Chapter 117
Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 116
John doesn’t fucking want anybody to take a look at it. And he doesn’t want them to fucking think about why he has a clue what it means, either. He hates that he had to learn about this girly shit. Although, right now that doesn’t hurt half as much as the fact that, yes, he’s heard her say it over and over that she doesn’t love him right, but still, seeing it like this stings. Despite that, she cried out for him.
She fucking called for him first! No red rose for him, and she still trusted him. And John let her down, he didn’t want to, and he knows full well that Lucy had to restrain him as much as she had to with Darcy’s papa, but he still feels like a failure of a man.
~~~~
Well, that didn’t seem to go badly. Quincy still gives Blondie another few moments of sceptical looks, but if there’s supposed to be any kind of confirmation that it’s the correct choice, he can’t tell, so instead he starts discussing the other strands with Lucy and tries to describe the colours to Jack and Arthur in a way that makes sense for their vision when Jack waves him away. “I have night vision and we don’t have time. Keep working.”
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Arthur nods his agreement, because he really doesn’t have the right knowledge for this, explaining things to him isn’t worth it. “I don’t know about this, you guys figure it out, I trust you. Just use me as your note-taker.”
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“Jackie! The anemones don’t make sense! What did you teach her?” Even as Lucy complains to her husband, she wonders if she’s overlooking something, because that’s a whole lot of red anemones, and in contrast to the roses, those don’t come with that many meanings.
A quick look at Mina to ask for backup on her memory for them has her startle and blink a few times. There at the edge of the circle, yes, that must be her Mina, but… she’s not looking like it, and when she looks between Vlad and her and yes, he sees it, too. If ever she’s seen a lovesick look of wanting to run to somebody, it would have to be that one. So, right, that must be what Mina looked like when those two met. Damn! She wants to know more, but she really doesn’t have the time. She can hear horns overhead and that can’t be a good sign.
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“Can we narrow it down?” Arthur asks. “What about the ones without anemones?”
Having counted the strands, Quincy looks around and groans, until he realises that no, one more strand than people makes sense, one of these must be Radu. “Three of these don’t have anemones.” Hearing a grunt from John, he corrects himself. “Four. And I’m going to go out on a limb here and stipulate here that the near identical-looking ones with all the gratitude, faith, and docility are you two.” He points at Jack and Godalming, the glorious dad duo as he, by now, knows.
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With those two out, and is Lucy ever glad that neither of those strands are for the husband, she points at another one which has to be the one for who Darcy loves most. “Gregory, this one! Take it.”
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Arthur’s still wondering how they’ll tell Dr Seward’s and Art’s strands apart, and also, what half of the people here have in common that the other half of them don’t for these anemones, when Gregory takes the indicated strand.
Or tries to, because his fingers barely brush it when it snaps out like a whip, lashing him across the hands and he draws back with a wince. All the strands seem to dim a little, and Llew makes a tutting noise, tells them they shouldn’t do that again, it’d be such a waste if they broke Darcy’s emotions.
Which, that can happen?! Arthur glowers at Llew down the circle, then looks up at the stars above- he can’t see anything indicating the Hunt, but he can hear the baying and the horns and a sort of rushing noise draw ever closer. “Maybe make yourself useful with figuring these out, then!” he snaps at Llew.
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“What would I know about your human flower nonsense?” Llew just shrugs, looks around the upset people with a grin at seeing their emotions spray every which way, even though yes, that anger rushes right over to Gregory, pity.
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The mistake makes Jack feel a clear spike of fear, even he is sure what the thought of losing Darcy’s emotions inspires in him. Where is the interpretation error? These are Darcy’s associations. Maybe she has a different source from Lucy? For a moment, Jack frantically tries to remember which books he gave Darcy about flower language. Which etiquette book could it have been?
Then he looks up at the strands, at his rose petal, his poor, beloved rose petal. So still, so pale, so perfect even like this, looking more like she’s sleeping. Like a princess in one of the stories she loves so much. Sleeping Beauty. That one’s French and she always asked him so many questions about the culture. Any culture, so he read her the Greek mythology stories, too. Red anemones had a significance in a story there, didn’t they? What was it?
