Sohna and Vivian - My Brother's Keeper

He'd found a secure place to stable the horses, which had made her wonder if he knew the place quite well, but when she asked he'd simply told her that he'd poked around the outside quite a bit once before, but had never been into what was left of the main building. That had been left for them to do together, as finding a safe-looking room in which to spend the night had been. There were two high enough up to not be easily accessible by window to someone on the ground, and with chimneys intact enough not to send smoke back into the room with them. Claire lay near the fire Rafe had built in one of them now, staring at him curled up sleeping a short distance away, his features lit by the dying flames.

She ached for him.

I should never have come on this trip, she thought. I'm doing nothing but making everything worse for myself. Not that Rafe hadn't been a perfect gentleman, she knew. At the inn, he'd given her the bed, sleeping in the corner on the floor himself (they'd thought it prudent to appear to be a real couple traveling together, so hadn't asked for separate rooms), and tonight he'd spread out the sleeping pad she'd brought, which was big enough for them both, and then moved away several feet before lying down himself. It was worse, in a way, than being always near him, she thought. After all, it wasn't as if he didn't want her. She could see it in his eyes, feel him looking at her; he seemed to stare at her constantly to the point where she didn't know how he was able to watch the road, though he managed it somehow. And when he'd offered to show her how to drive the team, he'd been meticulously careful to keep their hands from touching, though once it had been necessary and she knew he'd left his hands over hers longer than he'd had to; felt the extra pressure from his palms and fingers before he'd released her and looked away. The lesson had ended then and they'd driven on in silence for the next thirty minutes, until it the sun had gone down behind the trees and she'd begun to shiver. Somehow he had noticed, though how she didn't know; she had tried not to be obvious about it. Instinctively, he had reached for her to pull her close, but as she watched, he'd checked himself, then reached into the wagon behind him, grabbed a blanket and tossed it to her. She had wrapped herself in it, but continued to shiver, although not from the cold.

At the inn, they'd posed as a married couple, and to ensure the ruse was believed, he had escorted her up to their room, his hand possessively pressed against her lower back. She had known the contact was minimal and meant to be part of a performance, but when the door had shut behind them, she'd been unable to stop herself from turning towards him, her face upturned, lips parted, her body longing to be touched more completely. He had faced her, inches away, and she'd seen his nostrils flare, the pupils of his eyes grow larger until there was only the tiniest ring of green showing around them, and heard his breath quicken. But he'd turned suddenly away and told her in a rough voice that she could have the bed, he'd be perfectly comfortable on the floor.

Looking at the room, she hadn't seen how; it was smaller than one of her closets, barely large enough for the bed. She hadn't argued, however. She was the queen; they both knew nothing could come of it, so if he chose to distance himself from her, she couldn't complain. Just because she was willing to give herself entirely to him for the short period of time they had available did not mean he was willing to do the same. And he had managed to curl up in a corner of the painted wood floor and sleep, his back against the whitewashed walls, while she lay on the sagging mattress.

Strangely enough, the lack of the multitude of creature comforts to which she was accustomed as the queen bothered her very little. It had been a slight shock at the beginning when he'd chosen a small, open wagon for their transportation, but when he had folded his arms and smiled, saying that the peasantry certainly had nothing better, she had both seen the logic of his statement and stopped caring so long as she was with him. That feeling she had, that being near him meant more to her than any trappings of royalty, had stayed with her so that she'd scarcely felt the lumps in the mattress, though, she knew she'd never had noticed them at all had he shared it with her. Nor did it bother her in the least to lie on the floor now, where she could gaze upon him, the light on his face changing from golden yellow to silvery white as the fire burnt itself out. She glanced up overhead at the space in the wall where a window had once been, seeing the Moon, huge and round just beneath the strut of a flying buttress. It shone down on them both in warning; tomorrow it would be full. Tomorrow the wolfs would be out.

