Till Death

by Ophelia Paradise

        It was cold in this place; colder still because death stalked 
the halls.
        Or so Janette found herself imagining; there was little respite 
from the chill in the air when surrounded by the massive stone 
walls.  Her skirts dragged along the stone stairway as she 
ascended the stairs to the tower and although she was not fond of 
fire, she found herself wishing for a great fireplace full of cheer 
and warmth instead of the few paltry torches that lit the way to 
the tower rooms.
        Once, as she passed a slit in the stone wall, she paused to 
look out over the place in which they now resided.  Snow 
blanketed everything and even at night the scene below beamed 
with the reflection of the moonlight.  The frozen landscape was 
hardly inviting.
        Yet she would gladly have taken to the snow to escape the 
task that she'd set before herself--bringing Nicholas some cheer.  
Even LaCroix had admitted the climate was not conducive to 
lifting the mood of gloom and guilt with which Nicholas had 
cloaked himself since the loss of his 'wife.'
        Janette smiled to herself at the thought--she had not been 
present for the debacle.  What could Nicholas have been thinking, 
to have taken a mortal woman to wed?  It was madness.  And yet, 
he had done so.  From LaCroix's brief explanation of the 
adventure, Nicholas had taken it into his head to bring across his 
mortal love on the night of their marriage . . . and had succeeded 
only in draining the poor girl dry.
        It might have been laughable, had not Nicholas taken the 
matter so much to heart.  LaCroix had said they'd barely managed 
to escape with their lives intact and little else, once the girl's 
relatives had discovered that her new husband was also her 
murderer.  They'd fled to this northern wasteland to hide from 
pursuit.
        But Nicholas could not escape his guilt or his memories.  He 
remained in a self-imposed isolation in the tower, speaking to 
neither of them unless pressed, feeding on only whatever offal 
presented itself--rats or crows, most likely, although even they 
had the sense to stay snug and dry in such a place.
        Reaching the topmost landing, Janette stamped her slippered 
foot against the stone.  She would have no more of this.  Nicholas 
would come to his senses or she would leave him.  LaCroix 
would most likely leave him here as well, seeing no future or 
fortune in the snow-benighted land.
        The heavy wooden door to Nicholas' chamber was closed.  
Janette leaned against it for a moment, listening, but there were 
no sounds to distinguish.  Now that she had reached her 
destination, she realized she had no idea what to do.
        LaCroix had told her she would fail, which had only spurred 
her into trying her hand at raising Nicholas' spirits.  She was 
certain, given an opening, that she could entice him to her bed, or 
let him entice her to his--the end would be the same.  But how to 
get past that edifice of guilt and despair with which Nicholas had 
imprisoned himself?  <That> would be the task.
        Deciding that she could only make a decision once she had 
viewed the situation, Janette rapped on the door.  "Nicholas?"
        From the interior of the room, she heard a muttered, "Leave 
me," before silence fell again.
        "Nicholas, I am not going to go away," she warned fiercely.  
But then she softened her voice.  "I have come to pay my 
respects, to offer my condolence for your loss--you would have 
me do that while standing in this freezing hallway?  Even you can 
not be so crass."
        A moment, then two.  There were sounds inside--heavy 
furniture being righted, something dragged across the floor, then 
footsteps on stone.  She took a step back and peered cautiously 
out from beneath her headdress as the door opened.        
        "Oh, Nicholas," she breathed, whatever pretense at 
sympathy she would have used to gain entry to his room now 
forming truly in her heart.  Reaching out a hand, she tried to 
touch his face, but he turned his head away and disappeared into 
the room.
        Before the door could close and shut him inside with his 
misery, Janette followed.  Catching the edge of the wood, she 
held it long enough to slip inside the room after him, then paused, 
her back to the door.
        Despite the brilliance of the moonlight outside, the room 
was darker than the night itself;  the windows were shuttered and 
only the remains of a sputtering candle gave any light at all.  