His unwilling Sunday school training rears its head: Red anemones symbolise blood in Christianity… and they do the same in Greek mythology! Blood… The two strands Quincy had pointed out for him and Art… Yes, nearly identical but for one thing, the red anemone in one of them. Blood… blood relation! He finds himself suddenly yelling: “The anemones show who she is family with!”
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Quincy didn’t fully trust Lucy’s interpretation before, but with that, bloody hell, the strand Lucy thought would be Cobb’s… that’s Radu, and he doesn’t like it one bit! Because if that’s Radu, then one of the ones without anemones needs to be Gregory, and it likely isn’t the adorable one with all the white flowers about innocence, devotion, and protection. That one has to be Arthur. (Yes, he’s adorable, no wonder Cycy would agree.) John got his strand, now confirmed. Godalming is the daddy strand.
And that leaves two really anything-but-nice ones. Which one is Llew, which one is Cobb? And which of those is worse if it is him? Beware and devotion or mistrust vs yellow roses with all their possible meanings?
He needs more input, he can’t possibly endanger Cycy’s emotions, her most precious part! But maybe he can get more of them sorted first? Oh Divine, please let him be right. Does Lucy agree with him? Does Arthur? He tells Arthur what the white strand means and that he thinks that must be his, does that sound like Cycy’s feelings for him?
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Arthur pulls his attention from Llew and his uselessness, focuses on the riddle in front of them first. And friendship and protection? Especially protection, yes, yes, that must be his, Darcy is always keen to protect him! Even in what she thought were her dying words, (they won’t be. No, they won’t be,) she was concerned about his safety. He reaches for the white strand, and it feels warm and welcoming against his skin, like a hug from Darcy, a bit like her bite.
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Encouraged by that being right, Art grabs for the strand Mina’s brat indicated, the one that doesn’t have a red anemone, and he can’t help but sniffle, because it feels like sugar doll climbing on his lap and looking at him with all that trusting love only a kid can ever manage. His kid, and he’s going to do everything he can to have her there again and make her trust him again after what he just had to do to her.
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Seeing that, Jack reaches for his own strand and shivers, yes, there are few people with emotions so beautifully clear and easy for him. He knows exactly what his feelings for rose petal feel like, and also what she feels for him, he let her bite him after all, taught her how a social bite works, and yes, this, this is her, and he wants to hold her so badly.
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Quincy was right on those and, looking over, he sees Lucy be unsure, she got it wrong before and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t tell before that she’s not exactly sure about her place with Cycy, but there’s one of those anemone strands that looks just a little bit unsure, too, and rather very Cycy with how compassionate it is for that insecurity, so he encourages Lucy to reach for it.
So far he got them all right, he’s got this… He knows Cycy better than her own mother does, and now is really not the right moment to gloat, so on he goes.
Which of these two is the shit husband? It would be the more complicated one, Llew isn’t worth that many potential meanings, so no. The yellow roses are Cobb, and the begonia (that common houseplant, hah!) ought to be Llew.
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Arthur doesn’t know what yellow roses mean, but this strand accepts Gregory, and the other one without any roses goes to Llew, and not a moment too soon. Arthur can’t see the magic, but he can smell the way it flares, cloying enough to make him gag, can kind of sense how it merges together the way it’s supposed to, how all the parts of the ritual align and fit and complete.
The last, free strand dances upwards like a streamer in the wind, and like a thunder head, the Wild Hunt is suddenly above them. Arthur doesn’t get a good look at them, and he doesn’t know if he wants to.
The horns bellowing overhead sound like a taunt, and the baying of the pale, shadowy hounds is full of glee and blood lust. There are glints of armour, and inhuman, triangular faces. It’s hard to make out any details, because it’s all wrapped in a storming swirl of glitter in every colour imaginable. Shapes emerge and disappear constantly, and he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s his eyes playing tricks on him. Are those huge butterfly wings? Are there people falling and disappearing? The only semi-solid thing is a figure at the front, but Arthur can’t get a good look because they’re mounted on a horse-like shape with mane and tail and feet burning with an intense, painful gas-light blue flame.
…Like Hannibal, except in different colours? Is that a nightmare? Arthur thinks it’s a lot bigger, but what can he tell, from down here, craning his neck up?
