I cradle Astaire in my arms and observe him carefully for signs of life. His pulse, a whisper, still courses through his arteries. His breaths are so slight, the movement is nearly imperceptible to the eye. But even with a will as strong as his, I am reminded of the delicacy of his flesh.
Too weakened to do anything but watch, I take in every detail of his form, hoping to etch them into my soul for all eternity. Pronounced cheekbones frame a too broad nose. A singular pale freckle cradled in the divot above his full lips. A form made up of sharp edges and inexplicable softness. A body as contradictory as the man himself.
My limbs succumb to weakness, head falling between my pillows. I close my eyes as Astaire’s blood mends every part of me, yet I refuse to relinquish him. I take the little strength I have left to keep him in my arms. I fear I have taken too much. Drained him irrevocably.
Frustration builds with the realisation that I do not yet have the power to revive him. Nevertheless, frustration cannot save him. I must wait; I must hope.
And as I lie there, bound in this stillness, I let what was shown of Astaire’s life take root inside me. He was given everything I ever wished for, yet he was not content. Unmoved by familial love. I cannot make sense of it.
Until this moment, I was certain something had happened to shape him into this being. Perhaps it did, but it had not been shown to me when I consumed him. I believed seeing his life would make him clearer to me. Yet I find myself more lost than before. I cannot help but look upon this most unusual man in wonder. A picture of frailty, yet the strongest of all. Untouched and empty.
I wish to linger upon these visions, yet the urgent demands of my own healing body pry me away. Now, sufficiently restored, I pierce a finger with my fang, then spread my blood onto thejagged wound upon his wrist. I saw the violence with which he stabbed himself to feed me. To help me.
I cannot fathom why any mortal would do such a thing. Why would Astaire endanger himself just so that I would suffer less? Did he not know the risks? Grasp the perils?
And yet, as my blood seeps into his wound, I watch with a strange fascination as the injury begins to mend before my eyes. Layer by layer, flesh draws together like parted lovers eager to unite again. Tendons, veins, and muscles reconstruct themselves so quickly that no mortal eye can hope to follow. In the end, the mangled wound that once marred his skin is now a mere ghostly imprint upon his flesh. The only evidence of his valour is nothing but a faint shine amongst a milky sea.
Even with the restoration wrought by my blood, Astaire is too still, too cold. His breath remains shallow, but I sense a glimmer of life within him. Beneath the fragile shell of his form lies something sensed only by me: a power buried deep within.
I lift his chilled body to lay him on the carpet before the hearth. He is too light, too insubstantial; his gaunt frame betrays the toll of his indifferent nature. He’s working too much, eating too little.
I stoke the wood and enfold him in my warmest counterpane. There, he lies sleeping beneath the fire of the hearth, his delicate features seemingly aflame. In this light, I see fine hairs on his jaw. I slide my finger over the down and find it more akin to chamois than the stubble upon my own face. I want to linger, discover an infinite amount of little details about his being, but I restrain myself. I draw back, taking refuge in the comfort of my armchair.
I watch as his shoulders slowly rise and fall, as if he were in the deepest slumber. I know this cannot continue. I am fiercely aware that I placed him in danger’s path for my own selfish desires, and that truth claws at me with unbridled ferocity.
I can no longer silence the screaming that tears through my soul, as relentless as a chilling hymn from an ancient fable.
Beware, beware, for the master is near.
There is no hiding from him. He sees all. Knows all. Takes all.
I endeavoured to listen. I sought to please him. But all my efforts are for naught. Yet, despite my age, despite my strength, I stand no chance. Nonetheless, I refuse to remain still like an offering awaiting discovery, for Astaire to be ripped to shreds so fine till nothing remains. Devoured wholly.
Here I am, consumed by my shame, consumed by my weakness—utterly certain I am powerless to protect the secret lying at my feet.
XV
Iwake to intense heat flushing my cheeks. When I open my eyes, I see flames reaching up into the darkness of a chimney. My body is warmer than it’s been since arriving at the castle, and I take a moment to linger in its comfort. My stomach makes an ungodly sound, but despite this, I feel surprisingly rested. I sit up, trying to remember where I am. Then, everything floods back. I’m in Abas’ room. I remember him lying in bed, barely moving, skin ashen, too weak to speak.
The pain when I stabbed myself is fresh in my mind, but strangely, I see no wound on my arm. Had I imagined it all? When I turn, I see Abas sitting in the armchair behind me. He watches me intently, then abruptly looks away to stare into the fire, as he often does.
“Get out,” he says quietly into the flames.
“What?” I ask. Of all the things he could have said, this is the last one I expected.
“I said, get out,” he repeats, enunciating each word carefully.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Is he serious?
“Get the fuck out. I don’t want you here.” He still doesn’t look at me as he speaks. His voice is so icy and empty, it doesn’t even sound like Abas anymore.
I stand up on unsteady legs, watching him, expecting something, anything, more than this coldness he’s giving me. But from him comes nothing at all. For a second, I doubt my own sanity. Had it all been some strange dream? Could it be? Then, all of a sudden, I feel awkward, my hands hanging too heavy from my arms. My fingers twitch, and my legs urge me to do as he says.
When he doesn’t move, I leave the room, not bothering to shut the door behind me. As I walk down the corridor, I hear the quiet click of it closing in the distance.
I barely register anything on my way back to my room. I move automatically, finally having memorised these halls like my own home.
I’m too tired to analyse what just happened, too tired of feeling anything at all: the lust, the confusion, the anticipation. I didn’t even know I could care, but right now, I don’t want to care anymore.