Clothing was strewn about the room, as were bedclothes.  On the 
bedstead the coverlet and pillows had been thrown to the floor, 
some shredded almost beyond recognition.  Books and crumpled 
paper were scattered in amidst the furniture, several pieces of 
which had been smashed or overturned.
        Nicholas seated himself in a low-backed, armed chair, facing 
the wall.  He was wearing a shirt that came to mid-thigh.  It was 
rumpled and stained, torn in spots.  From what she could see he 
was not even wearing slippers and his hose and breeches were in 
little better shape than his shirt.  
        "I'm not in the mood for pretty words, Janette.  Say your 
piece and leave me."
        "I've come less for your sake then for the sake of the one 
you mourn.  Her name--Alyssa?"
        He froze in his chair, then slowly lowered his head to rest his 
chin on his chest.  "Yes."
        "Tell me of her."
        He shook his head--she head the growl of anger beneath his 
sorrowful voice.  "I will not bear being mocked."
        "I did not come here to mock.  I came here to learn.  To 
know."  Taking her skirts in her hands, Janette carefully made her 
way over to him.  Seating herself at his feet, she smiled up at him 
sadly, her skirts arranged around her like an island.  "I did not 
know her, Nicholas.  Tell me of her.  She was beautiful, I'm told."
        "She was the sun.  Her hair was such gold and her eyes . . . 
."  His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes, his mouth twisted 
in a grimace of pain.  "No.  I can't speak of her."
        "How else will I know, then?  Ask LaCroix and all I get is 
lineage and information that would better serve a breeder.  How 
he keeps so many of these mortal bloodlines in order astounds 
me."  She pried the fingers of his right hand from a grip on the 
chair arm and held them in her own.  "She was convent-bred, no 
doubt."
        "She was pure, yes."
        "Come, Nicholas, you know better than that of what a 
convent can be like in these times--"
        His fingers tightened around hers and he pulled her toward 
him, his eyes fierce as he glared at her.  "I told you--I <won't> be 
mocked.  If you plan to speak ill of her--"
        "No."  Janette ignored the pain he was causing her, forcing 
her lips to remain in the faintest of smiles.  "No, I won't speak ill 
of her.  Or of you."  She raised her free hand to his cheek, 
stroking the rough stubble of his beard with the palm of her hand.  
"How could she have been anything but perfect for you to have 
loved her?  And how could she have helped but loved you?"
        He groaned again in misery and turned his face away from 
her, but she placed her hand beneath his chin and forced his gaze 
back to meet her own.
        "Come, Nicholas, did she not love you?"
        "Too much," he murmured, his eyes now seeing past her, 
into memory.  "She loved me too much.  She never knew I was a 
monster."
        "She knew only what you are, your true nature.  Do you not 
think she would have loved you then?  She must have known, 
Nicholas, at the end."  When he turned his head away again, she 
let him, hiking up her skirts as she rose to her knees and leaned 
against the arm of the chair in which he was seated.  "They know.  
They must.  You can see it in their eyes, taste it in their blood, the 
passion--"
        Licking her lips as she was assailed with her own memories, 
and the hunger they stirred, Janette gripped his hand even more 
tightly.  "You loved her, Nicholas.  You shared that love with her, 
with your body and her blood.  She must have known that you 
meant her no harm.  There was peace in her death."
        His head shifted slightly, a brief shake as he muttered, "No."
        Janette paused, bemused.  "You . . . did <not> love her?"
        "Never say that."  His head lolled back toward her, eyes 
bright but weary beyond fury now.  "I loved her with my soul and 
with my heart, but not with my body."
        "Not--?"  Janette shook her head, still not understanding.  
"But . . . why?  Was she unclean?  Was there--?"
        "She was <perfect>," he corrected, springing out of the 
chair, and thoughtlessly knocking her to the floor with his 
movement.  "Perfect in spirit and mind and body.  She was . . . 
innocent."  He stepped away from Janette and walked over to one 
of the sputtering candles, then closed his fist over it, condemning 
it to a merciful darkness and ending its pitiful struggle.  "I would 
not have brought her into this dark world as a sullied thing.  If she 
didn't have to surrender her purity, she would be forever pure, 
forever virgin.  That much I could assure her.  Or . . . I tried."