But then one form stoops down, butterfly wings spread wide, trailing glitter as she descends. Her armour is ornate, and she’s carrying a long spear, and only as she comes within yards of them does Arthur recognize Eluned in the too-big eyes, too-sharp chin, too-pointy ears. A swipe of her spear makes the loose strand wrap around it, and then she shoots back upwards with a laugh that sends a shiver down Arthur’s spine with how coldly happy it is.
The strand pulls free in a spray of glitter, and if that wasn’t disturbing enough, all the spilled blood on the altar and the ground splashes as if someone had thrown a rock into a lake, even though it isn’t even connected like that and should’ve already soaked into the ground and started to dry.
But Arthur has no time to think about it, because instead of fading or folding itself away neatly, the ritual instead bursts outward- an invisible wave of rotting-flower scent and power that smacks into him, and through him, and out into the night.
It rocks Arthur for a moment, but everyone else isn’t so lucky. The others stagger and cry out and fall as if hit by something physical. Only Quincy remains standing, and Mrs Harker (wait, is that Mrs Harker? Because she looks like Eluned- well, not like Eluned, but also with those too triangular features.)
The ritual dissipates, and Quincy dashes to Darcy’s side without being asked, and so Arthur stoops down to check on John. He’s fine, or at least there’s nothing to heal, but he seems groggy and disoriented, breathing in harsh gasps. Arthur goes check on everyone else, and finds them in a similar state.
Well, except Llew, who claps his hands and giggles drunkenly and asks if that wasn’t so much fun, and now excuse him, he has a party to get to! A moment later, he’s gone, and Arthur can’t say he’s sad to see that.
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Come on, girl, you like this, wake up, wake up, wake up! Quincy is a bit tempted to slap her, but maybe she’s not unconscious, just too weak, so he bites his own wrist (okay, weird, but not the moment to linger on that,) and sticks it between her lips. He also takes a moment to put her arms down in a more comfortable position.
His father let go when everybody, well, apart from Arthur apparently, got a case of magic hangover or however this works. But he’s sitting next to the altar, trying to shake himself more awake.
Quincy is just going to leave him to this because, ugh, Lucy wasn’t kidding, unwashed dick has nothing on old blood, gross! But he has a Cycy to see to, he has to care for her, he has to have her back! When he feels her fangs, he, at first, sighs in relief, only to flinch back as her eyes spring open with a loud scream and both her hands scramble for her chest.
She rips herself free of him. Now? Now she looks betrayed? But he somehow doubts she’s in any mood to talk it out. Is that some kind of after effect of the ritual? Her eyes dart from one to the next of the people barely struggling to sit up, but somehow she doesn’t seem to calm down. No, she looks more and more betrayed… outraged even, and then she howls in a way that makes something deep inside of himself scamper back, and he follows right along.
A moment later purple flames burst from Darcy’s eyes and she howls again, the manifestation of wrath and anger and, he’s pretty sure, hurt. He’s so screwed… he’s the closest one to her, to that hell beast, to that wolf that doesn’t look like a wolf at all, little crystals in her fur sparking with purple flames and as he looks behind him in hopes of having more space to flee, he sees Cobb stare at her. But no, that’s not fear, that’s the creepiest kind of ‘wanna’ Quincy’s ever seen and he’s so very glad when Cycy sees it too and howls again but turns and runs off towards the back of the estate.
~~~~
What did Darcy just turn into? Arthur’s never seen a form like that from her. Sure, her animal forms are a bit unnaturally red, and he’s never seen a bat like the one she is before, but… but they still look like normal animals. Whatever that was, it didn’t.
Is it a side-effect of the ritual? Did they screw it up? Well, he can’t just stay at the circle and do nothing, he decides, so he rushes over to Quincy long enough to ask him if he’s okay, to put a hand on his arm to heal that bite so Quincy’s own healing doesn’t have to, and then he runs after Darcy, follows into the direction she disappeared.
It’s across their parkland into the woods- well, in their case, more across some wild meadows into a real wood, not one landscaped to look wild in a pretty way like he’s read about is done with other great houses and castles of Britain.
Normally, he would have lost her in the dark, but, well… she’s glowing. He follows the dull, smoky-purple light until he catches up to her.
