'd met Hal and found a purpose. She had poured every ounce of belief into the certainty that he could be changed. That she had the power to change him. To save him. Encompassed in that surety had been an axiom which guided her, which gave her hope in all the many hopeless moments: He loved her. He would never hurt her.
But now, he has.
Drowning in the indelible sense of loss, Sylvie shoves Hal off and curls into herself, rocking slightly. As the minutes tick, she waits expectantly for him to waken and finish what he'd begun. She almost welcomes it. But he sleeps like the dead.
It isn't long before she remembers the stake.
She slips out of bed, eyes scouring the dimly-lit room. As luck would have it, she finds the stake by the hearth, the glow of the dying embers showing the dark shaft against the lighter oak floor. She picks it up.
Approaching his bedside, she gingerly climbs onto him, her thighs straddling his. The age-burnished shaft feels so much heavier than it should as she lifts it with both hands above her head for leverage. She would have only one chance at this.
Sylvie pauses in dizzy tension, poised on the brink of swinging the stake, the loud thudding of her heart surely enough to waken the monster beneath her. She hangs there in an infinity of heartache, watching his peaceful slumber, searching for the demon with the scorching black eyes in his sweet, youthful face. A riot of emotions spring up and war within her.
Closing her eyes, she wills her hands to movement.
But she can't.
Sylvie's arms fall listlessly, her numb fingers opening, the stake dropping harmlessly onto the bed with nary a whisper.
She watches him for a long time - her sleeping devil with an angel's face. A hollow emptiness steels over her and she reaches a crushing clarity. He is to her what blood is to him. An unquenchable addiction. It didn't matter that he'd hurt her. She loves him. She would always love him.
And loving him would never be enough to stop him.
As the embers die, the room grown dark, she slides off. She puts his night clothes back in order and pulls the sheets and coverlet up over them. There are no tears. Just a cold numbness. 'You made your bed a long time ago. Now you must lie on it.' Sylvie waits, hoping, for the nothingness of sleep to swallow her.
She opens her eyes to an uncomfortable awareness: throbs of pain in her heart and on her body, and the immediacy of a bladder full to bursting. As she lays there, the memory of the night threatens. She pushes the hard thoughts away and gingerly slides out of bed to relieve herself. When the chamberpot sounds fail to stir Hal from his death-like sleep, she feels confident enough to light a candle. She removes the linen drape from the standing mirror, discards her torn nightdress, and forces herself to confront the undeniable record of last night's events. Her trembling reflection confirms what the aches had told her; shadows of bruising have appeared on her cheek, neck and arms. Marks that were left on her by the passions of a vampire and a werewolf. She should count herself lucky, she thinks numbly as she stares at them dispassionately.
Quiet as a ghost, Sylvie dresses mechanically, each piece of clothing slipped on like armour. A fresh chemise, stays, stockings, petticoat, chemisette, long sleeved gown, and - to conceal the marks on her neck - a fraise. As she ties the neck ruff with its tight
layers of ruffles around her neck, the sensation of being strangled comes back to her, and she almost stops herself. She'd fancied it felt that way before, but now she truly has firsthand knowledge. She makes herself finish tying it, the final piece of her armour slotting into place. Kicking her ripped nightdress under the bed, she finally spares a glance at Hal; how innocent he looks in his slumber. There are no tears. She turns to flee the bedchamber.
As she clicks the door shut, Sylvie pauses in the hall to listen to the mundane noises of her home. The pre-dawn stillness is broken by snoring emanating from both guest doors, the house creaking in the wind, and the sounds of the servants beginning the morning's preparations. Life continuing as normal. How can it all sound so normal? She steps lightly downstairs, laces up her boots with quiet swiftness, and grabs her warm winter coat hanging by the door. By the time she steps out into the frigid dawn, a smothering detachment has settled over her like the heavy coat she settles over her shoulders.