        Stunned, Janette sat on the floor, staring up at his back.  Of 
course the girl was a virgin--if she were convent bred and up to 
Nicholas's standards.  But the thought of bringing her across as a 
virgin, of her body remaining that way century after century, 
healing and ripping with each act of love . . . .  "And you thought 
that was a <gift>?" she hissed, angry at his stupidity.  "Whatever 
were you think--"
        She couldn't complete the thought.  He turned to her, then 
fell to his knees, eyes sunken and skin so pale that it almost shone 
blue in the darkness.  "What am I to do, Janette?" he whispered 
hoarsely.  "I've lost her.  I destroyed her."
        What could she do then but take him into her arms and let 
him lean against her shoulder, weeping like a child?  In joy, 
Nicholas was the most beautiful of golden men, but in misery he 
was an alabaster saint, beautiful beyond life as he fell further into 
the pit and nearer toward finding an end to his doom, as he had 
found an end for the dying candle flame.  He had not fed for so 
long that his flesh was cold almost beyond endurance.  He needed 
to feed.  He needed to be warmed.
        He needed to be loved.
        Janette closed her eyes and held him, rocking slightly as she 
would to comfort a child.  Alyssa would have loved him, but he 
had not succeeded in bringing her across, and just as well.  Who 
knew what a child who had been denied all of the pleasures of the 
flesh during her brief lifetime might do when faced when the 
unending debauchery offered in an eternity of darkness? Nicholas 
would have been disappointed in her, as he was disappointed in all 
of his conquests after a time, when they proved in the end to have 
been no better than they were.  But to not even have <bedded> 
the girl?  He could be a superb lover when he paid attention; she 
had been careful in his training in that regard at least, but then 
she'd had magnificent raw material to work with.  He would have 
tasted that joy in the girl's blood, perhaps even have taken solace 
in the moment of ecstasy he'd been able to give her.  It was 
impossible now.
        Or maybe, not so impossible?
        Janette's eyes opened and she smiled as the thought struck 
her.  It was not something she did often--pretending the one she 
was with was another, although when they were not Nicholas 
they could not help but become Nicholas or be compared to him.  
Perhaps, <she> could be someone else, for this once.  Perhaps 
<she> could serve as his Alyssa?
        "Nicholas," she called softly, placing her hand beneath his 
hair and massaging the back of his neck.  "I know how deeply you 
mourn for the girl, but there is something you must do for her.  
You failed her, Nicholas and you must make good on that."
        He drew back out of her arms, and for a moment she 
regretted the loss of his weight against her and the feel of his 
chilled skin through the tattered shirt.
        "No," he answered, staring at her with hollow eyes.  "It's too 
late."
        "It's not too late," she corrected sharply, seeing the barest 
spark of hope begin to flicker in that empty gaze.  "You can make 
amends."  He <must> make peace within himself, or he would be 
doomed.  If he thought what he did was for Alyssa, so much the 
better.
        Grabbing both of her hands like a drowning man for a rope 
hanging off the side of a ship, he asked, "How?"
        "By loving her with your body and your mind and your soul.  
By giving her what you denied her, what was her fair due and 
your duty as lawful husband and wife."
        He stared, still, and his eyes darkened as he tried to stumble 
to his feet, "Go to--"
        "No!"  Before he could move, she caught his chin with her 
hand and held him in place, held his gaze to her own as she spoke 
quickly, her words blunt.  "You <will> listen to me.  You said 
that you loved this woman, but she was not a woman, she was a 
<girl>.  You took her life from her and as her husband in this 
place you had that right by law, but you did not take what was to 
be taken and you did not give what was to be given between you.  
That was <wrong>, Nicholas.  You did <not> love her and she 
will not be at peace until you have.  So I will be your Alyssa.  As 
I am here, you will love me as you would have loved her and you 
will give me all that you denied her and you will take from me 
what you would not take from her and only <then> will you find 
peace.  And maybe . . . then so will she."