She’s pacing in a clearing, light still bleeding from her eyes and fur in streamers. Black fur, now, and her entire body isn’t wolf-shaped, the ears too large, the muzzle too long and narrow. She looks more like a lean, dangerous dog.
She’s also growling, ears back and bridge of her nose wrinkled, angry and aggressive.
And Arthur can’t really blame her. So he doesn’t approach any further, instead, crouches down at the very edge of the clearing to be more on her eye height.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Now that it’s all over… he feels the calm receding, the enormity of everything rush up on him.
“I’m really sorry. I get if you’re mad and hate me now and want me to leave you alone.”
He watches her, because if she indicates that he really should go and leave her alone, he will. He’s forced enough on her.
But rather than snap at him or charge him or anything, Darcy hunches down, her tail lowering, her ears, too. Like she’s scared of him.
That drops a big lump into his stomach and his throat, and he feels his eyes stinging, plops down on the ground.
(He also sees some of the purple flames fade, and distantly, he wonders at that- why does she look like this? This… demonic? That’s the right word, isn’t it? And she’s angry, and she’s drinking from Gregory, and supposedly dhampirs can get powers from the blood they drink, different blood has different effects, like with the fey blood and the white hair… Is this because of Gregory’s demon blood? He’s an anger demon, right? Does that mean Darcy getting angry triggered this?
But why wouldn’t they have seen it before?
Because… because Darcy really doesn’t get angry a lot? He thinks? He’s trying to remember when he’s seen her, and… there was the time at the animal hospital, when Gregory accidentally hurt one of the animals.
And the time in Art’s town house, when Gregory got them blackmailed.
He’ll have to think more on this. Later. Later, when he’s not…)
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Really! Please believe me! I didn’t want to hurt you! None of us wanted to hurt you! It was just…” And now he finds himself sniffling.
“It was just, we had to get the enthrallment off somehow, and… and maybe this wasn’t the right way. Maybe this was a bad choice. But… but it would’ve taken so long to wear off on its own, and what if Radu called you again, or used you to spy on us? And… and we couldn’t really think of a way of stopping you from going to him again, except letting Llew take you to Faerie, and we didn’t think that was a good idea, but then he took you anyway, and we didn’t know how to get you back. And so he suggested the ritual, but of course he didn’t tell us everything about it, about how risky it was… I’m sorry,” he repeats again, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t think of a better way…”
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Her paws are still prickling, she can feel the little crystals, those hated things that make her think of Gregory, all those pinpricks all over her, but Arthur… Arthur sounds so sad, and she accepted her punishment, she knows she deserves it, and Llew let her talk to her loved ones and she… she thought she was dying, but she didn’t.
Although she feels there is a deep hole in her chest that can never mend and it hurts so terribly much. She’s so alone in here now. They took Radu away from her. Couldn’t they just have killed her?! For a moment, her anger sparks back up, but… but she has to protect Arthur. He probably knows better. She’s just being selfish. So she whimpers and takes a few steps closer.
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Arthur sniffs and gives her a hopeful look. Maybe she’s not going to hate him or distrust him now? The purple fire at least has faded from her eyes. “I really missed you,” he admits. “Can we still be friends?”
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He missed her? How long has it been? She can’t really remember much, she was happy with Radu, then… she was unhappy, but Papa was there and then… then Llew rammed the knife into her. There’s nothing in between. Tilting her head in confusion, she takes another step closer, makes herself small and carefully reaches to paw at him, gently, because he’s her friend, isn’t he?
Her drac knows that, too. Why wouldn’t Arthur-dear be her friend?
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Hopeful, Arthur reaches out, too, so Darcy can set her paw into his palm- a paw that is getting broader, more wolf-like, more like she normally is, even though her fur is still black. Her face, too, is becoming rounder again, her muzzle shorter.
“Yes?” He offers her a wobbly smile. “I promise…” He stops, bites his lip. “I really want to promise you that I’ll never hurt you again, but… but I guess if I really had to, I would? I’m sorry?” It’s a disquieting thing to know about himself. But he’s not going to lie to Darcy about it.
