- - мy aяcнιvεs

[- - la nuit blanche]

The prideful gypsy held close to little Ayla, who looked to have been the youngest in the line, turning her eyes cautiously towards the two Italian brutes who continued to stare her way and murmur to each other. Although the most of the conversation certainly seemed to be spoken by the massive, bald one. His jovial laugh alluded to a lewd joke, and Syeira would bet that he was pretty good at making them, but his companion did not laugh, did not even respond. Somehow that urged Syeira to be more frightened of him than any of the others. The quiet ones always had something to hide.

The young woman moved her eyes away from the men, though, and perched her chin back upon the smaller girl’s head. She began to hum a soft song, one quite similar to that lulling, melancholy number she’d danced to, though perhaps a little less somber. It was one of many Roma lullabies, one she could remember, only very vaguely, as though through a shadowed glass, that her mother had once sung to her when she was an infant. It had always soothed her, and it seemed to work its calming magic once again. Ayla’s eyes drifted closed. The sobs in her chest seemed to have lowered down out of her throat, and she breathed more soundly now, allowing Syeira to comb her knotted hair. Under any other circumstances, the two girls were rather more like rivals than friends. Syeira knew that Ayla had longed for that turquoise necklace because she’d attempted, a number of times, to sneak into her wagon and snatch it away. Their rivalry was one half of playfulness, and half true annoyance with each other. Little affection had ever been exchanged before, but Syeira knew that Ayla was scared out of her wits now, likely mourning the loss of friends and kin, and she hugged Syeira as tightly as she embraced her. Though the hold was made only with one arm; as the younger girl rested her head to Syeira’s shoulder, her free hand clutched fondly at the blue stones around her neck, gaining some solace for herself at the warmth and smoothness of them.

Syeira, who was truthfully just as wary and uncertain as the rest, was also somewhat calmed as she murmured through the song, swaying a little with the melody and rocking the young girl who held onto her. But the lullaby dwindled to a premature end when the young woman looked up and saw those same two Italians approaching her end of the line. Slowly releasing Ayla, she ushered the girl behind her, hoping to hide her at her back in case one of the beasts intended any harm or dishonor on the girl. She gazed their way as they approached, perceptive eyes moving from one to the other and back again. But for all the mysticism associated with her kind, she truthfully could not have predicted what the big one would say to her. He intended to let the other women leave with their lives – which was honestly more good fortune than Syeira had begged to hope – so long as Syeira now behaved, and went along with them. This was a bargain the young woman was content to make. She would bear the humility of going away as the captive of these brutes if it spared the rest of her people. She would happily die for them. Of course she was not overjoyed, nor did she have any understanding of what these men could want her for. Typical bandits would pillage the entire clearing, rape any woman they liked, and leave all dead. But these strange, foreign soldiers did not even bother to search for any valuables among the wagons. The only thing they demanded was Syeira, and for what? A traveling concubine? A gift for some Italian sultan?

Though her dark, glaring eyes did not leave the face of the bald man who had spoken, Syeira dipped her chin in a slow nod. She did not bother to speak, but a smaller voice came from behind her as Ayla, who evidently didn’t consider this so generous a deal as her elder companion, spat a filthy insult at the strangers. They were words the girl’s mother would’ve fainted to hear out of her daughter’s mouth, and, secretly, Syeira felt a small seed of pride in the girl bud in her chest. She wanted to grin appreciatively and pat the child on the shoulder, but she did not want the Italians to reconsider their offer. “Shhh!” Syeira sharply hushed the girl, trying to usher her back out of sight as she struggled to peek out from behind the taller young woman. It was too late though, the quiet man reached out for Ayla and snatched for her throat, withdrawing with that turquoise necklace gripped in his cruel hand. Ayla made a whine of objection and moved to grasp back towards the dangling string of stones, which she’d only now finally acquired at last, but Syeira stopped her.

The necklace was thrown as far away as the archer could send it, lost in the darkness beneath the trees. Another lewd remark came from his companion, and with the threat that he would have her yet, both men retreated back to their red-maned leader. Syeira reminded the pouting Ayla that she could go into the woods and find her necklace again with the morning’s light; it could not have gone far, that archer really had quite a puny arm. And finally the girl nodded compliantly, though her pout did not fade. “They won’t really take you, will they?” she asked in a low grumble. And for once, Syeira was at a loss for a response. She did not know precisely what to answer with to ease the young girl’s mind, and so she merely sighed quietly and draped an arm about Ayla’s slight shoulders. As the leader of the Italians proclaimed that “the rest” of the women were allowed to go – excluding, Syeira could only presume, herself – the dark-haired dancer released the younger girl. “Go, little lamb. Find your family,” she bade her, leaning down to kiss her cheek gingerly. “My pony and wagon will be yours now. Until I come back.” Syeira forced a smile that was far more reassured than she felt, and Ayla nodded, then moped away to search for her mother and sisters. Those left in the clearing dispersed quietly, save for soft sobs as the fallen men were gathered up from the grassy floor.

Soon enough, she was being approached again, this time by the poor lad she’d clawed a little earlier. Her chosen favorite. That slow, triumphant smile returned to her lips as he appeared before her. Daggers flew at daggers between their locked gaze and Syeira’s eyes only left his to peer rather happily at the foor bloody slices in his left forearm. She let him speak, but snorted softly when he mentioned the “Holy Father” who had sent him. The Borgia Pope. Spanish-born, but fooling about with an Italianized name as he disgraced the papacy. At least, that was what Syeira had always heard. Her dear Spaniard father often ranted and raved about Borgia’s lecherous appetite, his disregard for the worst of sins so long as they could be properly covered up. Syeira would wonder later what this Pope desired of her, but for now, her eyes wandered back up to meet the gaze of the young Italian. Her mocking smirk had faded and though she did not protest outright to his threat, she took a confident step forward, peering sternly up into his, admittedly, still handsome face. “You will not touch any of these women, nor will you and your filth ever return to this forest,” she snarled quietly. She had the look of a feline winding itself up to make a mighty pounce, but she stood quietly where she was and merely stared up at the man for a moment. She felt something strange about him… Ayla was right, he had an uncharacteristically kind face.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Syeira, now dressed, had turned to find that indeed, she had been followed by her Italian keeper. Words from his comrade – all too surely the bald one, she thought, based on the chortled, suggestive jibe – then came, but the young woman paid them little heed. She was distracted first by the question in her mind: Just how long had that handsome boy been standing within view of her? And how much, she wondered with a self-satisfied, inward grin, had he seen and enjoyed? Given the specks of red upon his cheeks, Syeira supposed that the suitable answers were “long enough” and “plenty.” She was, too, distracted from the lewd man’s dig at his younger comrade by the deep scowl the man now punished her with. It was, undoubtedly, a chilling sort of look, and his grizzled command was heard with all the attention and anxiety his tone demanded. Looking simultaneously affronted and a little wary – those delighted notions of how much the young male had seen of her all but vanished now – the woman did not answer, but stared up at the man with a look of clear understanding, and followed him out of her wagon, scowling quietly at his back as she walked.

Once they neared the cart, she took one last look over her shoulder at the clearing that had only hours ago been a place of song and unbridled joyfulness, uninhibited by the censures of common society. Yes, there was rarely any good food nor enough to sate every grumbling stomach, and what meals they did take were often either begged for or stolen, but they were free. Free to roam the handsome landscape as though it bloomed for them alone, a vibrant ribbon of rainbowed carts and wagons, free to make music, tell fortunes, and dance, free, if nothing more, to live exactly as they wanted. And now, the lush clearing was reduced to decaying bodies and puddles of blood. Sorrowful weeping replaced jovial song, anguished moans replaced laughter. Many beautiful wagons were reduced to blackened ash, their beautiful colors melted mercilessly away. Tears welled in Syeira’s eyes and she realized she’d been standing dumbly before the cart for some moments together. She turned forward again at a chiding bark from one of the men, and found the hand of the man called Volpe reaching out to her. She had a thought to take it, but then she remembered the fires and the screams, the weeping and the violinist who would never play again. She looked up at him, straight into his face though his eyes seemed intent on looking away, with an accusing gaze full of disdain, disgust, and bitter hate. She refused his hand and ambled into the little empty corner of the cart on her own. It was a long time before she released him from that condemning stare, and she only looked aside to hide the tears that had again begun to spill quietly down her cheeks.

She sat in silence, clutching her knees and laying her head upon them, as the cart began to move on. She said nothing and heard nothing until the great vulgar Italian spoke, indicating their plan to continue, not back to Italy, but on, to find and slay more gypsies. His concluding pass at her was, quite obviously, ill-timed. Mortified and swift as a prancing deer, her face still wet with mourning tears, the brunette lunged for him. “You murderous bastards!” she accused. She’d have been able to slap the man who had spoken across his smirking face before he turned forward again, had one of the other Italians caught her first. It was the same man who had snatched her off of La Volpe who now caught her tight by the arm, twisted it painfully to subdue the irate girl, and forced her down to sit again. The woman was practically burning with fury and terror. She could not believe the depravity of these men. Had they not seen what she had? The weeping women, the screaming children? Syeira would never understand how these “civilized” men always treated her people. They abused without remorse, slaughtered with such detachment and ease, and thought they did the land a favor by exterminating the Roma like a plague of rats.