        He blinked at her, as if almost comprehending her words, 
but not quite.  Janette raised her hand to his cheek again, no 
longer restraining, but gentling him.  "Dear Nicholas, I do not 
offer this lightly.  You know that I am my own self and no other; 
I will not be or pretend to be other for any . . . but this once, for 
you, and for her.  Let me be your Alyssa.  Let me know her 
through a taste of your blood and your memory.  Let her live 
again and love again this once so that you and she may find your 
peace together."
        For an instant, she wasn't certain that he understood what 
she was offering . . . nor was she altogether certain that she 
should even be offering it.  How could she deliver this to him, 
that she should take the place of his beloved, pure, <virgin> wife?  
        He would laugh at her.  Yes, any moment now, he would 
begin to laugh at her.  He had known her in all the ways a man 
could know a woman that he loved and some besides.  Even 
ignorant of her old life, which she kept hidden from him even 
now, he had in anger called her a whore or temptress or paid 
woman as he would have called any woman he wanted to hurt, 
not knowing that he hurt her more deeply even than he intended 
with such a barb.  That's what he would do now.
        And yet . . . he did not.  Nicholas took her hands in his and 
kissed her palms deeply and with such heartfelt devotion that she 
felt tears form at the corners of her eyes.  Then he looked up at 
her and touched his lips to hers with the gentlest of kisses, the 
passing flick of a dove's feather upon her skin.
        As he drew back, she saw the hesitation in his eyes--he was 
touched beyond words by her offer, but did not see how it could 
bring solace to him.  Oh, the man of him was interested, as men 
so often were, but his soul was still so bound in despair that he 
saw the foolishness of her logic. The pleasures of the flesh cannot 
remove the dire chains of guilt that bind the spirit.
        In truth, he would be right--there was no freedom in it.  But 
chains could be loosened, even so.
        "Think of your love," she whispered to him, turning his 
palms up, held within her own.  "Think of Alyssa.  Think of your 
passion for her.  Construct her in your thoughts, in your heart, so 
that I may know all of her."
        She gave him a moment to compose himself.  Nicholas 
closed his eyes and leaned back his head.  She could feel the 
tension lessen in the weight of his arms as he let his memory drift.  
As the edges of a smile began to play upon his lips with the 
kindest thoughts of his beloved, Janette began to lick the palm of 
his right hand.
        She laved her tongue carefully across the flesh, up the ball of 
the palm to the thumb and back again.  The fingers . . . no, that 
was not what she wanted now.  She did not want to excite, but 
wanted to stir memory.  This close to his skin, the scent of his 
blood called out to her--oh, <how> she knew that scent!  The 
taste of his flesh was only a sample of what awaited and she was 
hard pressed to keep her own memories in check.  If she was to 
do this, it would be done for Nicholas and his beloved and she 
must not be anything but a vessel to be filled.
        Finally, when his breathing steadied, she bit lightly at the 
vein in his wrist and tilted the hand so that the blood pooled into 
his palm.  Lapping like a cat, she drank the memories of his 
Alyssa.
        Her senses were at first so burned by the light of his passion 
that she almost forgot to seal the wound at the wrist, but she did 
so.  He had not fed for so long that his blood was thin and weak, 
but the taste of him was still there . . . as was the taste of 
something other.
        Alyssa.
        His bride, child-bride if that, and beloved was a beacon to 
him.  Soft spoken in voice, but firm in resolve.  With every drop 
of Nicholas' blood, she felt his love for Alyssa and with even the 
sketchy bits of memory that time and distance had broken into the 
scrapbook of his mind, she could see the love Alyssa had for 
Nicholas alive in the brightness of the woman's eyes, the catch of 
breath as he approached, or the tremulous nature of her touch 
upon his arm.  She had not known, Janette was sure, what a rare 
creature he was, but she would have loved him all the same.