Hal opens his eyes to a cold hearth and instant regret, wincing them shut again as the awareness of pale morning light blossoms into a ripple of pain through his skull. Which comes second only to the hollow gnawing in his belly. He lays absolutely still, waiting for the pain to settle into a low throb, waiting for the sleep-awakened hunger to fade to a manageable level.
Threads of his dreams flit through his consciousness. He'd been Lord Henry again, with his warhorse and sword and shield - he'd been very fond of that shield - commanding armies and peasants alike for his pleasure. That had been lifetimes ago. But the dark memories of power, lust and violence had an immediacy to them. He could all but smell a trace of fear in the air, feel the phantom of struggling flesh on his fingertips, feel the echo of giddy power that had coursed through him. The dream had felt so real.
To dispel the tantalizing memory, Hal casts his senses into the present, fists gripping the sheets to hold himself down as the soft thrums of hearts beating come into sharp focus. Their pulses marry with and intensify the throbbing in his head. Five heartbeats present; six, counting the tiny swish of blood he strains to hear. Five humans. The pregnant one. All that blood. He trembles with the effort of keeping himself from lunging out of bed.
Focus on something else.
There is no heart beating next to him; he is alone in the bedchamber. He cracks his eyes open to stare at the empty side of the bed. Lifting his head, Hal notes the time on clock on the mantle. Sylvie is hardly one to enjoy an early start. He should have found her luxuriating in the fact that he had slept well past his customary time, insisting that he should not leave the bed at all, at least not until she was satisfied he should. He feels the cold of her pillow, frowning, and as he pulls his hand back, his forearm brushes against something hard under a fold in the linens. He fishes it out - a stake. His frown intensifies as he stares at it, vestiges of last night returning.
When Sylvie had abandoned him in the attic to go to the werewolf, a feeling of despair had washed over him. In a moment of weakness, he'd snuck into the stables to fetch Sylvie's hidden bottle of cordial. He hadn't meant to drink the entire bottle, but her escape from the attic had stung of rejection, and he'd seen the sickly-sweet, blood-red syrup as a safer alternative to his true craving. Things had deteriorated from there. Anxiety had melted into confidence. Jealousy had transformed to lust. Loud and lewd, he'd made an ass of himself. He'd goaded the werewolves and once again Sylvie had been required to talk them down. His memory includes Sylvie bringing the stake with her; he remembers her placing it on the table as she shoved him onto the bed. Then, nothing but dreams. How did the stake come to be entangled in the sheets?
Hal gets out of bed, looking around. Books are strewn on the floor. What exactly had happened after he'd fallen unconscious? He is aware of his somnambulism. He could very well have knocked everything over as he walked in his sleep. But how did the stake end up in the middle of the bed? Hal rubs his temples, trying to remember past his dreams. But all that surfaces is the violence and power, his lust for both.
Hastily tidying up the books onto the bedside table, Hal places the stake in the drawer then drops straight to the floor to begin a rapid succession of press-ups. It does nothing to help the throb in his skull, but at least it calms his shaking.
He exercises, washes and shaves, changes into a crisp shirt, trousers and matching waistcoat, knots his cravat and slips on his polished boots. Then he wanders around the room tidying up. It could be said that Hal is hiding, postponing the confrontation with Sylvie, the wolves, the servants. Hard to tell which he dreads more: having to explain his deplorable behaviour to his wife, apologizing to the werewolf's wife, or having to face the older housekeeper. The memory of his whispered words makes him blush. He's not hiding, he tells himself. He's simply tidying. "Idle hands are the devil's workshop," he rationalizes to himself. A scrap of cloth under the bed catches his eye, he stoops over to pull it out and rolls his eyes at finding Sylvie's nightdress. Not the first time she'd simply kicked things under the bed instead of putting them in their proper place. He begins folding it, but stops when he notices it's tattered state, the tear from hem to waist. How the devil had this happen? Had she tripped at some point coming up the stairs, catching the hem on a nail? Or... He squeezes his eyes shut tight, focusing as a murky thought tries to surface. But just then, a noise intrudes on his concentration.
Ting...
