The Herald d'Mors: Angel (1/6)
Apr. 2nd, 2013 10:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanagerTitle: The Herald d'Mors
Chapter: 1. Angel
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 1,615 (this chapter) / ~6,500 (total)
Notes: I wrote this story a few years ago and edited it recently.
I. Angel
He thought she looked like an angel.
It was in the unearthly white of her skin and the way her copper hair fell upon the pillow as if it had been arranged in those flowing, beautiful waves. She was still now, almost relaxed even. Her eyes were hazy and a slight smile played on her lips—for a moment, Garrett could almost feel the calm that had settled over her like a sheet of silk—and then her mouth opened to gasp for breath and a shudder rippled through her body.
The inappropriate thought fell from his mind as he helplessly watched yet another wave of pain take over. Her head was tossing and turning again, and her body flopped around on the bed like a puppet played by a madman. The doctor, bending over her to take her heartbeat, swore softly as her elbow jabbed into his stomach.
"Doctor," Garrett cut in sharply, even though it was clear that Anne couldn't hear them.
The other man turned over her hand to reveal dark red creases crisscrossing her palm. "I apologize, my Lord." He followed one lightly with his thumb, and then pushed up the sleeve of her nightgown to expose her lower arm. Though his movements were methodical and confident, the expression on his face when he finally turned around was closer to panic.
Garrett's impatience mounted as the doctor began to rattle off the symptoms, finally bursting. "Just tell me what she has, damn it!"
The doctor flinched, and could not quite regain his composure. "My Lord, this—what Her Ladyship has, it's exceedingly rare. I've never seen another case. There's no name for it. We call it the— I mean—" Garrett knew he was scowling, and the doctor took a beat to collect his thoughts. "There's no name for it. It doesn't spread, my Lord, you're not in any danger. But—there's no cure."
"What the hell do you mean, no cure? What kind of doctor are you? She can't just spend the rest of her life like—like this!"
The clipped, professional note was creeping back into the doctor's voice. "My Lord. None in my profession have ever had a patient suffer more than six days. Once their skin loses color, becomes white like hers is now— I wish to Gods I could help you, but I can only tell you the truth—she'll have passed on by morning." Garrett's fist swung before he could think, slamming across the other man's cheek, leaving a sting in his knuckles. "Don't say that!"
The doctor stumbled back a step. His hand twitched at his side, but he straightened and waited, resentfully. Garrett bit back an apology and picked up the hefty bag of coin from the table, tossing it at the man. "Get out." Without waiting for a response, he seated himself on the bedside chair, his back rigidly turned.
Behind him, he could hear the clanking of medical equipment being thrown together and rapid footsteps leaving the room.
When the footsteps had died away, he leapt to his feet and began to pace, every step dealing a blow to the floor. He was filled with agitated energy, he had to do something, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. Garrett dropped on the chair and checked her heartbeat—weak, but still there. For some time he sat listlessly. Only when he rose to pace some more did he notice that somewhere along the meaningless minutes, their son had pulled up a chair beside him.
The silly boy's eyes were brimming with tears, but he was not crying. She would not, could not die. It was unthinkable. Something would happen and somehow fix this. Something had to happen. Garrett clung to the thought like a lifeline.
"M-my Lord… you have visitors."
His son gave the servant in the doorway an incredulous glare; he did not even grace it with a response. If the man didn't leave in three seconds—
"They say they can help Her Ladyship, my Lord."
They weren't waiting at the gate, as he had expected. Any questions about how they had entered his property fled at the sight of the cloaked riders. He froze in shock, and then the blood drained from his face just as he was struck by the bizarre urge to match the fire-haired, lion-eyed man's carefree grin, which broadened. "Lord Carlesbury, Garrett Matthew Dumont." He fell to his knees at the singsong greeting, not daring to raise his eyes to inspect the dark shadow behind the accursed Herald.