The young woman’s stomach churned with repulsion and grief as she was shoved roughly back down into the cart. Sobs rose in her throat and stung like fire, her lungs yearned for air and yet she could not breathe. She wanted desperately to bury her head in her hands and weep, scream, bellow pleas and insults and curses in every tongue she knew. She felt mad with all the hate and anguish now welling inside of her. But she would not let herself react so, not before such men as these. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her sorrow. They would only laugh at the crazy Roma b***h. Except, maybe, for the one at her side. As Syeira turned her blanched face towards him, she saw that he was suddenly tense, with an expression that subtly betrayed his discomfort with this new scheme. A scoundrel though he undoubtedly was, and inexcusably responsible as each of his companions for all of this, Syeira now understood why foolish Ayla had looked to him in desperation, for some shred of morality, for kindness and mercy. Of the five deplorable Italians, he was the one who Syeira supposed was the least repugnant. The young woman looked sideways at him, watching him with imploring eyes, waiting to see if he would speak any of his reservations aloud. But he did not. He simply sat rigidly in his place, gripping his sword so tight the skin of his knuckles looked like it would split and bleed. The coward, Syeira thought. The despicable, pathetic coward.

Looking back towards the other men, the girl managed a tiny smirk. “You are all fools. Word will spread of your wickedness. The other tribes will be warned, and they will scatter, flee. You shall never find them. No one knows the land as the Roma do. The forests and seas will hide them, and your cruel God,” Syeira sneered, “can give no fortune that will reveal them to you.” The woman’s dark eyes peered from each man to the next, falling hardest upon the man with the dirty mouth and bald head. “Your deeds tonight have cursed you all. I only pray the spirits will make you suffer a lifetime and more for this.”

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Syeira, though still brimming with rage and saturated in sorrow, inhaled sharply, eyes widening in surprise, as her barbed words were answered by one of the archer’s arrows. In an inconceivably brief instant, the cold-eyed young man let loose one of the sharp projectiles into the wood of the wagon, just between the Fox’s leg and Syeira’s blanched cheek. Her gasp stuck in her chest and her eyes rounded on the archer, glaring darts of her own right back at him. However, her response was scarcely offensive, considering the reaction of the man by her side. The tawny-haired male sprung up, swift as a bounding panther, and Syeira watched with a great deal of quiet satisfaction as the man swung a booted heel into the side of the other’s head, then grabbed the boy and bellowed down at him. Had the young woman not been so wholly surprised by the scene, she’d have pleasantly smiled to see the bit of chaos her threats had caused. As it was, she only stared, peering up at the one who bore her as his charge with an odd blend of appreciation and astonishment in her wide, dark eyes.

He had spoken her name, that was the first thought that struck her as she gazed up at the unusual Italian. Spoken it as if she were an equal to him, worthy of a name. It sounded strange laden with his Italiano accent, but Syeira considered that she could get used to that foreign resonance. And then it struck her that his words and tone betrayed a genuine interest in her well-being. He’d not only rounded on his fellow because he’d almost been stung by that arrow, but because it could’ve caused Syeira harm as well. It was strange that he gave such a care. But perhaps he only meant to see that the Pope’s merchandise was kept unblemished. In any case, the young woman felt a little less resentment towards that man. No one else, after all, had bothered to respond on her behalf.

But La Volpe, it seemed, would not get away with his heroic outburst, if Syeira could indeed manage to describe it as such. His leader, the great red-haired man, turned sharply and ordered the young man out of the cart. The young gypsy watched him leap deftly down to the grass and disappear into the thick covering of the forest, pursued by the Lion of a man who plodded along after him. The Bull, to Syeira’s great disdain, was given the responsibility of seeing to her silence, and she didn’t dare consider just how the lewd man might decide to shut her up if she didn’t keep quiet. She had no intention of finding out just what he would gag her with if she gave him reason to do so, and so she hushed the unspoken insults and reprimands that scalded her throat. She hugged her legs tighter into her body beneath her colorful skirts and folded her arms atop her knees. She laid her head upon her arms and stared out into the forest after the Fox and his superior. She wondered what the latter would say to him, and why he thought he must do so in private. Whatever it was they spoke of, it was heard only by the trees and lush ferns of the wood; though Syeira inquisitively strained her ears, she heard nothing but the rustles of leaves as they gave way to an icy evening wind.

Once she’d given up her interest in the exchange between the one called La Volpe and the tall, ruby-maned man, Syeira turned her eyes distastefully to the arrow still embedded in the wood beside her. She peeked up at the frigid young man who had sent it, scowling at him quietly as she reached for the precisely fired bolt. With some amount of struggle, she yanked it from the wood and kept her eyes upon its owner’s as she snapped it between her hands. This act too required something of a laborious effort; the arrow was finely made and less than yielding. But it succumbed as Syeira bent it harshly against one knee and once it was split in two, she carelessly tossed the pieces over the rail of the wagon. Considering the noted fondness that young man had for his weapon, Syeira expected and hoped dearly that the mutilation of his arrow would serve the same stinging purpose as the slap across the face she ardently wished to give.

With this blow achieved, the dark young woman curled back into herself and tried to ignore the three pairs of male eyes that stared down upon her. She could feel each set and was somehow able to distinguish them, match them to their owner, even as her own eyes closed against the world. That archer stared at her with a glare like icicles. Though he hadn’t spoken barely a word to her directly, of all the men, he seemed to hate her best. He looked at her as though she were the most repulsive thing in the world, in rather stark contrast to the bawdy sentiment of the Bull. His gaze crept gropingly upon her, heavy with a vulgar lust Syeira had no intention of encouraging. The last man who remained to supervise her, he too peered down at her with a weighty desire Syeira could absolutely feel, and yet the young woman felt a restraint in him. He might be happy to discipline her, but she somehow felt he would never be any more cruel than that. In the absence of her assigned care-taker, Syeira expected she had only him to look to for any vague sense of morality or mercy. But even then, she wondered how honorable even he might be had one of the others attempted anything unkind.

And then there was the Fox. As chilly tears began to fall from the sky, Syeira opened her eyes and saw the young man heading back out of the woods. She despised him, of course, with all the others, but there was a definite integrity in him that Syeira knew he must suppress to go about with these other men. He could be good, she thought. An honorable, compassionate man. She wondered what brought him among these other debauched souls. Was he really so devout in his cause, and in his faith and the doings of his Pope? Would he not rather have avoided all of this, sought solitude in some quiet life, and been spared the murderous pillaging of this mission?

He climbed back into the cart with the lithe grace Syeira now found characteristic of him, and settled nearer to her than before. Her shoulder, trembling beneath the shawl she now pulled close against the cold, lightly brushed to his as the cart nudged forward. The touch half repulsed her and she tensed, and yet under other circumstances, she supposed she could’ve drawn comfort from his closeness. Swallowing dryly, she looked down into her lap, avoiding his rugged countenance just as he avoided hers, until she saw from the corner of her eye that he’d tilted his head just barely towards her own. She looked back at him, dark somber eyes flitting to peek up at him, and listened as he spoke. Pray, he advised. The young woman, with her cheeks streaked with black tears, looked at him silently for a moment, as though trying to gauge the thoughts within his head. She wanted to know if he truly wished to go along with his comrades, and if he would indeed allow them to continue their evil journey.

She could see little hope in his eyes, and she turned sharply, resentfully away from him, hushing a sob as she pressed her unhappy lips against her folded arms. She turned her face away from the men and laid her head back down upon her knees, and bitterly wept. She was almost entirely silent, and the sobs that followed were as soft as the wet trudging of the cart’s wheels along the soggy grass. Her weeping was only betrayed by the small shakes of her shoulders and the occasional sniffle. She knew no prayers to any god or spirit that could possibly spare her people this plague, but she slowly drew out the crystal she’d stolen from her cart. She folded it in her hands, squeezed it tight, and felt its strange warmth tingle on her fingertips.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Syeira stared coolly at the young man as her hand rested atop his, wondering what indeed would be his chosen course of action. Now he knew of her stolen relic, she guessed he’d be obligated as a Christian to throw it out into the muddy grass, if not attempt to shatter it with one of his knives first. And yet, there was something strange in his eyes. As the stone glowed its ambery light into his face, his expression was not that of a smirking man about to confiscate a gem from a helpless girl. He peered at it contemplatively, then leaned towards her to whisper sharply: she could have the crystal back, so long as it was kept hidden more skillfully from this moment on. As soon as he’d allowed her to retake the tawny stone, Syeira snatched it up. She was prepared to turn back away from the young man and continue her sorrowful brooding, but he forced her to pause as his fingers squeezed briefly about her hand. Her sad, red-rimmed eyes drooped from his face to look down at their half-clasped hands, but as soon as his touch left her, she turned her attention to clutching the stone back in both hands and, at length, hiding it back within the folds of her garments where its light would be effectively stifled.