The morning was bright and golden, however, the sunshine sparkling on the multicolored leaves of the surrounding forest, uncaring of the night to come. In the cheerful daylight, Claire could forget that the forest surrounding her was pregnant with danger, waiting only for moonrise to send it forth. Now, having stepped outside into the crisp morning air, she saw the place as it was meant to be seen - in the morning light - and stood transfixed by the sight. The trees, though individually perfectly ordinary trees, conveyed an ethereal quality to the landscape in a way she couldn't quite define. Some mixture of color and angle of light was at work, but that didn't entirely explain what she saw. It was almost as if she could feel the forest as a living thing, beautiful and remote, as something longed for that didn't quite exist. It reminded her suddenly that the Basquel - the people mentioned in the prophecy she'd come to find - were said to have been the dryads of legend. Most claimed the dryads hadn't really existed; that they were the people of children's stories, no more, and Claire had been one of them. But, looking at the forest now she began to wonder if the stories might be true.

Behind her, the ruin, lit by the same sun, seemed a part of the subtle enchantment. It appeared to have been virtually carved from the side of a hill, what remained of the walls and parapets solid slabs of the limestone bedrock shaped and molded into delicate spires. One entire side had collapsed in a mass of detritus, but even this seemed part of the plan, tying the structure back to the rock which had formed it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...

The old palace was dead; as dead as the forest was alive, but it conveyed a reminder of its long-ago beauty even so, though even that was plainly mortal. It was as if it should have been the subject of an artist's work, entitled The Death of Beauty, she thought. A sadness overcame her for the fate of the unfortunate Basquel - the dryads, as she thought of them now - who had met some unrecorded tragic end. Centuries from now would her palace lie as this one, crumbling into oblivion, her people all but forgotten save in a half-believed legend? If so, what was the point of what she did now? Those who had ruled from here were people, with loves, desires, and responsibilities, just as she was. Yet all the decisions they had made came to nothing in the end. They were gone.

She realized she was getting fanciful and morose, beginning to look for a way to justify some method which would allow Rafe to remain in her life. I'd best stop it, she thought. Even if I were willing to ignore my responsibilities, my advisors would not. I'm the queen. It can't be otherwise.

Rafe walked suddenly into her line of vision from where he had been feeding the horses while she'd lost herself in reverie. He smiled when he saw her, an instant, engaging smile as if the sheer sight of her pleased him, and for a moment she had the odd impression that he was somehow as ethereal and mystical as their surroundings. But as he came nearer, into the shade of a broken wall, she decided she had simply gotten far too fanciful and told herself sternly to stop it. She would be heartbroken enough when their time together ended; no sense making it worse by over-romanticizing the whole thing.

He stopped several feet from her, his face having assumed its usual seriousness, and said, "I suppose we should get to work looking for it while we have the daylight."

She agreed and they both went inside.

They searched for most of the day, through broken bits of furniture and rotted books that crumbled nearly to dust when they were handled, breaking only for lunch. Rafe, she noticed, ate quite well, which pleased her since until then he'd seemed little interested in food, eating barely enough (she thought) to remain alive. For awhile she'd thought this a good sign, even imagining that the time he spent with her helped him somehow to forget the wife that had died, but as the light began to fade, she noticed suddenly the moisture on his brow and temples from where he was perspiring, though the air was still quite chilly. Is he getting sick on me? she wondered, worried not for herself but for him, as she had no means of calling him a doctor, alone at this remote ruin in the midst of wolf country. Come morning she might be able to handle the wagon and horses - he had shown her how, as unpracticed as she was - but tonight of all nights was far too risky to chance venturing forth. She had to hope that if he were sick it would not be too serious. Cautiously she reached out to feel his face.

He recoiled at her touch, glaring at her.

"What are you doing?" he demanded angrily.

"You're burning up," she declared. His skin had felt fiery to her; she trembled at the thought of how high his temperature must be.

But he merely swallowed hard and growled, "I'm fine."

"No, you've got a fever ..." she argued.

"I SAID I'm fine!" he insisted tersely.

Shocked and unaccustomed to being dismissed, she set her lips and deliberately pressed her palm to his forehead. His hand flew up to yank hers violently away.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shouted angrily, though he held fast to her hand and she could feel him trembling. Abruptly then, he let it go, a flash of recognition coming over his features, and he pressed his fingers to his temples, his face a mask of pain.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.