"Rise." This voice was a dry whisper, but more confident and forceful than any battle cry he had ever heard. He stood and straightened his back. The initial shock had passed. Determined to keep some pride, Garrett tried to meet their eyes directly, levelly—bad idea. Then he found that he couldn't look away, either.
It was easy not to stare at Death. Death's face was cold, the power it embodied terrifying. But his eyes were drawn to the Herald like a moth to a flame. The last Erised was brilliant, like the sun; it made him feel like he'd never been alive. Why was a monster that only brought death so full of life? He craved it, but he hated it more.
Nothing had prepared him for this. He felt like he should say something, but the words wouldn't come. Fear, despair, and an unnatural bliss fought to dominate him.
The Erised laughed, a merry, infectious laugh, and inquired in a light, conversational tone, "How are you this fine evening? How is your son? How is your fair lady?"
Anger won out.
His head snapped up, his eyes blazing, his stance bristling defiance… but the will for violence left him as he challenged the gaze that was locked on him. There was no hint of mockery in the Erised's golden eyes, only a fierce merriment that made him feel faintly giddy.
He had to remind himself that this was a monster.
His blood ran cold as Death's thin lips curved into a humorless smile. "You can't take her! She'll recover—her health is improving—" A note of hysteria entered his voice, and he broke off to rein it back.
"Enough." Even the wind fell silent. "I will consider an exchange. I know she is everything to you. She means nothing to me." This utter disregard for life was unsettling. Anne's face, vibrant before her illness, flashed in his mind. The Herald's piercing gaze was fixed on his face. "Anything," Garrett answered, hardly daring to hope.
They seemed pleased.
"A life for a life," Death recited, as if the words had a power beyond even Death's own. "Promise your next child to me, to save your wife." Garrett's resolve faltered, but only for a moment. "Anything," he repeated. And he meant it; surely the woman he'd loved for more than a decade was more important than an unborn child.
That unnatural merriment in the Erised's face became overwhelming, and his defenses crumbled. He couldn't remember why he needed to, why he wanted to fight the wave of euphoria washing over him. "Tell her the angels saved her," the Herald suggested, chuckling. For a second, he couldn't imagine defying this being's wishes.
"I will hold you to your word." The sentence, no louder than a sigh, easily sliced through his mental haze. "Break it, and I will take twice what is due." Then the horses wheeled around, the gay white mare a step behind the somber black stallion, and faded into the darkness. He was left nodding dumbly in the doorway, a silly grin on his face.
Anne thought he looked like a boy again. His wide, innocent eyes were watching her so closely. He looked happier than she had ever seen him. "You're awake," Garrett breathed, with a relieved smile. "The doctor said..." A flash of irritation crossed his features.
A rush of warmth flooded her at his sincere concern, but she was surprised to find that the bliss in his face made her feel vaguely uneasy. She smiled back at him, her brow furrowed in an expression of amiable puzzlement. She had heard the unspoken "You're alive!" masked by his simple statement.
She was alive.
How could she be alive?
Her last memory was of futilely trying to cling to consciousness as the strength left her organs. Her smile grew warmer as she remembered that her last sensation had been of his warm hand holding her cold one. At first the illness had been agonizing, but near the end the pain had faded to an ever-present discomfort, taking her strength with it. She had been weak, so weak. She'd only been able to twitch her fingers against his reassuringly before her grip on thought, too, had fallen away.
Anne had been sure that she would die. Her last emotion had been fear.
"Anne?"
He sounded so worried, so anxious. She didn't want to him to be worried. After all, everything was better now. "I feel wonderful," she told him, and it wasn't exactly a lie. She had expected to be dead; instead she felt like she was... healing. Recovering. "That doctor must have been a miracle worker."
His face darkened, and Anne realized she had said the wrong thing. "That doctor didn't do a thing," he bit out angrily.
But just as quickly the anger left him, and his smile became innocent, true, and... guilty? She couldn't think of any reason for him to feel guilty, and his resemblance to a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar was bewildering. "Garrett..."