She sat in silence, then, looking back out at the damp forest. She realized then that she had grown cold – the numbness of her misery had faded somewhat, diverted by Syeira’s conflict with the young man – and she huddled closer into her shawl, curling up into herself. Her sore, tired eyes ached for sleep, but she could not close them. Aside from the disconcerting prospect of perhaps waking to find the big, bald brute groping at her, there was the perplexing weight of the Fox’s eyes, which still laid unswervingly upon her. Syeira had tried to ignore it. Surely he only gawked with ungentlemanly lust, like all the others, or with cruel pride at seeing the mess her sorrow had made of her. She was surprised, though, when after such a long moment of quiet, he snatched at her arm and drew her close to him. She had a thought to yelp her displeasure, wake up all of the boy’s fellows, if only to make a scene and force him to release her. But she remained quiet instead, peering up at him with hard eyes and an indignant pout as he near snarled at her. He demanded to know why she hadn’t returned from her wagon with something more destructive than the stone of an old fortune teller, and her pride suddenly felt a little bruised. It was true, she could’ve given more fight even than her insults and furious but ineffective slaps and kicks. But as the man went on, she felt quite definitively that her womanly character was not the only one that infuriated him so. She doubted that she was the only troubling figure in his mind at this moment, and while perhaps she shouldn’t have cared, she was curious.

“Freedom?” she snapped back, keeping her voice as low as she could while still hissing her words over the sharp pattering of the rain. “After you and your fellows have slaughtered my friends? Fathers and brothers and sons of our tribe? Freedom for myself was not what I desired. More fight, more bloodshed… No. I came as quietly as I could to see that my people, what was left of them, could be rid of your filth. Know you no honor in sacrifice?” She vigorously yanked back her forearm from the man’s grasp, and as she pulled against him, she saw the raw scrapes that her nails had left in the flesh of his arm. “Believe me, I could have mustered more violent fury for you yet, Italiano. But so long as I left with you quietly, no others would be harmed. Or so I thought.” Had she known the great red-maned man had desired more of her people’s blood, perhaps indeed she would have returned from her wagon with something more sinister than her mother’s old rock. But still, the more rational part of her mind scolded her for such a thought. Even if she’d managed to cut the throat of one of these men, she’d likely have been run through with a blade or shot down with half a dozen of that cold man’s arrows before even causing such a fight. And then perhaps the men would go back to her people and decimate the rest, just for good measure. While she had no intention of making this journey easy on her captors, Syeira knew it would do no good for her to have herself killed.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the young man apologized for his outburst, and as he leaned a little nearer, inquired softly about her mother’s death. Syeira’s own anger cooled, and she smiled faintly, shaking her head in response. Taking his wrist, she tentatively drew his scratched arm across her lap. “No… She was dead years and years ago, when I was only a child,” she explained softly. She reached out to let the rain pour over her outstretched hand, then brought her dampened palm to the wound she’d given him. With the rainwater pooled in her hand, she wiped away any flecks of blood that remained, working gingerly to clean the reddened flesh as best she could. “It is said she danced in the palace of a sultan, and traveled with the west wind. She never took to one place for too long and moved along, alone, for many years in her old wagon, lulling men with her dance. She arrived in Spain where she met with a handsome aristocrat, and there I was born. But my father stifled her, chained her with jewels and forbade her from returning to her caravan. It is said she was driven mad by such a life, and she took terribly ill. A fever took her life.” As she spoke, Syeira tore away a strip of her frayed, orange skirts and fastened it around the young man’s arm, over the jagged cat scratch she’d left him with. It sort of tickled her to see this dark Italian, bound with a bandage of a gypsy’s garish orange. As soon as the strip of fabric was tied, she tugged his sleeve back down over the dressed wound and released his arm. Quietly, with a little less sadness and hatred in her eyes, she looked up into his face. “I do not know your name,” she stated. “Surely there are others in this world who know you by more than La Volpe.”

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Syeira was a bit sore the man wouldn’t tell her his name. His simple response felt like a chilled snub, whether or not it was meant to be so, and suddenly the woman felt a little foolish for having relinquished that tale about her mother. She shouldn’t have allowed it, no if he weren’t even willing to give her his name. Her amber eyes looked irritably away from the young man, cursing herself for having been willing to deepen her understanding of this Italian brute, but then he surprised her. He’d seen her dancing? Despite the fact that this man had brought with him a plague on her people, the gypsy looked back to him with a slow half-smile and a vague nod. She was often told by the elders of her band that she danced just as her mother once had, that it was in her blood, that her Turkish heritage commanded the way she moved, for none of her Romanian kin, passionate as they were in their music, could dance with quite the same grace and subtle poise. Syeira couldn’t help but feel somewhat flattered by the man’s comment, and she peered at him mutely as he went on, describing to her a gathering of music, entertainment, and art in a place he called Venetzia. The picture he painted of this carnival was colorful and spirited, and Syeira wondered if it wasn’t all too different from the Roma festivals her peoples’ tribes gathered for at the solstices. She found herself smiling rather broadly as La Volpe went on, noticing the faraway look that came to glaze his deep, chocolate eyes.

As if pulling himself from a trance, the man looked back at her and left behind those childhood memories to suggest she cover herself with his blanket. Stubborn though she was, Syeira wasn’t so thick as to refuse the extra warmth; her shawl offered little protection against the icy stabs of the night wind and her skirts, though flowing and rich with color, were made of a uselessly thin fabric. With somewhat wary hands, she reached into the bag the man had indicated and tugged out the blanket. She wrapped it around herself, tucking it up to her chin, and snuggled into the instant warmth it offered. She turned her eyes to the male beside her, about to thank him, when his final comment reached her ears: “You’ll need all your wits about you tomorrow, when we begin looking for more caravans to search…”

Somehow, stupidly, during her conversing with this despicable knave, she’d forgotten his company’s plans. At once her demeanor seemed to change. She cut him with her eyes, staring him mercilessly down, and waiting to see if he gave any indication that he felt ill at ease with his charge. He didn’t, and without another word or moment wasted on his behalf, she turned away from him, tucked down her chin, and felt the tears begin to burn anew.

She wept until she finally drifted into uneasy dozing, but gave no indication of it. Perhaps two hours, maybe three, passed by, and then she stirred to waking. The sky was at its blackest and the bitter rain continued still, but aside from its incessant pattering and the soggy noises of the cart wheels’ churning across the grass, all was quiet. Syeira opened her eyes and looked around her. The man with the arrows looked asleep, his chin collapsed upon his chest, and The Sparrow, he too appeared to be sleeping soundly. She could hear heavy snoring that was immediately expected to be coming from the brutish Bull, and when she looked to the front of the cart, she could see the red-maned man, swaying slightly as he held the reins of the beast that pulled the cart, likely struggling to stay awake if not snoozing himself. Syeira’s eyes then moved to her side, where La Volpe sat. His eyes were closed, the breadth of his chest heaving with the steady, rhythmic motion of his breathing. Looking upon his face, Syeira recalled that strange… dream, that had come upon her shortly after the man had dragged her from her wagon. She had fallen into such a sort of trance only once or twice before, always when her emotions flared. Occurring always with the same unbearable pressure, the same whirling of colors, they showed her what appeared and felt like the most vivid memory, as if she were reliving it. Only, the scenes she experienced through these dreams were always unfamiliar, revealing to her something she’d never seen before. Syeira’s father had told her that her mother had… “fits” from time to time; the gypsy elders called them visions, a gift from the spirits which she’d used to predict the future, to heal, and, more rarely, cast ancient incantations.

As Syeira looked contemplatively at the Fox, she withdrew her mother’s crystal and turned it over in her hands. It grew warm, her fingertips began to tingle, and her vision began to blur. But with a jolt, she wrenched her consciousness back to herself and forced her mind to work. If she had any chance of escaping, this was it. All were asleep, the forest, which she knew as well as her own name, was a dark abyss beneath the lightless moon; it would welcome her like a lost child, and trick her pursuers. Syeira clutched the stone tighter in her contemplation, and as she plotted, she noticed that the rain seemed to fall ever harder, coming down in glacial sheets. The noise of the fat drops pelting the cart, the grass, the branches of the dense trees became deafening, and Syeira knew this was her chance to slip away. Hiding the stone again in her skirts, she slipped out from the blanket, scooting towards the edge of the wagon, dangling her feet down so they just brushed the wet, mossy ground. She looked at La Volpe. Still he sat quiet, a dark statue. Her eyes, wide and alert, continued to stare at him as she inched nearer and nearer to the very edge of the cart, until finally, in one fluid, graceful motion, she slipped off. The noise of her landing melted into the trudging of the wheels, the ceaseless humming of the rain, and she poured herself to the ground as soon as her feet touched the grass. Crouching, she watched as the wagon moved on. Without her.