He's delirious, she thought. Aloud, she said, "Your head hurts too?"

He nodded, his eyes shut.

"You should lie down," she told him quietly.

"Wouldn't help," he told her.

"This has happened before?"

He nodded again.

"It won't last long," he assured her. But he belied this reassurance by gasping and clutching his hand to his stomach.

Without thinking, she put her hand on his, realizing only when he looked down at her how close she was to him. His eyes were nearly yellow in the lamplight, clear and pale, the pupils huge and dark. They searched her face hungrily as he licked his lips, his breathing ragged. She felt her pulse racing as her own skin burned. For a moment he hesitated and she thought he might once again turn away, but he lunged suddenly forward, his fingers digging into her arms, pressing his mouth hungrily to hers like a man starved. The kiss lingered, deep and passionate, until he finally broke it only to trail a line of fire with his lips and tongue down her throat to her collarbone. She gasped and sagged against him, feeling his hands on her back, and she ran hers around behind his shoulders, feeling the play of the muscles beneath his shirt as she slowly slid them down to his waist.

Without warning he grabbed her by the hands and shoved her roughly away.

Claire stumbled; her heel caught on the hem of her skirt and she fell backwards onto the floor, shocked at his reaction. Had she done something wrong, she wondered? Rafe had seemed as anxious as she for the kiss. Had he not meant to act on his feelings? He was still standing where he'd been, staring at a point somewhere in the space between them, his breathing deep and labored. Guiltily, she remembered then what she had forgotten in the heat of passion: How ill he had been. Was he feeling so much worse? Was that the problem?

As if to confirm her worst fears, his hand returned to his stomach and he leaned slightly forward, his face twisted in momentary agony. But to her surprise, when his eyes focused upon her they were full not of pain or love, but hatred.

"You killed them," he said, his voice low and hollow.

"What?"

Was he remembering something in his delirium, she wondered?

"You killed them," he repeated, and to her horror, he began to laugh softly, a slow, horrible, self-mocking laugh.

"Do you mean your wife?" she asked tentatively.

"He was still alive when I found him, you know," Rafe went on. "My son. But his head was smashed in. I tried ... " - his voice went away as his tears started. For a moment she thought he might even pass out, but he swallowed and managed to continue, "I carried him to ... but he couldn't ... and his ... they ... in my hand. He was only three ... Just three ..."

He did break down then, the tears streaming from his eyes as his mouth worked, but he remained on his feet where he was, the knuckles on his hands white with the tension, his face a mask of agony and despair, though she was unable to distinguish how much of the pain was purely physical. "You killed them," he repeated.

"No!" she assured him.

"You DID!" he insisted. "You! Your orders. You're the queen."

"No!" she cried. "No! I've never ordered anyone ..."

He laughed again, more loudly, in a way that frightened her.

"Don't you know what I am, Claire?" he asked. "Haven't you guessed? I stopped you before you discovered something that would frighten you away, screaming."

"What do you mean?"

"You kissed an animal, Claire. A nasty, filthy animal. The kind you issued orders to exterminate."

No, she thought. It can't be. He can't be a wolf. I love him.

"You don't believe it?" he demanded, his eyes blazing. "Shall I prove it to you?"

Before she could think of a reply, he was upon her, but he hesitated inches from her face, his eyes suddenly uncertain, inhaled deeply and sighed. For some reason unfathomable to her, she found this little action deeply sensual. But before she had a chance to recover from this discovery, his eyes grew hard again and he snatched her hand, holding it fast in a grip like iron. He pulled her slowly towards him, sliding her hand beneath his shirt, while his other hand pressed her body against his. His bare skin radiated heat; it felt searing to her hand as he forced it inexorably around to his back to stroke the soft, downlike hair that grew there before slipping it beneath the back waistband of his trousers. She pulled away a little, suddenly more resistant, afraid now of what she might find, but he only grew more insistent and tightened his grip.

Her eyes were squeezed shut and she held her breath against the coming knowledge, but at the same time she was aware of his hard, ragged breathing and a deep longing within herself that she tried to deny. As her fingers brushed the soft fur of his tail, he gave a little gasp, and she flinched, a wave of revulsion sweeping over her at the reality even as she wanted him at the same time.