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It’s alright, she thinks, hurting has become so normal in her gothic fairy tale. And they let her know that any attempts at getting away from it will be punished. Still, she loves them, she’ll hurt for them. It’s all she can do. She has to try to be good for them, even when she knows she’s really bad for them.
She hates being bad. She’s so tired of it, too. All she wants is to be good for them, so she has to try harder.
They showed her what not to do. She can’t have Radu. She can’t have her own story, she’s just Gregory’s happily-ever-after.
Not even that, she’s the wife waiting at home that’s never mentioned in the story until the last line. She’s well aware that all she’s there for is to get him men, and now he has Quincy. Quincy wasn’t even there in the ritual.
Yes, she’s bad… but she can be good, at least a little bit, for Arthur right now by putting her head on his lap and whimpering softly at him that it’s alright, he’ll be alright.
She can’t do more, her drac is still shivering and she doesn’t feel safe in any form further away from her drac. If they hold each other, maybe they both can stop crying for what they lost.
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Arthur gives Darcy a small, wobbly smile, because it looks like she’s really willing to forgive him. He strokes his fingers over her wolf fur, a bit shy. But it’s really starting to be her wolf fur, the black fading away to her usual red as it gets thicker and fluffier.
In the end, he slumps down next to her on the ground, overwhelmed by a deep exhaustion that comes along with the relief.
Darcy is really still here, and she’s still talking to him, and he dares to wrap his arms around her shoulders and give her a big hug, even dares to tuck his wet face into her fur for a moment.
The night is quiet now, a soft fog rising between the tree trunks. But they’re behind the wards, so they’re safe. And Darcy is herself again, so she’ll protect him, too.
Arthur isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he ends up falling asleep with his arms still around Darcy’s neck.
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Did he fall asleep on her? Did she make him feel safe enough? Darcy could cry with how happy that makes her. Maybe he still thinks she’s good enough for protecting him. All she can do is try her best and hope that her loved ones can forgive her. It takes her a bit to figure out how to do it, but then she has Arthur on her back and slowly, carefully, walks back towards the castle, nevermind that she has fear sitting deep in her stomach that they’ll tell her she is too bad and shouldn’t even be there.
Everybody is still there. Everybody’s waiting on her and she knows her ears are tight on her head as she looks around for who’s going to speak first. John is up and walking, half-running towards her already, but he’s not fast enough.
Gregory is there first, loud and insistent and whining at her, hands tight on her wolf cheeks, and all she can do is try her best not to let Arthur slip off her back. But then Quincy’s smell is right there and he must have helped Arthur off her.
She’d so much rather confront John and take whatever he would tell her, talk to her papa and daddy and find out why Mrs Harker is talking with that actor, but no, she knows she has to do her duty and see to her husband now that he actually wants her.
So she tucks her tail between her legs and follows after where he’s pulling on her, where he throws her over a shoulder again, and carries her back to their wedding suite. It smells of John in here, it smells of Quincy in here… she remembers John was there when she woke up. Woke up… oh… did she dream her time with Radu? It’s okay, she shouldn’t have been so selfish. John tried being nice to her. Of course he did. But he’s not here now. Only Gregory is here and he keeps talking about how hard all this must have been on her.
He doesn’t tell her what happened. Only keeps on and on that it was so hard on him, too, but now she’s back and she will be a good wife again, won’t she? And then right back to how hard it was for her, how hard it must have been on his poor, weak, little wifey. How powerless she must be.
And… and… he’s right, isn’t he? Her fingers tingle before they go numb under his gaze, under those hungry eyes, those hungry eyes that were on her on the altar, that were on her when she was so angry. And those eyes are so deep, so very deep, and she can see purple tinged nothing in them… because she’s nothing and worth nothing and has nothing and nobody and she can’t do anything.
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Gregory’s body looks down at the crumpled form of its main anchor, its main source. She won’t be good for much longer. She’s getting less and less fulfilling, less filling. But it is working on changing to a new source. Another drac.
More prone to anger. Good, that was hard for it to sustain with just Darcy.
With the stronger anger from Quincy, it might push Arthur even more into helplessness and he might eventually grow as weak as Darcy.
Then it won’t need to hide from him anymore. Then it won’t need to think about Arthur realising what he did, and it will all be fine. It will have even more to feast on.