He cut her off before she could voice the question. "The angels saved you."
Chapter: 1. Angel
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 1,615 (this chapter) / ~6,500 (total)
Notes: I wrote this story a few years ago and edited it recently.
He thought she looked like an angel.
It was in the unearthly white of her skin and the way her copper hair fell upon the pillow as if it had been arranged in those flowing, beautiful waves. She was still now, almost relaxed even. Her eyes were hazy and a slight smile played on her lips—for a moment, Garrett could almost feel the calm that had settled over her like a sheet of silk—and then her mouth opened to gasp for breath and a shudder rippled through her body.
The inappropriate thought fell from his mind as he helplessly watched yet another wave of pain take over. Her head was tossing and turning again, and her body flopped around on the bed like a puppet played by a madman. The doctor, bending over her to take her heartbeat, swore softly as her elbow jabbed into his stomach.
"Doctor," Garrett cut in sharply, even though it was clear that Anne couldn't hear them.
The other man turned over her hand to reveal dark red creases crisscrossing her palm. "I apologize, my Lord." He followed one lightly with his thumb, and then pushed up the sleeve of her nightgown to expose her lower arm. Though his movements were methodical and confident, the expression on his face when he finally turned around was closer to panic.
Garrett's impatience mounted as the doctor began to rattle off the symptoms, finally bursting. "Just tell me what she has, damn it!"
The doctor flinched, and could not quite regain his composure. "My Lord, this—what Her Ladyship has, it's exceedingly rare. I've never seen another case. There's no name for it. We call it the— I mean—" Garrett knew he was scowling, and the doctor took a beat to collect his thoughts. "There's no name for it. It doesn't spread, my Lord, you're not in any danger. But—there's no cure."
"What the hell do you mean, no cure? What kind of doctor are you? She can't just spend the rest of her life like—like this!"
The clipped, professional note was creeping back into the doctor's voice. "My Lord. None in my profession have ever had a patient suffer more than six days. Once their skin loses color, becomes white like hers is now— I wish to Gods I could help you, but I can only tell you the truth—she'll have passed on by morning." Garrett's fist swung before he could think, slamming across the other man's cheek, leaving a sting in his knuckles. "Don't say that!"
The doctor stumbled back a step. His hand twitched at his side, but he straightened and waited, resentfully. Garrett bit back an apology and picked up the hefty bag of coin from the table, tossing it at the man. "Get out." Without waiting for a response, he seated himself on the bedside chair, his back rigidly turned.
Behind him, he could hear the clanking of medical equipment being thrown together and rapid footsteps leaving the room.
When the footsteps had died away, he leapt to his feet and began to pace, every step dealing a blow to the floor. He was filled with agitated energy, he had to do something, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. Garrett dropped on the chair and checked her heartbeat—weak, but still there. For some time he sat listlessly. Only when he rose to pace some more did he notice that somewhere along the meaningless minutes, their son had pulled up a chair beside him.
The silly boy's eyes were brimming with tears, but he was not crying. She would not, could not die. It was unthinkable. Something would happen and somehow fix this. Something had to happen. Garrett clung to the thought like a lifeline.
"M-my Lord… you have visitors."
His son gave the servant in the doorway an incredulous glare; he did not even grace it with a response. If the man didn't leave in three seconds—
"They say they can help Her Ladyship, my Lord."
They weren't waiting at the gate, as he had expected. Any questions about how they had entered his property fled at the sight of the cloaked riders. He froze in shock, and then the blood drained from his face just as he was struck by the bizarre urge to match the fire-haired, lion-eyed man's carefree grin, which broadened. "Lord Carlesbury, Garrett Matthew Dumont." He fell to his knees at the singsong greeting, not daring to raise his eyes to inspect the dark shadow behind the accursed Herald.
"Rise." This voice was a dry whisper, but more confident and forceful than any battle cry he had ever heard. He stood and straightened his back. The initial shock had passed. Determined to keep some pride, Garrett tried to meet their eyes directly, levelly—bad idea. Then he found that he couldn't look away, either.