She remained there, flat on her stomach, silent, peering out unblinking as the cart rolled further and further away. Once it was engulfed by the darkness and mist, she exhaled a breath she’d forgotten she was holding and rose to her bare feet. She was soaked to the bone now, but free, and she didn’t deliberate for a second before choosing a direction and chasing off. Soft and agile as a deer, her feet raced across the ground. She hurried not back towards her own caravan, but in a path that zigged and zagged, perpendicular to the route of the wagon and away from the direction her people would be travelling. She knew they would attempt to track her, and she wasn’t going to give them an easy time of it. She crossed a creek, then crossed back, left footprints in one place, then made sure to cover her new path with fallen leaves, before then choosing a different path altogether. She was deft and spry as a nymph, until she began to tire. As she hopped along rocks that formed a rugged bridge over a rushing river, she slipped and fell, bashing one knee into the edge of the stone she’d been hoping to land on. Half fallen into the water, she hauled herself up and managed to limp across to the opposite bank, but the soft, olive skin just below her knee was gushing sticky warmth – in the forest’s darkness, she could not make out the red color of her blood, all was merely black. Knowing it would mark her trail as clear as any, Syeira tugged off her headscarf and bound it tightly about her leg to soak up the blood rather than let it drip, then trudged on.

Another hour passed, but now she had a destination. Close to one of her caravan’s previous camping places – a seasonal stop they usually made in summer, for that was when the berries that could be found there were sweetest – was a rock formation that Syeira had often played near as a young girl. Its sharp, jutting ledges made shallow caves – which might afford a reasonably dry refuge from the rain. She pressed on, pausing briefly to unfasten the bloody headscarf from her calf. She fastened it around a low branch of a tree – a stark warning to other gypsies that Syeira knew would pass this way. Her leg wasn’t bleeding so badly now, and utilizing her last bit of strength, she moved on at a run. Within another half hour, she found the place she’d hoped for; the rocks were huddled in a pile at the base of a cliff, covered in moss and just as Syeira had remembered them. A perfect climbing place for wild, gypsy children. She would stay here only for the night, she thought, then move on.

She had to duck to enter the largest of the caves – which seemed suddenly smaller than she’d remembered – but once inside, she could almost stand and, most importantly, the rain could not reach her. Legs spattered in mud, she stripped from her clothing and laid it out to dry, then wrapped herself up in her shawl before lying down. She was no less wet beneath that last garment, which itself was absolutely sopping, but at least she might begin to dry and have some tenuous protection from the night air.

She closed her eyes, too exhausted to think or even consider that the Italians may already be after her, and fell into a dreamless sleep only moments later. She wouldn’t remember it, but the last picture she saw, etched into her memory, was a vision of La Volpe, sleeping soundly himself.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Vianne’s attention turned back to her wounded hand and a wistful, stupid thought sparked in her mind. Perhaps Dae would offer to help nurse her wound. Surely he’d see the blood running into the sink, and though it wasn’t anything serious, maybe he’d help her dress it. Despite herself, she yearned for his touch, felt a thrill rush through her just at the prospect of maybe, maybe being allowed to feel his strong, deft hands cup her wounded palm. He’d wind a bandage around the cut, gingerly, with tenderness, maybe even press a kiss— “Apply pressure to stop the bleeding.” Bristling slightly, more at herself for having concocted such a foolish daydream, the brunette remembered that Dae Hyun was not her lover, and had no intention of playing such a part. Her jaw clenched, pearly teeth gnashing behind full, set lips, as she reached for a paper towel, folded it into a square, and pressed it firmly against her injured palm. Sure enough, the dribbling blood began to slow.

“Quite efficient, aren’t you?” the young woman mumbled in response to Dae’s explanation of the day before them. She knew better than to expect that any of this was for her benefit. He just wanted to get the messy bits over and done with. He’d have his signed contract, could feel sufficiently, confidently as if he owned her, then he’d probably take her to Bloomingdales so he could dress her up like a child’s dolly, precisely how he wanted her. Without even trying to feign enthusiasm, Vianne resigned herself to her fate as a powerful man’s plaything, and went about cleaning up the kitchen as her employer went to enjoy his breakfast. Only, moments later, Vianne felt a sudden panic come over her when it appeared, unexpectedly, that Mr. Moore hadn’t enjoyed his breakfast. She watched as half the fluffy, golden omelet with all his favorite accoutrements was dumped into the trash. It was stupid maybe, but she was mortified. Had she done something wrong? Not enough pepper? Had he been hoping for something else? No – this was one of his favorites; it was stupid she knew that fact so well. But, had Dae been truly displeased, Vianne was sure she’d have heard his complaints all the way down the hall as she walked to her room to get dressed.

It was a nice day out and, if they were headed out into the city, Vianne thought she might as well dress up a little. She hastily fashioned her hair into some loose curls then pulled on a little sundress. It was light and flowy, not too short, with a sweet floral pattern etched into the fabric. After stepping into a pair of white heels, she painted on a bit of make-up – just enough liner to enhance her green-blue eyes, a little lipstick and blush as well but nothing garish – and appraised her reflection in a mirror just in time to hear Dae call for her to leave with him. It was odd, hearing him call her by her first name in this manner. The two syllables rang out through the house in his voice. That voice, smooth and commanding – Vianne knew it so well – suddenly sounded much less familiar as it called her name. But the brunette didn’t consider this notion for too long; she didn’t want to keep him waiting.

She slipped out of her neatly kept room and joined him at the door. She half expected him to order her to stand at attention, like some drill sergeant, then put her through inspection as he appraised her dress and appearance. As it was, he merely let her out the door, locked it behind her, and took her by the arm to lead her on. Her first instinct was to yank her elbow away from him – who was he to lead her around like some blind child? – but God help her, she was too enthralled just to feel him touch her. She was becoming such a sadist, taking such pleasure in a touch she knew meant nothing to him. She swallowed dryly and slipped into the passenger seat of his car, silently obeyed his request that she put her seatbelt on, and sat quietly as the car rumbled to life and sped onto the street.

She’d intended to sit in awkward, deafening silence the entire ride, and had already turned her eyes blankly out the window to watch the scenery fly by in mute mock-interest. But then he spoke to her. He wanted her to talk… about herself? Vianne turned to look at him, those sea-green eyes perplexed. What did he care? He’d never taken interest in her before… And then she realized. With a wry smile, she looked down into her lap. “Of course, you’ll need to be able to pretend that you know me…” she murmured, voicing her understanding. “You could just make up a story for me,” she suggested dryly. “A history, a personality… And I’ll abide by it while I have to play this little game. But maybe it’d be less trouble for you simply to know the truth…” After all, she didn’t want to put him out, inconvenience him in any way. Swallowing again, she wondered what she ought to tell him, where to begin…

“You know I come from France,” she began slowly. “My parents still live there. They have a little land in the countryside, a small cottage… In the spring the whole place is covered in wildflowers. My mother tends to her garden while my father tinkers away in his workshop. He still whittles toys for the village children every Christmas and Easter.” Vianne smiled dreamily to remember her parents, their quaint way of life. Now that her life had grown so complicated, she longed for such simplicity. But, as though emerging from a trance, she cleared her throat and decided to talk of more serious things. “I think they wish I had stayed in the village with them, married some nice boy and given them half a dozen grandchildren to spoil. But I wanted more than that. I wanted to get far away from that life, to go to university, so I came here. I had hoped to get my degree in Literature. I love to read and hope one day to write.” Suddenly Vianne paused, feeling somehow vulnerable as she divulged these wishes. But then her voice hardened somewhat. “But I couldn’t afford my tuition any longer, so I sought out a job.” Her eyes, almost accusing, turned upon him. “I’m not sure what else you want to know…”

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

“ all my rage -- an adv. search thread

i'm going to do my absolute best to keep this brief. really this time.

i'm searching for an advanced, male writer for a one-on-one roleplay via private messages. pairings are listed below. please drop me a line via pm if you happen to be interested ( be prepared to offer a sample of your writing; i may ask ). questions and comments may be left here.

my samples
old search thread

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx✿ keyxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbold ;; my character
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxno role in bold ;; i will play either
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx* ;; CRAVING
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxP ;; i have a plot or idea
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx( tiny text ) ;; sort of plot in mind.

✿ original ;; modernxxxxx

xxxxx StudentxTeacher P ( taboo, drama, a little dark )
xxxxx SecretaryxEmployer
xxxxx NannyxEmployer
xxxxx MaidxEmployer P ( dark-ish, possible blackmail )
xxxxx MusexArtist P ( bohemian young adults, maybe dysfunctional )
xxxxx ModelxPhotographer P ( drama, very mature )
xxxxx VampirexHuman P ( masquerade, conflict, personal struggles, possessive romance )
xxxxx Country BoyxCity Girl P ( romance, betrayal )
xxxxx Older ManxYounger Woman P ( taboo, romance, drama )
xxxxx ParisiennexForeigner P ( artsy, dysfunctional romance )
xxxxx Affair

✿ original ;; historical ( victorian or edwardian )xxxxx

xxxxx Mail-Order BridexHusband P ( drama, obsessive romance, betrayal )
xxxxx Finishing School StudentxGypsy P ( conflicting characters, mild fantasy )
xxxxx BachelorxMarried Woman P ( affair, struggle, intrigue )
xxxxx ArtistxMuse P ( "girl with a pearl earring"-esque )
xxxxx PiratexStow-away/Hostage/Pirate
xxxxx PiratexNaval Officer P ( conflict, potential romance, betrayal )


✿ series ;; literaturexxxxx

xxxxx Gemma Doyle Trilogy - Libba Bray
xxxxxxxx GemmaxKartik P ( reincarnations? working idea ) *
xxxxx His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
xxxxxxxx AnyxAny
xxxxx Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling
xxxxxxxx AnyxAny
xxxxx Twilight - Stephanie Meyer
xxxxxxxx OCxEdward P ( drama, horror, romance ) *