A single note rings up from downstairs - the sharp hit of hammer on string - then fades off towards its final vibrations, only to be pressed again. Not a warmup, nor prelude to a song, just that one single note.
Ting
.
.
.
Ting
It is an unpleasant sound. The piano-forte is out of tune, and what should be clear and bright instead sounds dirge-like in lethargic repetition. Hal attempts to ignore it, but the sound is just loud enough to intrude on his thoughts, just slow enough that he's caught waiting expectantly after each keypress, straining to hear as the sound fades to silence, only to be jarred by its resurgence. This grates on his barely soothed sensibilities. With a long suffering sigh, he decides he can no longer put off the confrontation. He hangs the nightdress over a chair where the servants can see it needs attention, and stalks out. Leaving his sanctuary with a click of the door, Hal steps into the hallway and takes a moment to smooth his hair. An echoing click catches his attention. Down the hall, Gemma stands primly at the guest room door. He waits, but she makes no move. Swallowing hard, Hal goes to her.
Ting...
"My behaviour last night was reprehensible," he says apologetically.
Her cheeks pink in a blush.
Ting...
Hal cocks his head at the continuing sound but their attention is caught by another door opening and the doctor's head appearing. When the man's bloodshot eyes alight on him, Hal can see the white, or in this case redness, all around his irises. With a squeak and a slamming of the door, the odious man disappears back into his room. Hal hears the bolt. Good riddance.
Ting...
Hal turns back to the woman. "Federico, is he -" Hal trails off uncertain. Is he well? Is he still hell bent on driving a stake through my heart and making my wife a werewolf?
"He's gone to check the pass, hoping it is clear enough to at least send me away to the village with the doctor. He and Mark have no choice but to continue with the plan to transform tonight up in the northern woods. I - " Gemma pauses as if considering her words, then with a small shake of her head says simply, "I believe it would be best, after we leave, that we stay away for a while."
Ting...
"I couldn't agree with you more."
They stand awkwardly facing each other for a moment before he steps aside. Without further ado, she gathers her skirts, and precedes him down the hall and stairs.
That was surprisingly easy. Perhaps things wouldn't be so bad after all.
Ting...
At the bottom they find the servants crowding at the double doors to the parlour. The group turns en masse, and when the older servant sees Hal, she reacts much like the doctor. With widened eyes she gasps, makes the sign of the cross, and hurries away to the kitchens. Hard to say if her reaction is to knowing without a doubt what he is, or to the words he'd whispered in her ear last night. Hal's blush returns.
Ting...
He clears his throat and addresses the rest. "Why do you crowd the door?"
"It's Lady Sylvie, m'Lord," Beth volunteers, apparently unperturbed by the revelations of the previous night. "We don't know if she was in the house when we came to start the fires. We thought it best to leave the upstairs undis -"
Ting...
"... undisturbed. Not long after we began preparing breakfast, the two... ummm... Mr. De La Villa came down, had a few hushed words with Mark then they departed. Sylvie's only just returned, unresponsive to our queries."
Ting...
"I'll go to her," Gemma replies, moving to the doorway.
"No," Hal says reluctantly, then firms his voice. "I should be the one. To make amends."
Ting...
The two women look at him dubiously as the sound fades, but they part to let him through. Hal enters the room.
Ting...
He crosses to the middle of the room, stepping over Sylvie's casually discarded coat, to where she sits at the piano-forte, her damp, unbound hair completely obscuring her face. He stops an arms-length from her side, watching as her finger depresses the rightmost key.
Ting...
Seconds tick by; she presses again. Hal counts in his head; she presses again, making no acknowledgement of his presence. "Sylvie," he says softly.
Ting...
He raises his voice. "Sylvie, what are you doing? Where have you been?"
Ting...
Hal presses his palms to his thighs with a sigh. "I must apologize for my beha-"
Ting...
"Sylvie will you please stop that infernal noise? It's giving me a headac-"
Ting...
"Stop!" he yells, covering her hand with his to a burst of sound.
