Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

71 - Chapter LXXI: The Dredges of Memory

Three hours later.

Her veil was on the floor. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling rose. It was just a rumour, she decided. A foolish song from her memories. And yet, she was caught in its chorus, the lilt that spoke of cruelty and revenge. A song that reminded her how little she knew of his origins. All the terrible things he might have done. The revenge he might have taken upon Viktor or even the...

...the daughter.

The thought made her sick.

Blood, what had he done... In her heart, trying not to let rumour shape her opinions, but in her memories, remembering his nails in that wall. The warning he gave her. His voice all too calm, his politeness returned, and the blood on his face decrying him for what he was. Cruel...ruthless...and insane. As though his face was unravelling...

...and how well did she know him?

Really.

The death of the Elder's daughter something she...knew...but never saw mentioned in the lycan histories. All her forays lending a horrific colour to the possibilities. It was said that at the start of the war, Viktor offered a truce. Surrender to the coven, he'd said. He'd promised them forgiveness. Sanctuary. Instead, the few who came were brought before a tribunal, judged for their sins...and then...

...set alight.

The infamous trial by fire.

And for an hour, she struggled in its aftermath. The ceiling rose taking her into its embrace, like a clock moving backwards, forcing her to confront the moment when she first saw it. The ease with which he'd swayed her speaking of how ill she'd thought of him at the time. You were married, she'd said to him, and his smile had faltered. And at the time, she'd seen it as a passing union. A lady not worth speaking on. A single mark among dozens for why else would he frequent the number of women that he did...

But she could see it now. Every hollow laugh. All their conversations on meaning and nothingness. Every night in the past three years when he'd confessed to tiredness at the prospect of another fight with Sabine. His difficulties with the girl taking on new meaning as she attempted to put the mystery of this absent woman into context. Trying to imagine who this woman had been-this grandmother...or great-grandmother of Sabine who had died so terribly.

All of it forcing her to confront what she was truly feeling. For twelve years, he had been there for her. Forcing her to stand when she would not walk. Coaxing her back from every edge, daring her to laugh when she could not feel. On nights when she could see no purpose, his presence had been a boon to her soul. And she had not realised. Every hair on her skin threatening to unveil itself...

She sat up.

She had not known.

Even when she'd seen it all those years ago. Years before his mask had been stripped, years before she understood what it meant to see him drowning beneath its weight. At the first sign of adversity, she'd focused on herself. Her own fears. Her own anxieties about his past. For all these years, she had watched him, dreaming of a future that would never be...while he dreamed of a past that was forever lost.

Worse, she'd lost sight of his capacity to feel pain. His secret...that terrible secret...starting to burn into her soul like the H in her side. On an execution floor, they burned his wife to death, forced him to watch-and for twelve hours, left him there. Like an afterthought. Like he was nothing.

All of it so meaningless, she realised. All of the war and the death... her anger rising, filling her with bitterness until she was...shaking...and then...