✿ series ;; t.v. / filmxxxxx

xxxxx Avatar: The Last Airbender
xxxxxxxx AnyxAny
xxxxx Batman - Nolanverse
xxxxxxxx OC TherapistxJoker P ( power struggle, mutually abusive partnership )
xxxxxxxx Female "Two-Face"xJoker P ( pending )
xxxxxxxx Harley QuinnxBatman P ( pending )
xxxxxxxx Female "Two-Face"xBatman P ( pending )
xxxxxxxx OCxBatman
xxxxx James Bond
xxxxxxxx OCxBond P ( conflicting characters, action, drama, romance )
xxxxx Phantom of the Opera
xxxxxxxx OCxPhantom P ( pending )
xxxxx Pirates of the Caribbean
xxxxxxxx AnyxAny
xxxxx Sherlock Holmes
xxxxxxxx OCxHolmes P ( pending ) *
xxxxx V for Vendetta
xxxxxxxx EveyxV P ( character/relationship development, political drama ) *
xxxxx X-Men Origins: Wolverine
xxxxxxxx OCxWolverine P ( romance, betrayal ) *

[- - la nuit blanche]

A shift in the weather brought with it the return of black-grey clouds and though it had not begun to rain, it was bitter cold. Gusts of wind howled through the mouth of Syeira’s little cave and, closing her eyes tight, she turned away from the entrance and huddled beneath her shawl. Having found nourishment with her gypsy kin, she no longer felt starved, and she was very grateful that her clothes were fully dry, but as he medicine began to wear off, her chills and aches began to come back. Her fever raged with renewed fervor, bringing with it what, when waking, she would only describe as delusional dreams.

She was in his arms once more. No longer smuggled into some dark place, lit only by perhaps a candle – the makings of a passionate, secret tryst. A lavish bedchamber composed her surroundings, hung with draperies and chandeliers of glittering jewels. The bed she lounged upon was trimmed in the finest silk sheets and a gauzy canopy hung over the four posts, creating thin, gossamer curtains all around. His lips grazed her neck, padded down her throat to the tops of her breasts, ravenous and hurried. His hands began pulling at her clothing, struggling somewhat sloppily to undress her as fast as he could. She was no longer clothed in her gypsy garb, but encrusted in a fine scarlet gown, patterned in gold thread. She wore stockings beneath, dainty little shoes, and her hair was pulled back with only a few dark ringlets framing her olive cheeks. It all felt so foreign. It reminded her of days spent beneath the stifling rule of her aristocrat father in Spain, all frills and unbearable luxury. He was getting frustrated now, fumbling to get her dress unfastened to the extent of making things rather uncomfortable for the woman beside him. With a mind to protest, Syeira opened her eyes and saw not her handsome Daunte, but a stranger. An older man, with cold eyes, a pudgy midsection, and grayed hair. The scene fell away almost before Syeira could register her shock, churning into another vision. This one was of some sort of village square, crowded with peasants and royalty alike. A platform was stationed in the middle, with five nooses hanging above from gallows. Five men were led to the platform. From Syeira’s bodiless viewpoint, she could see their faces, each one dirty, dejected. Lion, Bull, Wasp, Sparrow… and Fox. All stepped up to their noose, hands bound, and let it be tightened by the executioner. Syeira’s view shifted, now to the man she’d seen attempting to undress her, perched up upon a kind of raised throne. He was present to oversee the execution, she presumed, and just behind him was seated an unfamiliar young woman. A girl who looked nervous, uncomfortable, and sad. A girl Syeira couldn’t help but recognize as one of her kin. Another gypsy. Her heart began to race as the executioner set his hand on the lever that would pull the floor out from beneath the condemned, letting them fall and be strangled. He looked to the Pope for permission. The Pope raised his hand and nodded. Syeira’s gaze focused on the Fox, and though she was viewing this scene as a spirit floating, unseen in the air, he looked at her. Straight at her, and his handsome, chocolate eyes were defeated. He parted his perfect lips, as though to speak to her, but the executioner pulled the lever and he, along with his fellows, dropped through the floor. The only sound Syeira heard was the breaking of his neck.

And then she woke, not fully understanding what she’d seen. Her fever was flaring and she felt clammy and cold as ice, and somehow ten times more fatigued than she’d been before she slept. These dreams… somehow they exhausted her. And given the illness she’d brought on herself by tromping about through the rain and falling into rivers, she hadn’t the energy to spare. But the visions didn’t care. They came without warning, without first being accepted. Syeira couldn’t understand why they were beginning to come so much more frequently now. Or perhaps, really, it had only been a perverse dream, brought on by the fire that pulsed in her head and coated her body in sweat. Oh, how she was beginning to wish she’d be found. Be found, or else die be allowed to die quickly. For she was not like to survive on her own if left to this crippling fever and the harsh brutality of the elements.

A voice. His voice. She could have sworn she heard it. Slowly she sat up. Perhaps she was merely falling into another dream… But no! There it was again. He must have come for her. He’d found her. Though, she reminded herself, this was little to feel terribly grateful for. Groggily, she got to her feet, then paused and unfastened the clean cloth that had been tied around her wounded leg. She didn’t want to give the Italians even the slightest indication that she’d been tended to by anyone else before they arrived. The bandages were tossed to the back of the cave and she felt vaguely in her pockets for her mother’s stone. As soon as she was sure she had it, she hugged her shawl around her shoulders and stepped out of the cave.

She could see Daunte in the distance, but not too far, climbing around on the great pile of heavy rocks, peeking around for her. “Here I am,” she called feebly. “Catch me if you can.” Perhaps it was the recognition that this man, despite the feelings for him she’d had in her dreams, was her enemy, or maybe she really was just so stubborn and foolish, but she began to run. She hurried down from the rocks, then raced towards the protection of the dense forest. She scarcely made it more than fifteen steps before she suddenly felt as if she’d run ten miles. Her lungs ached as they drew in breath and her legs began to buckle. Vision bluring, she collapsed against a tree, letting its great trunk support her, until finally she drooped down onto her knees. Her ears began to buzz, the sweat icy cold as it trickled down her chest and the sides of her face, and she felt her grip on consciousness beginning to slip.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

As Syeira wilted to the ground, she felt herself suddenly being caught up before her knees sank into the muddy grass. The Fox had raced after her and now held her up in his arms. Not that she was terribly grateful; frankly, she’d preferred the support of the tree. Now she was forced to keep awake, with this irritated Italian snarling his frustrations at her. Groaning weakly, she tried to focus her vision. Something cool and soothing was padding along her fevered brow, her cheeks and neck. When she regained some concentration, she realized it was Daunte’s hand apparently dampened with water. She could feel the liquid dripping along her hairline and she lifted up her head. The cool of the water helped. The contrast of temperature between the hot of her face and the cold of the liquid made her shiver a little, but it was a good feeling. Her hands reached up to clasp at the man’s arms, weak fingers closing around his sleeves as she tried to right herself. It was little use, however; her legs refused to do anything but quiver and collapse and she was left clinging to the man’s support.

“Not so long ago you reprimanded me for having not stolen a weapon from my wagon so I could try stupidly to fight you all. Now you reprimand me for running away when I had the chance? You’d never have found me were it not for this fever…” she grumbled, accepting the drink of water he offered and guzzling greedily. Somehow she hadn’t realized how parched she’d been. When he lowered the nozzle away from her mouth, she licked her chapped lips. “But, I am sorry…” she added feebly. “I hadn’t thought that your fellows would blame you alone for my escape.”

It was stupid to apologize, Syeira realized. It must be her illness, making her act so foolishly. It was true, her thoughts were still muddled in a sort of haze, her mind and memories somehow fuzzy. It took a moment for her to fully realize that she’d just told him something she couldn’t have possibly known, were it not for her strange clairvoyance. Surely he wouldn’t understand. She shuddered against a cold gale of wind and shook her head slightly, as if trying to clear her head, but that only made her dizzy, unbalanced, and her forehead dipped against the man’s shoulder. “I know…” she struggled hoarsely to murmur, fighting the urge to close her eyes and simply doze off in his arms. “I know they turned against you. I know you are called not Volpe, but Daunte. And I know that, unless I am the one chosen by your regele,” she did not know the word for this king she was meant to be delivered to, “…you will die.” She swallowed hard. Suddenly her mouth was dry and there was a ball of tension knotting itself uncomfortably in the back of her throat. “I have seen it,” she muttered hoarsely. Those dreams – and she was becoming more and more certain that they were true predictions – suddenly made absolute sense to her. She was meant to be some exotic whore for the Italian’s great priest, or king, or whatever he was. If someone else came to occupy that position, another poor gypsy girl, the failed company, of which Daunte was a part, would be executed. Syeira remembered the sickening, resounding echo in her ears of the Fox’s neck breaking as the floor of the gallows slipped away beneath him. She shuddered again, and this time the brisk air could not be blamed.