She remains motionless, still refusing acknowledgement. As the last vibrations fade into complete silence, the front door bangs.
Hal jumps, jerking his hand off of hers as he looks up to see the people at the doorway shift clear and Federico enter the room in a huff.
"The pass is still impassable." He announces without preamble.
His wife, who had followed him in, asks, "Where is Mark?"
"I sent him ahead to the woods," Federico replies distractedly, taking in Sylvie's stillness and frowning at Hal.
"Finally, some sense," says Hal dryly.
"Sense? There is no sense in any of this. I am loath to leave all these humans with you while I'm gone overnight."
"Husband, please, we went over this."
Federico turns to answer Gemma in an appeasing tone. "Mi cariño, what happened yesterday was not right, I know that. But I cannot stand the thought of you here unprotected. If he will not be tied up, there must be something else that can be done."
"We can lock ourselves in the servant's house," Beth offers as she strolls towards them. "The deed was signed over to us many years ago. Lady Sylvie often sends us there, whenever she has to deal with Lord Hal's tantrums." She stares blatantly at Hal.
"Tantrums!" Federico says incredulously.
Tantrums. Hal rolls his eyes. That's one of Sylvie's words. Do none of these women have any sense of self-preservation?
"Cabrón! You lied to them about that too?" Federico's dark eyes bore into his. Hal gives the werewolf some credit; he appears to be fighting his nature. He answers Beth through gritted teeth, "Normal vampires cannot enter without invitation. But Hal is an Old One. That restriction does not affect him."
Shit. Hal glances towards Sylvie, but Federico beats him to her, crouching down to look up at her face. "Señorita, what other lies -" he begins, but then he grabs her arms, demanding roughly. "Que paso?"
Although his view is partially obscured, Hal sees her wince at the wolf's touch. Federico's hand rakes the curtain of her hair away from her face, hooking it over her ear.
And suddenly the werewolf spins around lunging at him with a growl. "What did you do to her?" He grabs Hal's waistcoat, shaking him.
So much for being cowed last night. "Me? I've done absolutely nothing!"
"She had no signs of violence on her last night!"
Violence? "I wasn't the one threatening to make her a werewolf!" he exclaims, shoving Federico away and straightening the hem of his waistcoat. He turns back to Sylvie and sees what he'd missed while she'd kept her head down - a dark purple smudge on her cheek. A tendril of worry tightens around his throat. "Sylvie?" he asks softly.
Still unresponsive, Sylvie stands suddenly, turning away to leave. She takes two steps before Federico grabs her arm to stop her.
"Where are you going?" he insists.
Hal sees Sylvie wince a second time. She stops, but answers without turning back. "I'm just going to leave the two of you to it."
"To what?" asks Hal.
"To yourselves. To the inevitable conclusion I failed to see. 'Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.' You two are hell bent on killing each other. So I'll leave you to it."
Federico protests. "I am only trying to help."
"You've 'helped' enough." Hal says, shooting him a cold glare, a warning to take his hands off her. He strides forward in a challenging stance, and the werewolf takes a step back. Hal passes him, circling around and face Sylvie. Taking a deep breath he says, "Sylvie, about last night. I can't apologize enough. I will submit to whatever sanction you see fit. Even if it means being tied up."
She continues to gaze down the hall, her only reply a nearly inaudible, "What's the point." An uneasy feeling creeps up his shoulder blades. She should be shouting. She should be giving both of them a piece of her mind. Something is not right.
Narrowing his eyes, he reaches for her arm; she remains still, but winces a third time. Hal pulls up her sleeve to reveal a set of bruises clearly defined in the shape of fingers on her arm. "He did this, didn't he?" Her eyes widen, but she remains silent.
"I did not," the werewolf insists. "I've never struck a woman in my life."
"And you didn't grab her hard enough to leave these bruises? I saw her rubbing her arms when she entered the parlour last night. Two seconds after you did."
"I, uh -" He'd been ready to dissent, but Hal sees recognition in his eyes. "I was upset. I did not mean to hurt her."