He tore her hand away and shoved her down and away from him. Her back hit the wall with a thud, her head jarring. She blinked, too shocked for a moment to think. When she looked up, Rafe was gone.

Claire didn't realize she was crying until she felt the tears drip from her chin. For a moment more she fought to deny the truth of what she knew, but the imprint of his tail had been burned into her hand and she felt it still; the hard solidity of it beneath the cover of velvety fur; warm, burning with the fevered heat of his body. Rafe was a wolf. She had to face it.

A sob escaped her, then another, until the dam finally burst and she wept freely, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at the single oil lamp they'd brought without seeing it. After awhile, she realized she had no idea why she was crying. Was it disappointment, she wondered? Disillusionment? Shame? Fear? No, she thought, and the realization surprised her. She hadn't been at all afraid. Not for herself, at any rate. And the shame she felt was not that she'd had carnal thoughts about a wolf; still had them - the revelation about his nature hadn't filled the aching need for him inside her. The shame was that she had so wholeheartedly condemned those who had fallen to this temptation before her. It was, however, not the source of her tears. No, secretly she knew why she cried. She knew why.

Another torrent burst free and she buried her face in her skirts to muffle the sound she didn't want him to hear. Finally, gasping, she looked up. The flame wavered briefly, throwing gaunt shadows around the long-dead room. She hadn't realized how dark it had become. Confused, she tried to recall why that fact should disturb her, then remembered: Tonight was full moon. The wolfs would be out. Rafe ...

She scrambled to her feet in a sudden panic. Rafe was a wolf and he hated her. She was all alone here with him. He would turn into a beast and ...

Her eyes darted wildly to the single exit that led from the room. Beyond the gothic arch of the doorway lay blackness. She swallowed, all the tales she'd heard about wolfs since childhood returning to her. Desperately, she tried to fight them away, telling herself that since she now knew so many were untrue, that the beastly ones might be falsehoods as well, but her fear refused to leave. She walked slowly towards the door. A small sound like an echo made her shudder, but it was merely the wind in the leaves outside.

Moonlight shone through a high window, hung over the door to the great entry hall. It lit the ruined stone staircase in a silvery wash, the wide cracks in its treads like black brushstrokes. Picking up her skirts, she ran down it as if pursued, not daring to look behind her, but as she passed the main door, she suddenly stopped as if mesmerized.

The pale limestone glowed whitely in the moonlight, its fractured surface gleaming as if it held some enchantment all its own. Leaves rattled dryly in the wind, then grew suddenly still. A brighter line of white stood out along the edge of a wall that had collapsed into so much rubble. Claire thought it some trick of the light, illuminating a heretofore unseen angle of carving, but as she continued to stare at it, fascinated, it grew slowly upwards, pale against the black of the surrounding forest and velvet sky, spreading slowly out on one side, becoming a thin spire capped with an oriel room. Its windows remained dark, menacing, as if some evil dwelt inside. Claire shivered. In the distance a wolf howled and the construct vanished to nothingness. She looked at the mound of broken stone beneath where it had been and realized she had seen an image from the past; a view of what had been before the destruction. The mound was all that was left of the tower.

The wolf howled again and another answered it, then another, closer this time. She edged past the rubble of the broken tower and slipped back through the door. There was no safety outside on this night. Her only hope lay in sticking to their original plan; she'd have to return to their safe room and hope the barricade held against Rafe.

She climbed the stairs once more, hesitating when she got to the top. Should she return for the lamp she'd left behind, she wondered? No, she decided, that would take her too far from where she needed to go. Carefully, she set off down the dark left-hand corridor, groping her way forward. All was still. Her fingers inched forward. At last they found the corner, where the corridor branched suddenly to the right. Her hand gripped the raised stonework of the quoin and she crept outwards, squinting into the darkness. Far away she thought she saw a faint light, coming from the room whose safety she sought. She blinked. It was still there.

Yes, she thought. He did build a fire in there earlier, against the chill. There must still be a few embers glowing.

