Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

36 - Chapter XXXVI: The Norms of Society

24th November, 1899. The London Den. 7:45 pm.

But there were to be no fireworks. Instead, eleven hours had passed and, though much was to be expected of Friday evening, much less had happened since Raze and Rena had carried Lucian from the East Wing. For example, he had woken to find himself alone, and as was customary for one who dabbled in a variety of substance, going from highs to lows depending on his dosage, he began to find himself unreservedly, if not explicably, depressed. He concluded then that this was a passing phase related to his opium habit and that, having enjoyed the heights of adrenaline, he must now suffer the lows that came afterwards. The feeling of emptiness, as though there was little reason to continue with anything. Murder inquiries, revenge, war...Jacqueline...what was the point? In four hundred years, even if he won the war, killing the Elders before instigating peace...

...what then?

What would their society become?

Immortal beings living without fear of extinction...like the vampires...static. Unchanging. Dead. He lay in bed, contemplating this dismal future for at least two hours before getting up to bathe. Cold water from the taps. A change of clothes. A new day. A new beginning. Outside his bedroom, he found himself having a short, but pertinent conversation with Raze over his behaviour from the past three days. All of these things necessary for him to get his head screwed on right. So he agreed to take better care of himself. He agreed to lower his dosage as best he could and that, yes, perhaps it would be best if he occupied himself with work for the next few days. Important work. Lycan work. Work that did not involve Reinette, Scandinavia, or anything 'distracting' that might prompt him to talk openly about 'personal matters' at ten in the morning with a 'glorified prisoner.'

Agreed.

And so the norms of society threatened to begin once more. The meetings, the transfers, the inspections. The life of the lycan-master as it was, living behind closed doors and keeping his people hidden through the Line. All he had to do was walk down that hall, go into the library...or the study...or the barracks...even the bloody dining room, and it would all start again. Things he'd rather ignore, but could not. So he would do as he must...he would get his head back together. He would get rid of Jacqueline. He would act normal. Be focused. Active. Full of zeal for his position. The great lycan-master at work.

Instead, he wandered down to the kitchens and spent the first part of the evening watching Bess roast a duck. He found himself having little to say, and she, used to his quiet moods, shooed most of the kitchen out and let him sit there. Elizabeth Fulligan. The only mistress he never left, and as a result, the one he had the best relationship with, despite the occasional hiccups. She handed him a glass jar, and he opened it, leaving the cover on the table. Staring into the jar. Depressing. Once a glorious, buxom girl with a twinkle in her eye...and now she was old. She'd die in a few years.

"Are you alright, sir?"

Sir.

"Oh, fine, Bess," he said. "I am doing just fine." He handed the open jar back to her. Some kind of preserve. Orange. "I'll see you in the morning. Feeling a bit tired."

She looked confused. "Morning, sir?"

"Evening," he said, correcting the confusion. He was never awake in morning. Everyone knew that. "I meant evening." He walked out, and as he did, four servants came back in, at least one of them smelling like she wanted to wring his neck for interrupting what would have to be a burnt pea-soup now. Damned if he cared.

He could wring his own neck.

o...o...o

Meanwhile...

A floor above in the East Wing, Reinette was asleep. She knew she was asleep for what she saw before her was a thing that could not exist. Snow. A fire. A cave. She could feel smooth rock against her back, the smell of clean air coming from the entrance. On her right, a knife and stone, one meant to sharpen the other. On her left, a leather bag carrying her belongings. Everything she owned in the world held within that bag.

She opened it...

...but where memory faded, her dream filled the gaps, causing her hand to reach inside and draw out three items which did not exist in this memory. A bronze mirror, a wooden box and a silver key. The mirror she lingered over, touching the face on its surface. Eyes from her father...and the jaw. She had a stubborn jaw, the jaw of a Norseman he'd always told her. The cheekbones of her mother. Things she must forget. Smooth skin. Black hair pulled back in a braid. Look away.

She put the mirror down, and instead looked to the box. The sense of familiarity as she picked it up, shaking it once, hearing the metal rattle inside. Lyosha's box. The one she had seen on the ship, the small lock without a key. Thinking she had solved a puzzle, she tried the silver key in the lock...but it was too large. A door-key perhaps or a trunk. Again, she shook the box, and this time, as though the dream wanted her to know more, she saw the lock falling away...the hinge opening silently...

...and the dream shutting her out.

She felt a palm hit her cheek, the blow causing the back of her head to strike stone. Pain. The scent of blood from a wound. Dazed, she touched her hand to her mouth. Bleeding. She looked, searched in the darkness for the one who had struck her. There was no sign. No face. No smell. And then, as a ghost, a woman stepped from behind her and picked up the box. Green eyes staring into blue...the smile of one who had chided a wayward daughter. This was not her mother, yet she knew this woman...the name falling from her lips, the name carrying relief...joy...understanding.

Áris.

Twenty years ago, she had been looking for Áris. Her mentor. The green-eyed woman of Rome with the devil's sword on her back. But the days of Rome were long since past. Her mentor already turning to go, tossing the box aside and leaving her behind in this cave. Not only the sword on her back, but a shield as well. Daggers. Supplies. She was going to war. A battle. There was a horse waiting for her, the saddle holding bags on either side.

"Wait." She struggled to her feet, almost crawling after her mentor. "Don't go...please don't go." There were tears in her eyes. She did not want her to go. "Please...you do not come back. You never come back."

"This is a dream, child." Áris had already mounted, the straps checked, the moon rising with every minute. Her voice was very soft. Soothing. "Were I to stay, I would still not come back."

"But you..." She was holding her stomach, the tears starting to come up, breaking her voice. "...you are alive. I cannot remember where or how...but you are alive. Somewhere...and you have to help me. It all went wrong. Everything went wrong. I was trying to find you..."

"There is war brewing to the east, child..." Tiring of the imagination, the dream had fallen back into memory. The horse began to paw the ground, eager to be gone. Her helmet was under her arm. The last thing one needed as a deathdealer...except Áris was no deathdealer. Not anymore. Her helmet tarnished, the silver stripped from the metal. She flicked her hair back and placed the helmet on. The face of an angel with the armour of a demon. "...so I must go. Follow me in a week."

"But I..."

The horse leaped into motion, the strides taking it beyond her voice. Her hope sinking. Her knees cold as she sank to the ground, watching them go. It was the last time she saw her mentor. Seven hundred years ago. She swallowed, looking behind her. The box had fallen to the ground, half open, the back of the lid facing her. If she walked around it, she would see what was inside. What her mind had conjured to be inside. But her dream had been clear. Her mentor had been clear. Lucian was not her ally.

Not her friend.

She closed the box...

...stirring but once in her sleep. A face stirring above her head, a hand reaching onto her bed, the pendant withdrawn and the door closed. And still, she slept on, the pendant...gone.