"'Upset'." Hal huffs derisively. "You were more than that, weren't you?"
"That still does not explain her face."
"You were furious. I could hear you through the walls, we all could. I know what you are capable of when you let your temper take control."
"But -"
"And have you never done something in your rage that you've forgotten?"
"I-"
Hal gives him no time to formulate a reply. "You need to leave. Now."
Federico stares at him, more fight in his face, but then he looks around at their audience. The secrets that had come to light last night reflect back to him in their incriminating glances. His bravado deflates.
Hal watches him walk out of the room, proverbial tail between his legs, and hears the front door slam behind him.
It's Hal's turn to look around at the silent gathering.
Gemma steps forward silently, and takes Sylvie's arm from him. Sylvie lets her friend lead her away with only a small pause. "Federico isn't the only one who needs to leave. The snow has melted in the meadows. Perhaps a ride would be wise right now," she says, emotionless. Then she leaves the room with Gemma. Following suit, everyone else begins dissipating out of the room until he remains alone.
At a loss, Hal decides to take her suggestion.
Hal gratefully clears his mind as he rides through a landscape still dotted with melting snow in the bright sun. Drowning out his thoughts with the rhythm of the horses hooves, he breathes in the clean scent of the air. No werewolves, no humans, not even woodsmoke. Nothing to tempt him. His headache had dulled a bit, and he feels he can let a modicum of his constant vigilance drop. A reprieve he's sorely needed. Hal gives silent thanks to Sylvie for her suggestion.
As he nears a copse of bare trees, birdsong catches his attention and he turns Dola in that direction, finding a pair of larks perched on a low-lying branch. Odd for them to be this far north and inland, but he recalls Sylvie saying one of the local Ladies keeps song birds. They must have escaped their cage. He urges his horse to walk so slowly that her hoofs are muffled in the wet leaves; he stops just an arm's length away. The birds pause, cocking their heads to the potential threat, but he can be very still. Once satisfied that he remains a fixture, they resume their song.
The birds turn his thoughts to Sylvie; she would be delighted when he told her he'd come across them. Tendrils of the poem Hal had written Sylvie to court her spring up in his mind. The poem she'd turned into a song. Her voice in his head mingles with the trill of the birds.
Hal turns his face up to the pale sun, closing his eyes, letting images take over his consciousness. The mischievous glint in her eyes the day she had tricked him into dancing with her; her face lit up as she'd laughed down at him from her perch in a tree the time he'd fallen in a pond; the beatific smile of triumph on her face as he placed the ring on her finger. She had infuriated him. She had enchanted him. She had filled him with a love so strong it was a physical ache. She had filled him with such hope he had thrown caution to the wind.
For most of Hal's existence, stability and happiness had fluttered around him, elusive; never quite in his grasp, never quite settling down. Through the chaos, hunger, depravity, pain and remorse, it was rare to find those moments. But he'd found such moments with her. He'd had such moments, with her.
Regrettably, his mind turns to concerns he'd been avoiding. Something plays at the edge of his thoughts, an uneasiness over the events of the morning. Sylvie's initial silence, her refusal to acknowledge him, was understandable given his infantile behaviour the night before. Her reaction to Federico was also understandable. In the heat of the evening she'd stood her ground, but considering the revelation of the wolves' ill-conceived plans, she naturally would be wary of him. But no reprimands. No lectures. No obscenities. It just wasn't like her. When she grew angry, the entire household was aware of it. She'd been cold. Lifeless. Her reaction had been too contrary of her innate sensibilities for him to attribute its cause as a snub, the cold shoulder, at both of them. Hal has a keen sense for reading people; he's missing some key element that transpired between the time he'd collapsed into their bed and he'd woken.