From the distant end of the hall, a breeze filtered towards her, lifting her hair. She walked slowly towards it, her heart pounding. The rectangle of the doorway appeared, a slightly brighter spot of darkness. Her pace quickened.

The noise stopped her. It was low and hushed, reaching her ears only in fragments, but in the silence of the long-abandoned ruin, unmistakable. Someone was crying softly. Someone in the room that was her destination. It stabbed at her heart as if the ache already there were not enough. Shaking, she crept slowly to the doorway and peered around what was left of the frame.

Rafe knelt on the floor in front of the dying fire, sitting on his heels, his back to her, still wearing the long jacket she'd never seen him without. His shoulders shook with the sobs, punctuated now and then with a gasp of agony as he bent nearly double with abdominal cramps. At this distance, she could hear him, between bouts of pain, murmuring some rambling litany in a low voice, though the words eluded her. She imagined he was speaking of his dead child, the one he'd accused her of killing. The one she had killed, she acknowledged, forcing the thought into the open. He had been right. She was the queen, and therefore responsible for the way she had led her subjects. She had to accept it.

His image grew blurry. Vaguely, she wondered if it had begun to rain, then realized she was crying. The breeze blew stronger again, through the long-broken window. She shivered and blinked the tears away.

Rafe gasped again. She longed to go to him, but couldn't. The fear she had inside, however, was not the fear of any frightful form he would take, only fear of well-deserved rejection. How had it happened so for her, she wondered? Why had she been destined to love a man whose family she had killed? Why was she born a Riding Hood? What cruelty of fate had done this to her?

In front of her, his body suddenly convulsed, and he uttered what sounded like a low growl. She watched in fascination, expecting his outline to shift form into some misshapen creature, but saw nothing change except his posture: He threw his shoulders back and panted, as if to get his breath, then let it go in a mournful whine. The sound struck her as so wolf-like that she would have known the change had come upon him even had she not just then noticed his hands: He still clenched them, as he had before, but now, instead of nails, the fingers ended in wicked looking claws. The beast was before her, though it was no mindless killer, but as sad and heartbroken as the man it had been. Nor had it needed to spill blood or rape an innocent in order to alter itself, as two of the most popular theories suggested. The transformation was not an orgy; the wolfs did not receive sexual satisfaction from it. They labored and gave birth. Nothing more.

And she had killed a three year old boy.

Unbidden, or maybe subconsciously wished for, a sob escaped her into the silence. The wolf heard it. He turned, slowly, and looked into her eyes.

It was still Rafe, she thought, as he slowly stood up. His features had been altered in some subtle and indefinable way but it was still unmistakably him, even the eyes, which had changed the most. He was regarding her with those eyes now as he got closer, his movement as graceful as the animal he now was.

Stories of wolfs' victims ran through Claire's mind but she remained where she was, waiting for him. Whatever happened would happen; she deserved to be judged, she thought, and who better than one she had wronged? Let him do whatever he would.

He stopped in front of her. She watched as his chest and shoulders rose and fell with his breath, although she was uncertain if the breathing she heard was his or her own. He inhaled deeply and let out a little sigh, and with it she saw the teeth: a wolf's teeth, canines long and sharp. Slowly he twined a strand of her hair around one of the claws on his left hand as he gazed intently at her mouth. She heard him whine a little, softly, before he grasped a handful of hair and crushed her to him.

Claire shut her eyes, poised in that instant between wanting him utterly and expecting to die, torn to pieces in a bloody rage. She felt his claws at her neck even as he kissed her, felt his teeth nip at her tongue, her chin, her throat. When he at last tore her dress violently away, she gasped and clutched at him, her legs suddenly weak. As he lowered her to the floor, she gave herself up completely to her desire.

Far beneath the old palace, under the mound of rubble marking the place where a tower once stood, a stone cracked open. The dust and shards from its breaking crumbed away slowly at first, then faster, opening up a place unseen since the last age, though no amount of light penetrated its darkness. Within, something formless stirred, brought to renewed life by the lovers above it. It shifted, tendrils licking at the exit from its womb, hesitating.