It was easy not to stare at Death. Death's face was cold, the power it embodied terrifying. But his eyes were drawn to the Herald like a moth to a flame. The last Erised was brilliant, like the sun; it made him feel like he'd never been alive. Why was a monster that only brought death so full of life? He craved it, but he hated it more.
Nothing had prepared him for this. He felt like he should say something, but the words wouldn't come. Fear, despair, and an unnatural bliss fought to dominate him.
The Erised laughed, a merry, infectious laugh, and inquired in a light, conversational tone, "How are you this fine evening? How is your son? How is your fair lady?"
Anger won out.
His head snapped up, his eyes blazing, his stance bristling defiance… but the will for violence left him as he challenged the gaze that was locked on him. There was no hint of mockery in the Erised's golden eyes, only a fierce merriment that made him feel faintly giddy.
He had to remind himself that this was a monster.
His blood ran cold as Death's thin lips curved into a humorless smile. "You can't take her! She'll recover—her health is improving—" A note of hysteria entered his voice, and he broke off to rein it back.
"Enough." Even the wind fell silent. "I will consider an exchange. I know she is everything to you. She means nothing to me." This utter disregard for life was unsettling. Anne's face, vibrant before her illness, flashed in his mind. The Herald's piercing gaze was fixed on his face. "Anything," Garrett answered, hardly daring to hope.
They seemed pleased.
"A life for a life," Death recited, as if the words had a power beyond even Death's own. "Promise your next child to me, to save your wife." Garrett's resolve faltered, but only for a moment. "Anything," he repeated. And he meant it; surely the woman he'd loved for more than a decade was more important than an unborn child.
That unnatural merriment in the Erised's face became overwhelming, and his defenses crumbled. He couldn't remember why he needed to, why he wanted to fight the wave of euphoria washing over him. "Tell her the angels saved her," the Herald suggested, chuckling. For a second, he couldn't imagine defying this being's wishes.
"I will hold you to your word." The sentence, no louder than a sigh, easily sliced through his mental haze. "Break it, and I will take twice what is due." Then the horses wheeled around, the gay white mare a step behind the somber black stallion, and faded into the darkness. He was left nodding dumbly in the doorway, a silly grin on his face.
Anne thought he looked like a boy again. His wide, innocent eyes were watching her so closely. He looked happier than she had ever seen him. "You're awake," Garrett breathed, with a relieved smile. "The doctor said..." A flash of irritation crossed his features.
A rush of warmth flooded her at his sincere concern, but she was surprised to find that the bliss in his face made her feel vaguely uneasy. She smiled back at him, her brow furrowed in an expression of amiable puzzlement. She had heard the unspoken "You're alive!" masked by his simple statement.
She was alive.
How could she be alive?
Her last memory was of futilely trying to cling to consciousness as the strength left her organs. Her smile grew warmer as she remembered that her last sensation had been of his warm hand holding her cold one. At first the illness had been agonizing, but near the end the pain had faded to an ever-present discomfort, taking her strength with it. She had been weak, so weak. She'd only been able to twitch her fingers against his reassuringly before her grip on thought, too, had fallen away.
Anne had been sure that she would die. Her last emotion had been fear.
"Anne?"
He sounded so worried, so anxious. She didn't want to him to be worried. After all, everything was better now. "I feel wonderful," she told him, and it wasn't exactly a lie. She had expected to be dead; instead she felt like she was... healing. Recovering. "That doctor must have been a miracle worker."
His face darkened, and Anne realized she had said the wrong thing. "That doctor didn't do a thing," he bit out angrily.
But just as quickly the anger left him, and his smile became innocent, true, and... guilty? She couldn't think of any reason for him to feel guilty, and his resemblance to a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar was bewildering. "Garrett..."
He cut her off before she could voice the question. "The angels saved you."