        It was like a miracle to her, to have found this gentle man of 
wealth and knowledge and breeding who would be kind to her 
and love her and care for her and help her bear him strong and 
sturdy children.  She would give him no reason for reproach, 
never raise her voice, never cross him in anything and why should 
she when he did not drink and carouse with the others, gambled 
and jested only as much as was seemly and seemed more devoted 
to God than any of the others who had come to pay her court.  
Father was wary of him, but not of his gold and his fine clothes 
and livery.  She would do as he bid in all things, even if he should 
strike her or sport with other women--it was his right and the way 
of men, as the good sisters had told her that was one of the 
crosses our Lord had given women to bear.  She could forgive 
him that, if he continued to smile at her as he did now, for all of 
the days of her life.  She would forgive him everything.  He was 
her lord and master in all things and of all things, especially her 
heart . . . .
        Janette tore herself away, grasping the arm of the chair as 
desperately as Nicholas had grasped her hands only a few 
moments before, as Alyssa's memories of Nicholas and Nicholas' 
memories of Alyssa fed one into the other in her mind.  They 
were like a brightly colored braid, the strands woven tightly 
around one another, strangling the other with a devotion so 
strong that it blotted out the will.
        "Janette?"
        She felt his hand on her back, on her shoulder, and wanted 
to shake it away.  Whatever jealousy she might have harbored for 
the love Nicholas suffered for the church-bred, nobleman's 
daughter turned quickly to dust in the back of her throat.  He had 
no idea what had been done to the girl, how her spirit had been 
crushed and made complacent as a lamb led to slaughter.  She 
was a tool of her father and of the nuns who had educated her, 
ignorant of her fate, to be sold to the best prospect with the most 
gold, so that she could raise little bratling sons to rule the lands 
and give tithe to the church.  There had been a mind there, once.  
Perhaps Nicholas could have brought it to life again, but she 
doubted that the demure, ever-patient, cow of a girl would have 
kept his interest for long.  Oh, she <did> love him, but that was 
all she had, her love for this fine man who was not the brutish 
beast the nuns had warned her about, but the dearest and kindest 
and sweetest of all the saints, wooing her with sweetmeats and 
soft words, gentle jests and lovely stories.
        And she had to pretend to be this sweet and loving innocent, 
who had never known the touch of man and yet had suffered the 
weight of man's duty all of her life?  Who was ignorant of what a 
husband and wife might do on their wedding night in all but the 
vaguest of theory?  Who had helped in the birthing of sheep and 
not made any but the most abstract connection between the 
rutting ram and her husband to be?
        Janette might have been sick if she'd had a bit more strength.  
Still . . . the girl had been kind and gentle, with no more cruelty in 
her than a sparrow in the field.  That she could envy, for long 
before she'd been brought into the darkness, Janette had learned 
to hate and to fear.  This girl had fear born of ignorance and 
curiosity, not knowledge.  Perhaps it had been a mercy that 
Alyssa had perished at the hands of one she adored, before the 
world could further diminish the gifts she had been given at her 
birth.
        With an effort, Janette fought down her feelings and ignored 
the rancid taste in her mouth.  She forced a smile and let her mind 
drift in the thought of Alyssa, drank in the girl as Nicholas had 
never done and, truthfully, did not wholly know how to do.  Even 
at this late date there was still enough of the essence of the girl 
for her to do what she must . . . recreate the late-lamented bride's 
wedding night as best she could.
        She pushed herself to her feet and staggered away from 
Nicholas, carefully avoiding his touch and his outstretched arm.  
Her gaze went to the floor, not wanting to be too bold, shy of 
meeting his eyes.
        For that's what Alyssa would have done.
        When he moved closer and lifted her hand in his own, she 
dared a glance at him--and found him concerned.  "Janette?" he 
asked, a worry line creasing his brow.
        Dropping her gaze again, she lifted his hand to her lips and 
corrected him softly, "Alyssa, my lord.  Is it not time we were to 
bed?"
        His eyes widened, the worry line deepening, and yet Janette 
looked away quickly, again demure, feeling his concern through 
the tightening of his fingers around her own.