Syeira wondered what all of this meant for her. If she was chosen by the Italian regele, she would live in slavery – and there was no telling how harsh such a life might be – exploited for her body, likely to be discarded when the old man detected a change in his appetite. And yet, if she successfully escaped, or somehow eluded this fate, Daunte would be killed. Her freedom – if freedom she could even regain – meant his death.

The dark young woman turned her pale face up to look at him and her eyes were, for an instant, sad, frightened, beginning to tear. But then Syeira looked aside again, pushed his arms away from her and stumbled off. She made it to the next nearest tree before pausing again, leaning heavily against the trunk. “You did not come after me alone?” she muttered over one shoulder, though it wasn’t a question. She’d seen that he’d been accompanied by one of the other Italians. “Your friend, the cold one with the arrows and that strange bow – should you not call him back? You have found me.” Her voice had grown a little stronger with determination; it had struck her that the Fox’s comrade might come upon the path of the gypsies who had kept her alive. For an instant, Syeira thought to tell Daunte of that family in their wagon. Perhaps he would have the heart to make sure they escaped far enough away. But, more merciful than the others as he was, she somehow doubted he was truly all that sympathetic. If she gave him any inkling of where another caravan might be, surely he’d only attempt to exploit it. He still thought her only a foolish woman, a heathen, a prize for the one who employed him. She couldn’t allow herself to forget this.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Morticia’s blood lips pulled into a soft smile when her husband entered the room, only to collapse at her feet and begin pecking a series of kisses from her wrist to her neck. Her French had always driven him wild this way. And, given they were alone in their room with some privacy, she decided to accommodate her stricken spouse. “Hmm,” she pondered. “Art nouveau, esprit de corps… la vie en rose.” Each word to him was like a cut of meat to Kitty Cat and would usually have sent him into a veritable feeding frenzy, were it not for the heavy troubles lying upon his mind. As he sat himself beside her, the pale woman pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and let her fingers twist about his as he took both her hands.

While he complimented her orchid, his wife smiled modestly in thanks but did not speak. Somehow she knew he was only delaying the divulging of this proposition of his, and she did not wish to discourage him. She was dying to hear his thoughts, and as at last he began, assuring her first that he’d never leave his family without good cause, she sat still and listened carefully. Her expression fell at the thought of his leaving home. Oh, how dreadful it would be without him. She could scarcely bear to think of it! They hadn’t been parted for longer than a day since their marriage, so far as Morticia could recall. Who would look after the finances? Who would help Wednesday categorize her spiders and remind Puglsey to feed Tristan and Isolde the family’s dinner scraps? And who, pray tell, would be constantly by her side, her doting companion, her passionate love, her suave, dashing cariño? Such thoughts made her begin to panic. And yet, as he himself had said, he would never dream of leaving her had he not a very good reason. Trying to look and feel less mortified, she listened as he continued.

“Oh, mon amour,” she answered at last in a soft, crooning voice. She raised a skeletal hand and gingerly stroked her husband’s cheek, knowing well that though this separation would be difficult on them both, it was necessary. “Of course you must accompany him,” she agreed, nodding slowly. “I’m sure he will feel infinitely better after his voyage, but he’ll need you. You will be a great comfort to him, and when you both return, all will be back to normal.” She forced a gentle smile to return to her lips. But then, there was still more to consider. Her husband had chosen to appoint Lurch as master of the house in his stead, and while Morticia would obey and support him always, she wondered about his choice. However, her hesitation lasted only an instant before she realized that yes, Lurch was the only candidate suitable for the job, and he would be perfect. But what other duties did Gomez intend for him to see to while he was gone? A little confused, Morticia’s thin brows knit together and she peered curiously into her husband’s face. “I suppose we will need someone to step into your shoes, my love, and I agree that Lurch would surely do a wonderful job, but what further tasks would you request of him? If you will trust to him the finances, the children…” He was already so attentive to Grandmama, always helping her with her cooking, keeping the nails of the bed she sometimes relaxed upon good and sharp… The only person Gomez might be leaving unattended was… “Darling, do you mean…?” She could only assume her beloved Gomez intended to ask Lurch to attend to her, as a surrogate husband.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Syeira bristled almost instantly as the Fox approached her, hissing his threats and assuring her that she would only succeed in killing herself if she kept up this behavior. She glared up at him, about to speak, to argue that her visions were no different than Christians’ occasional hallucinations of their own deitys, or else taunt him cruelly by describing that first dream she’d had, after first seeing him at her caravan. But the Wasp entered into the conversation, and she was forced instantly to pause.

She hardly took note of his exhilarated sort of air, the way he so readily clutched his bow in both hands. She saw only the blood.

Instantly her heart fell into the very pit of her stomach and she began to feel ill. She didn’t even respond to La Vespa’s threat to cut out her tongue. She didn’t care. She could only stare, wide-eyed and mortified, at his bloody hands. Please, no, she thought to herself. Hunting. He was away in the forest hunting. The others, they are fine. The children… Surely they are far away by now, safe… He couldn’t have… Suddenly Syeira found her mouth to be dry, and when she swallowed there was a sob rising in her throat. Her frantic eyes moved to Daunte as he inquired where his fellow Italiano had been. Somehow now she was feeling alert, painfully so. Whatever sickness she’d been stricken with, however sore her wounded leg still was, she cared not. Her gaze snapped back to the Wasp and she waited for his response, and yet, perhaps she already knew, truly, what he would say.

“…it was just a little family di zingari…”

Syeira felt her stomach churn and for a fierce instant, she locked eyes with the Wasp, the despicable murderer. She wanted to strangle him on the spot. She didn’t care how many times he managed to sting her with his arrows, she’d claw all of the flesh from his face before she was done. Brutal insults and obscene curses already gathered themselves in her mouth, ready to be breathed like dragon’s fire at the loathsome man. She hated him. She hated all of them. And she hated herself. Not even her fury could stop the tears from coming. She could not stop herself feeling at fault for this. She'd known the Italians would be coming. She shouldn’t have allowed the little family to help her for an instant. She could have sent the children away on their horse alone once they had found her, ordered them simply to warn their parents, to advise them to run away and not stop for anything.

Syeira turned away and clamped a hand over her lips to stifle a hoarse sob, her posture crumpling. She was filled with such self-loathing, such bitter hatred and sorrow. Filled with a spirit that stemmed from only a single desire – the desire to be through with this, to end it all for both herself and her captors – she suppressed her weeping and ran once again. Faster and faster she went, upon feet that seemed lighter than air, dodging the trees, letting the wind whip her face and dry the tears that escaped from her eyes. Her body ached with exhaustion, her leg throbbed with pain where she’d injured herself, and her lungs felt as if it were the hardest labor merely to draw a single breath. But on she ran. Towards the river. She would throw herself into it, allow it to take her, for she could not swim and wished to die. Her end would be theirs, and her people would have their revenge upon them.

She could hear it, the sound of gurgling water, rushing across stones, beckoning, beckoning. She began to cry, uncontrollably, near hysterically as she ran. She was close. She caught sight of her own dried blood smeared upon the mossy ground. Her body felt weighted, heavier and heavier, begging for the plunge that would be her release. And then she came to it, churning almost violently, brimming to its banks after the long rain. She paused, just an instant, at the edge. Only long enough to look over one shoulder, to see if she were being followed, how soon they might catch her. But they wouldn’t catch her. Not this time. She closed her eyes, exhaled a last breath, listened to the beat of her heart, and dropped herself in.

xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

Like embracing arms of ice, the river drew her into its current, plunged her down into its dark, endless depths. The cold, black water shocked the breath out of her and she closed her eyes tight. Syeira could feel herself sway with the rushing tide, be carried off downstream. Her bare feet strained to reach the pebble strewn floor but could not find it, and soon, as her lungs burned with lack of air, she could no longer see the light at the surface of the water, nor could she tell even which way the surface might be. Disoriented, frightened, and frozen to the bone, she did her best to suppress the instinct to fight for her survival. Instead, she focused on flailing and paddling clumsily in the direction she presumed to be downward, intent on her own end, determined to strive for it, to join those poor little children, their parents, the old fiddler with his twinkling eyes.

She began to fade. The last bubbles of her breath had drifted away from her lips and she began to feel lightheaded, woozy, and fiercely choked. She coughed, proving only to gulp freezing water into her parched lungs, and knew she had precious few moments left. Drowning would be agony, but then, at least, it would all be over. The Italians would lose their prize whore, and they could no longer plague her kin on her account. Her only regret as her frozen limbs began to fall limp, her eyes to close against the straining pain in her chest, was that Daunte, with his comrades, would hang. For the others, she didn’t care, had not even a shred of sympathy or thought of compassionate mercy. She would gladly see them die, hope that their nooses did not break their necks, end life quickly for them, but merely tightened and let them be strangled, suffocated and drowned just as she now was. But not him, not Daunte… He was not one of them.