The stake in their bed; that was the first oddity. The bruises. The ones on her arms were courtesy of the werewolf; he was sure of it. The one on her cheek he wasn't so certain about. Despite his accusations, he'd seen sincere confusion in Federico's eyes. And one more thing - something which on the surface seems insignificant - bothers him. She'd worn that fraise. She keeps it in her wardrobe to wear on the few occasions each year she drags him to mass in the village, in order to allay suspicions. No sooner do they enter their homeward-bound carriage than she practically rips it off. She hates it with an incalculable passion. The only reason for donning it today, that he can conceive, is to hide something. More bruises, he guesses. But, he finds it hard to believe she would hide them for the werewolf's sake. No, he can think of only one person she is loyal enough to protect.
What had he done?
He knows about the somnambulism. As much as he hates his unrelenting vampiric memory, as much as he would like to forget all the deplorable things from his past, it bothers him that he suffers these strange amnesiatic episodes. It is something left over from his human life, amplified. He'd been teased - by the women he'd called his mothers - for what they saw as endearing and harmless talking in his sleep. But not long after he'd become a vampire, he'd begun acting out in his dream state. Mostly he woke to simply find himself somewhere else. Other times... he didn't want to dwell on those. There hadn't been blood spilled in all his years with Sylvie, but he suspected that she hadn't always been entirely truthful when he woke from his sleepwalking episodes in a compromising position.
What had he done?
His head begins pounding again, and the birdsong that had retreated into background noise becomes an intrusive drone. He should move away, but he's rooted as his murky thoughts begin to clarify. The dream. It had followed the vein of many of his dreams: Hal in a position of power; cowering men; women to seduce. There had been a girl in his dream, faceless as sometimes dream people are. She'd led him to a bed. She'd been compliant at first, but he hadn't wanted complaisance. He'd struck her. The bruise on the cheek. Cold dread washes over him. His palms itch as he remembers the feel of his hands on the girl's neck, remembers that rush of power he always experienced when he grabbed someone by the throat and squeezed. Hidden bruises. She'd fought back, hadn't she? Yes she had. The dream girl had swung at him with a stake. The stake. Hal grabs at his head, squeezing in attempt to counteract the intensifying pressure. His thoughts spiral. Not faceless. A tangle of hair in the near darkness. He'd laughed as he pried the stake from her hand, as easily as if she'd been a child, and then he'd -
Hal doubles over in silent agony as the last of the dream surfaces and it all slots into place. The torn nightdress. Clutching his arms tight around his belly, hot tears spill over, dripping onto his horse's mane. The droning in his head reaches a fevered pitch. He squeezes his eyes so tight, trying to deny the memory.
Not a dream.
"No, no, no, no, NO!"
There is a loud snap in his head like something breaking; the drone's sudden cessation. A rush of silence. Like shutting a door on the daylight, the world turns black.
The sound of the crisp wind fills his senses first, it's caress bringing the awareness of the sheen of sweat on his face. The breeze washes a cold calm over him. He opens his eyes and stares at his hands. A dead bird, neck broken, dangles from each of them. Dispassionately, he lets the tiny corpses fall. He stares at the minuscule amount of blood splattered on his hands, then brings them up to his lips, licking them clean. The tinny taste makes his belly spasm in anticipation.
With a little smile, Harry takes the reins, turns his horse around, and heads back towards the house.
I've written a little bit of a META that I'm posting on my (sadly neglected) Tumblr account, to share some of my thoughts on the controversial 'is Good Hal/Bad Hal a split personality' debate. Research on Dissociative identity disorder really had an impact on my interpretation of how Hal deals with traumatic events and guilt, and how Sylvie's fate came about. Rules don't allow me to post a direct link, but if you care to read, it's at whimsyfox, the post dated 17 Feb, 2017.
Hal's Poem/Sylvie's Song:
Dear thoughts are in my mind
And my soul soars enchanted,
As I hear the sweet lark sing
In the clear air of the day.
For a tender beaming smile
To my hope has been granted,
And tomorrow she shall hear
All my fond heart would say.
I shall tell her all my love,
All my soul's adoration,
And I think she will hear
And will not say me nay.
It is this that gives my soul
All its joyous elation,
As I hear the sweet lark sing
In the clear air of the day.