        "To . . . bed?" was his answered whisper.
        The faint tremor in his voice must have been wonder, for 
Janette knew from past times which of the bridal pair was the 
virgin and which skilled in arts of the flesh . . . and yet Alyssa's 
thoughts, or what would have been Alyssa's thoughts, interpreted 
his reaction with fear.  She did not try to free herself from his 
grasp, but swallowed.  "If you find me wanting, lord, it is still not 
too late.  We've taken only the first of the vows--there would be 
none to think you amiss to return me to the house of my father.  
If I do not please you--"
        "Please me?"  Again that echo, that wonder, as if not 
believing the words, a fear of being mocked and yet a wonder that 
this might be as she promised?  Whatever his thoughts, Janette 
was swept into his embrace, the chill of his hands moving to her 
waist, drawing her close.  
        Her own hands clasped together, she suffered a moment of 
scrutiny, until one of his hands raised from her waist, the fingers 
touching her chin, lifting her face for his examination.  There was 
no where to look but in his eyes and it was Alyssa who looked 
out at him, Alyssa of the adoring, innocent passion, Alyssa who 
feared that her husband might have found her wanting, that she 
would be sent back to her family in disgrace with her dowry and 
virginity intact, who would be forced to retire to the convent and 
holy orders for the shame of it . . . .
        Alyssa, the little, lovesick, tragic fool.
        But Janette squelched the thought quickly and followed the 
call of Alyssa's blood within her.  Only after she had stared into 
Nicholas eyes for a long moment, only after he had brushed her 
cheek lightly with his fingertips, the hesitation being swallowed by 
the wonder and acceptance of this unexpected and fortuitous 
miracle . . . a smile crept across his lips and it seemed like the sun 
itself shone down upon her, warming not only the lovesick fool of 
a girl, but the playacting vampiress as well.
        "I can think of nothing on heaven or earth that could please 
me more," he answered.
        The voice was soft . . . still the courtier, the beloved, the 
betrothed, even after the ceremony when she had been signed and 
sold but not yet claimed, not yet unsealed by the purchaser.  It 
was Alyssa's turn to wonder, Alyssa's blood that thrilled with the 
thought that perhaps her beloved Nicholas would never become 
the filthy man-beast of which the sisters had warned.  His kiss was 
so light, so tentative at first.  The pressure of it grew, the hunger 
of it taking hold and if it was shameless to respond to her 
husband's kiss, then she was indeed shameless.  Lips parted, 
tongues meshed together, and though their chaste kisses had been 
permitted to rise to this passionate height only once before their 
vows, it had been the ultimate limit of their desire.  This far and 
no farther, decreed by the laws of God and man.
        His lips left hers.  Though she tried to follow, his hands rose 
to her shoulders, keeping her at arm's length.  Janette felt herself 
tremble at his touch--but no, it was Alyssa who trembled, surely, 
for how could such contact through the cloth of her dress and 
chemise have ever caused Janette to tremble?  She knew him too 
well by now.  Better to let herself fall into Alyssa's thoughts, 
Alyssa's feelings, Alyssa's passion . . . .
        His hands were at her hair, removing her headdress, 
fumbling with it.  Janette felt a surge of annoyance at this delay, 
his ineptitude with the things of female fashion, but Alyssa was 
alarmed and humiliated--how could she come to her husband, 
ready to commit herself to her vows, and yet not be fully prepared 
in both dress and demeanor?  It was Alyssa who was allowed to 
sway the thing, her hands shaking as she reached up to remove 
the offending headdress, her eyes downcast in humiliation.
        But Nicholas caught her hand in his own and brought the 
palm to his lips to kiss it, saying, "Let me, beloved."
        Her hand stilled and she drew it back to her chest, feeling a 
quick thump of a heartbeat even through the folds of her dress.  