She had already come to lament his inevitable death when suddenly something yanked at one of her numbed arms, dragging her away. She fought feebly, but more than ever now she was confused. Everything was black, her head felt so light and her body so heavy, and the only warmth she could feel came faintly from her mother’s stone as it rested heavily in her pocket, against her thigh. The force that pulled her overpowered her easily and suddenly she was above water again, out of that dark abyss. She coughed and sputtered, squinted her copper eyes open as her would-be rescuer dragged her to the shore and dumped her there to shiver and vomit water upon the sand. Then he, whoever he was, was crouched over her, digging sharp fingers into her hair. He was speaking to her, but his voice seemed far away; she could scarcely hear it, which may have been best given the despicable venom he surely injected into each word. But as he drew out a knife, dragged the tip down her throat then over her blouse, half shredding it, her vision cleared and she remembered her pursuers, and recognized the cold, vicious eyes of the Wasp, boring down into her face. She became very aware of the fury in his face, the painful, pressing weight of his knee into her stomach, and the waiting position of his knife. He was going to kill her, slowly, agonizingly. She could see it in his face. He meant to do it. And no courageous rescuer would come to save her.

But this was not how she wished to die, the tortured, weakened slave of some faraway king’s cruel soldiers. With a feeble whimper, she struggled, frantically, lost in a terrified frenzy. She watched the man’s lip curl in sadistic delight, and then, all at once, a bellowing cry pierced the air and the Wasp was thrown off of her. Wooden shrapnel showered down over his immobile body and Syeira recognized it vaguely as pieces of the man’s own weapon. She sat up slowly, shivering from the cold, trembling with the surge of adrenaline, and still coughing up water. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulled them in close, and became aware of droplets of water, hot, dripping down her cheeks. Tears. Struggling down a swallow, she finally turned her face towards the one who had stopped the Wasp from utilizing his sting to murder her.

He’d collapsed upon the pebbled shore beside her and looked almost as shaken as she. He said nothing, did not even move to scold or punish her, or to attempt to revive his unconscious ally. The world tipped and suddenly Syeira felt a renewed clarity. She crawled weakly nearer to him, peered into his face with a mix of gratitude and astonishment at his stupidity, and was silent a moment. Then, slowly, she reached for his face. Blood was seeping from his bottom lip. She cautiously swiped the scarlet drops from his mouth with a fragile thumb, then, almost contemplatively, rubbed the blood between her thumb and index finger, smearing the two digits with its color as her eyes looked up into his.

“That was foolish of you,” she rasped candidly, wiping at her colorless lips with the back of one hand. She glanced back to the archer, noting with a churning inside her stomach the red that was beginning to pool beneath his battered skull. “If he lives, he will tell your comrades what you’ve done. And I doubt they will forgive your actions; my death would have meant little to them, and you might have killed one of your own to defend me.” She paused, tried again to swallow, and looked back into the Italian’s face, her gaze wild, fearful, but at the same time somber and steady. Resolved to do what needed to be done.

“If he returns with you, I fear we will both face the cruelty of your brothers. H-He must not…” Her voice cracked faintly and she raised herself shakily to her feet, bringing with her in one hand a large, round stone. Half stumbling, she turned away and began to step unsteadily towards the body of the cold-eyed archer, until she paused above him, peering down over his bloodied head. She knelt slowly, half falling to her knees, stared down at the man for a moment, then raised the stone over her head in both quivering hands.

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[- - la nuit blanche]

Vianne suddenly felt dreadfully uncomfortable as the conversation began to take on the feel of an interrogation. She understood that Dae, to pull off this scheme of his, must know some of the particulars concerning his supposed bride, but the name of her first boyfriend, where she had gone to school? She crossed one slim leg over the other and turned away from him, huddling towards the passenger door and staring out from the window. Then he went a step further, inquiring with a smirk Vianne dearly wanted to slap from his face about the man she’d first slept with. Her gaze shot back to him in furious indignation, but she knew it wouldn’t do to argue with him. The man was either too proud or too idiotic to care or understand that she may not desire to share such intimate details about her life. She considered again asserting that he ought to simply make these things up for himself, tailor her life to something he thought would be suitable to put on display for his friends. She was a smart girl, she could memorize any details he decided to concoct. She’d study her new, fake life for him, make flashcards if she had to so that every miniscule detail he created would be branded into her mind and forced to be regarded as truth. But he’d already opposed that idea once, and Vianne didn’t feel she had the strength for another argument.

So, she went on, explaining that she would be exactly twenty-three the following April, that her mother had been a school teacher, sometimes taught piano in the summers (Vianne explained that this, incidentally, was why she herself could play the piano quite well). Her father had taken great pleasure in constructing furniture when he was a little younger, but had long since retired. Her family had always lived very simply, but happily. She had been their only child. Vianne went on to explain that the town where they lived was called Lansquenet. It was a very tiny, antique village that still preferred cobblestone roads to proper asphalt and sat upon the old River Tannes. She told him of the school she’d attended through her childhood and into her adolescence, explained that she’d always been quite a good student, though an imaginative child who was always off tearing her skirts, getting stuck in trees, and romping about with her friends. She supposed such endearing details would be pleasant for Dae to repeat to any curious comrades.

“My closest friend,” she explained, her voice suddenly becoming a little softer, more tender. “was a boy who moved into the village when I was about eleven. Luc Rocher was his name. He was, I suppose if you must know, the first boy I slept with. I’d just turned sixteen… I thought we would live together in Lansquenet forever, happily ever after. We were… very close. But as we grew up, finished school, we drifted apart. He went to work in the city and I came here. Since we left each other, I never really took a serious interest in any other man, not until…” Vianne stopped herself almost abruptly, wet her lips with a deft swipe of her tongue and again focused out the window on the scenery as it went by. She had loved Luc with all the passion she possessed; after him, she never felt as though any other man could instill such feeling in her. Only when she had begun working for Dae-Hyun had she felt even the vaguest rekindling of such passionate adoration. And now she was disgusted with herself just to look upon him.

After a brief pause, she tied up this more detailed account of her life, explaining that she’d been accepted into a rather prestigious college in the city and that she’d successfully attended it for a year before her money ran out and she had to find work. “You can tell your friends, if you like,” she continued, her voice growing cold as she wrapped herself around herself and rested her forehead to the cold, glassy window. “…that since becoming employed with you, I never bothered to search out the company of any other man… That I’d always hoped only for you.” Something in the tone of her voice suggested plainly that she didn’t say this merely to mock him, but because it was, or at least had been, entirely true. The entire time she’d worked in his house, she’d been completely chaste, until the night he finally seemed to show interest in her and took her to his bed.

Vianne chewed irritably at the inside of her cheek, then dampened her lips again and swallowed dryly. “Now, I think you know just about everything…” Her life had indeed been like a tale in a storybook, until she’d drifted from the first man she’d ever loved, ran from her idyllic home and ended up here, where the fairytale seemed to unravel completely. Finally she turned her pretty, stubborn face to look at the man in the driver’s seat. She suspected they were nearing their destination, but she had no intention of letting him get away with this interrogation without asking anything in return. “But I still know so little about you… I know how you like your eggs in the morning, how competent you are at business, how you’ve managed to gain your success… But a fiancée ought to know far more than that.” She pressed her lips and allowed a small smirk to come to her mouth.

“I ought to know, for example, why exactly you are so indulgent of your mother, and yet so bitterly hate your father… I know, of course, the gist of it… When you began to rise to such success, every business magazine wrote about your situation with all the fanciful gossip of a tabloid. “Up And Coming Dae-Hyun Moore, illegitimate child of business tycoon… Mother was a modest housekeeper in his home…”. But one can’t always trust such things,” Vianne threw at him coldly. “I ought to know the particulars. A man in love and about to be married would share all such secrets with his wife-to-be, wouldn’t he? I suppose I should know, too, who you’d intended to make love to the night you so unfortunately ended up with me, and how frequently you turn from heavy drinking to sex with faceless women. That’s the sort of habit a fiancée ought to know about, isn’t it?”

She was being cruel, and she knew it. She almost reveled in it. Now that he had prodded into the privacy of her life, she intended to do the same to him. “Tell me, have you ever actually loved a woman? Or are you really all business and detached sex, relationships you don’t desire anything more of once the sun rises and you can again hurry away to the office? What will you tell your friends it was that made your foolish little maid a more worthy distraction than the others? What will you tell your mother..?”

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[- - la nuit blanche]

Vianne listened attentively, though without looking at the man beside her, as he spoke, explaining without a fuss all the things she’d asked to know. And for an instant, she felt her heart soften for him. He’d lived a harder life than she’d expected, than the magazine and newspaper articles bothered to make out. His father had left his offspring and his mother to face the cruelty of their culture’s disapproval, allowed them to struggle when he could have offered support. She supposed then that his coldness, his ruthlessness towards his father was justified. She remembered then what it was that had always drawn her to him. Not his financial power and wealth, but his strength, the determination of his character. Perhaps it made him distant, perhaps it made him even seem cruel, but she admired that.

However, her sympathy dissipated almost instantly as Dae began to reminisce about their night together. She couldn’t bear his description. “…your legs wrapped around my waist…very soft and eager to receive…your taste…it stayed with me all day.” She swallowed hard and grit her teeth. “Stop,” she rasped feebly, shifting to face away from him once more. She didn’t want to be reminded just how… inviting she’d been for him that night. “Accommodating,” he’d suggested. It put an awful taste in her mouth, almost brought bitter tears to her eyes. She’d been stupid. Look what her warmth and tenderness had got her. Now she’d be playing house with the same man she’d admired for so long, the one she’d sought so desperately to dote all her passions on in bed, but only so he could use her as a convenient lie. She lifted a hand to her head and lightly massaged her temple. She wished she was more like him. Ruthless, cold, unloving. All of this would be so much easier if she didn’t still desire for him to love her. She knew, knew without a doubt, that he never could.

She pushed these thoughts from her mind and let him go on, trying to note all the details he offered and memorize them like a good girl. When he spoke of the women he slept it, her suppositions were only affirmed. He never made any promises, he said. Always used protection to make sure no woman could get the better of him and attempt to exploit his wealth. Vianne wondered, had he worn a condom when they’d slept together? Somehow she couldn’t recall; she’d been… distracted.

He went on, just as they came into the parking lot, to explain that no, he’d never loved a woman. “…until now,” he said. As if she would truly believe it. As if he was playing this lie to her as well. She shot him with a bitter glare then prepared to exit the car so they could get this little shopping trip over as quick as possible. But he stopped her, continued on to explain that from here on out, he’d be treating her as any man would treat his fiancée – touching her, kissing her… Already, his fingers grazed across her breast with no sense of embarrassment as he drew the seatbelt off of her, and before she could agree or try to object, he pressed to her, and lowered his mouth to her own.

She tried to deny him, to pull away, but found that he held fast to her and only continued to caress her lips with his own until she finally acquiesced. And then she was melting all over again. Her eyes fluttered closed, one hand came to rest gingerly at the side of his neck, and when he drew her back into a second kiss, she matched his motions with a bit more resolution. She pressed against him, suckled his lower lip, offered a small, sharp bite before sweeping her tongue back against his. But then, always in control, he was the one to end it. Finding that she was almost trembling, her breathing quite shallow, she let her hand fall from his neck and looked down. She didn’t want to look him in the eye, to let him see just how much she still desired him, and how ashamed that made her.

When he opened the door for her, she stepped out and promised herself that she would, as he’d said, “keep up.” He might think she’d flinch shyly away when he touched her in public, act like a frigid little girl, but she’d prove him wrong. As always, she meant to do everything she could to exceed his expectations. As soon as he began to lead her towards the store, she slipped an arm casually around his waist and as he asked what sort of ring she wanted, she leaned in to brush her soft lips to his throat, just below the stern line of his jaw. “I don’t care,” she murmured breathily against his skin as she laid a lingering kiss upon it. “One that can be easily returned for a refund, I suppose.” Her voice was still the tone of a fond, intimate whisper, but her words held a bite to them. She stood firm that when this month was over, any evidence that they’d ever carried out this charade would be forgotten. The ring was of no importance to her; she fully intended to return it to him once their game was over.

She drew her lips away from his skin and let him lead her into the store, still keeping herself pressed close against his side as the shopkeeper greeted them. She smiled her most charming smile and unfastened her arm from around his waist only to let her hand slip down into his, weaving their fingers affectionately together. She meant to do nothing if not impress him; all throughout the day, she would act like nothing less than a perfect, smitten bride-to-be, never more than an arm’s reach from her fiancé, and constantly doting upon him with sweet smiles and warm kisses even displayed in crowded places where others would see. But when they returned home with all her pretty new clothes and a new ring around her finger, she would retire to her bedroom and he to his. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of a pretend bride when the show was over for the day.

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[- - la nuit blanche]

Vianne wasn’t happy about it, not one bit, but she was enjoying herself. The irritation she’d felt the entire drive from Dae’s house seemed to dissolve as she dutifully clung to the man’s arm and surveyed the glass cases of handsome, expensive rings. The shopkeeper smiled at them all too knowingly as he suggested one ring after another, and Vianne found herself almost blushing. And yet, the tinge that came to her fair cheeks wasn’t embarrassed, because the poor old man on the other side of that glass counter had no clue their “engagement” would all be a lie, but… it was rather happy instead. She smiled and blushed just like the new bride she was supposed to be, nestled in against her fiancé to peek over the various diamonds and explain what she thought of them, nodding thoughtfully and listening whenever he offered input of his own. She had to admit, it turned out he had rather good taste. Surely he was accustomed now to having nice things, and he sure knew how to pick them out. Truthfully, she sincerely adored the ring he finally picked out for her. She almost wished it wouldn’t have to be only a temporary keepsake.

As they exited the shop, she felt Dae’s hand slip into her own. Not forcefully, as if to remind her to keep up the charade, but casually, effortlessly, like her hand was just simply meant to be clasped up in his all along. She let him take her off to store after store to purchase her a new wardrobe, and was surprised at the amount of freedom he actually let her have. He allowed her to choose her clothing and she willingly paraded it out before him, let him watch her stand before a mirror and appraise it for herself before asking his opinion, not so much because she knew he’d have the final say, but because she truthfully wanted to know what he thought looked flattering. “Too short?” she’d ask him of one cocktail dress or another., or, “Which color do you like best?” She even let him help her with various zippers and hooks she couldn’t manage to reach on her own, and made little objection if his fingers took their time to linger when he was allowed to touch her. Of course she practically blanched every time she glanced at one of the price tags, but Dae never even bothered to note those numbers. He bought her everything they’d decided suited her and ordered for it all to be sent back to the apartment.

Vianne was so overwhelmed by it all, like a small child before a Christmas stocking packed full of wonderful gifts, but when she began to feel too grateful, too much like Dae was spoiling her for her pleasure and not his, she reminded herself that all these “gifts,” if you could even call them that, were just a necessity to him. Sure he let her pick them out, but he never would’ve bothered to bring her home so much as a new kitchen towel had he not decided to use her as an advantageous business angle. Still though, she found herself having a good time. When they left the final shoe store, she found that she was smiling. She let her fingers wind back into his and when he asked if she was hungry, she gave a nod and let her smile broaden. “Starving,” she agreed, letting him lead her away to the car. Before she slipped into the vehicle and finally let go of his hand, she pressed a light kiss to his cheek. It was almost like a reflex now. Just a few hours playing pretend and she was already addicted to the game.

She sat gracefully into her seat and pulled on her seatbelt as Dae moved around the car and got in as well. She turned to him, about to thank him for everything he’d bought for her (though, she had to remind herself again, that probably wasn’t necessary; she really had nothing to be grateful for), when he suddenly pulled out his cell phone and dialed. From overhearing his side of the conversation, Vianne could suppose that they’d evidently be leaving for the Bahamas at ten the next morning. Looking down into her lap, she grinned inwardly to herself and waited for him to hang up. When he turned to her again, she nodded in agreement to his suggestion for lunch, then looked over at him when he mentioned their upcoming trip. His little jibe about skinny-dipping made her giggle rather than scowl, which was a surprise even to her. “I suppose you have a private beach is among all your other lucrative investments?” she teased back. “Or else you’ll just have to cope with my skinny-dipping in front of hundreds of other resort-goers… I’d have figured you’d only want me swimming naked as long as you're the only one that gets to see.” Her eyes sparkled with good-natured glee rather than rage and she was tempted to reach for his hand again. But then, she remembered, no one was here to watch them anymore… There was nothing forcing her into keeping up with their farce.

“You don’t have to do this, you know…” she murmured, looking back down towards her knees again. Surely a mini vacation to the tropics was a step further than he needed to take to make all of this look convincing. They weren’t entitled to a honeymoon yet, after all. However, as visions of she and her employer, salt-slicked and sandy, fervently kissing upon a beach towel by a clear blue sea came to mind, she wondered if she should just keep her mouth shut and stop her objections. “I mean, there won’t be any reason for us to keep this up if we’re so far away from everyone you know… Besides, aren’t you having another event this weekend? I should be trying to plan it, get everything in order…” she argued a little worriedly. If they took three days off, would she still have time to pull everything together for his next gala? There would be the caterers to talk to, maybe even musicians, and she’d have to be sure the usual event room would be available… But she couldn’t deny it, a few days lying on a beach sounded awfully relaxing even if (or maybe especially because…) Dae would be laying there beside her…

She sat quietly for a moment as he drove them off to the restaurant, lightly chewing on her bottom lip. It was a habit she indulged in when she was thinking rather pensively about something. In this case, she was currently mulling over all the harsh things they’d said to one another since they woke up in the same bed. She’d felt so hurt by his accusations, and yet she’d been almost as cruel right back at him. Without looking up, she wet her lips and finally spoke again, “Dae… Do you still think I tried to fool you into sleeping with me..? That I’d planned it all, to try and take advantage of you?” She spoke quietly, almost timidly. She worried that he would simply answer “yes,” and continue to accuse her of acting like some whore who only wanted to use him for his wealth. But today was going so well… She felt like they were actually coming to know one another. Could he still believe she was really the sort of woman who would only want to manipulate him? “I don’t know why it’s been so hard for you to believe that I let you take me to your bed that night just because… because I wanted you, and thought you finally wanted me too.” She spoke with her face turned towards the window, her chin cupped in her hand. She felt pathetic even bothering to ask such a thing, but if she was stuck playing this role with him, she at least wanted the air clear around them both. She wanted to forgive him for the way he’d hurt her, and for him to forgive her for what had only been an honest mistake.

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