Her eyes sneaked up to watch his face as he moved closer to her, 
removing the cap, freeing her hair from--how intent they were 
and how blue!  They were reddened and puffy, too, as if he had 
been sobbing and she determined in her heart that she would give 
him no reason for sorrow, for tears, for anger.  She would do as 
he bid, ever and always.  Alyssa would be a most dutiful wife and 
thank God daily for the gift of a husband such as Nicholas.
        "There!" he announced in triumph.  The hat came free and 
tumbled to the floor--it was kicked away, discarded, as he walked 
around her, his hands running up into her hair, freeing it further.  
"Beautiful.  Beautiful . . . ."
        Her skin flushed at the comment and her eyes lowered again, 
but she could not hide her smile.  He stood before her again, 
finger touching and raising her chin to look at him, making her 
meet his eyes.  "Beautiful," he whispered, then kissed her.
        The contact left her dizzy and spent.  She wavered on her 
feet, barely keeping her balance, but his hand was at her waist to 
steady her--proper now that they had taken their vows, an 
innocent touch between a man and wife.
        "The dress is next, I think."  Nicholas raised his hand to his 
own mouth, his finger touching his lips as he stood back from her, 
again in appraisal.
        Alarm again thrummed through Alyssa.  "I have no ladies 
maid!  My lord, forgive me--I am ill-prepared for your arrival."
        "We need no ladies maid," he answered, palm raising to cup 
her chin, then cheek.  She leaned into his touch, as he added, "and 
who better than I prepare you for what is to come?"
        There was a serious note within the jest, enough to cause 
her breath to catch in her throat.  She looked up at him again and 
he closed her eyelids with a kiss, drawing her close.  "Guide me," 
he whispered, the cool hint of his breath brushing her ear.  "Guide 
me in this and other things.  I will make you happy, I swear, but 
you <must> guide me to your happiness."
        "In such as fashion may I guide you, my lord," she answered 
tremulously.  "But in other matters I must trust to you.  It is 
pleasing you that will bring me greatest happiness."  Her hand 
took his, bringing it to the tie of her left sleeve.  Nicholas looked 
at her, meeting her eyes, proceeding only after she gave him a shy 
smile and a nod of assent.
        The right sleeve followed, then the lacing at the back of her 
dress.  His body pressed against her own, but she could barely 
feel his presence through the heavy cloth of her skirt and 
underskirt.  She closed her eyes and basked in the closeness of 
him, in the scent of him, which was no longer only Nicholas, but 
also male.  The touch of his hands was firm, yet tentative as he 
proceeded to remove the ties and stays and lacing of her gown.  
This simple attendance was something to be savored, to be 
remembered, for how long would any husband treat his wife so 
and how many would take the time to do so on the night of their 
wedding?
        Her corset and hip rolls followed her petticoats to the floor, 
discarded with little care.  She felt like a flower being denuded of 
petals, the taking of them being so much more precise and 
important than what should happen after they had been removed 
from the stalk and stem, tossed into the wind to float away.  
Alyssa felt like she was floating indeed, as he husband knelt down 
before her and lifted her chemise to remove the shoes from her 
feet.  Her hand rested on his shoulder to balance herself as he 
carefully undid one buckle and slipped it from her foot.  He held 
her stocking-clad foot in his hand for a moment, as if admiring it, 
then returned it almost reluctantly to the floor.  The other shoe 
followed the way of the first, but now he held her foot in his 
hands.  Looking up at her, he rested her foot on the battered hose 
that covered his thigh, then reached up, beneath her chemise.  His 
hands rested on either side of their ankle and then began to slowly 
slide up the stocking that covered her leg.
        A shiver ran through her as his hands continued their journey 
up her leg, hidden from sight by the length of her chemise.  His 
expression serious, his eyes met her own and held them as his 
hands continued their slow progress up her calf, to her knee and 
then her thigh.  They paused only when he reached the top of her 
stocking, his fingers wrapping in the sewn band at the top, then he 
reversed their direction.  His fingers caressed the skin of her leg, 
sliding down with the sewn cloth of her stocking, until it pooled 
at her ankle, a puddle of golden threads.
        Staring down into those fervent blue eyes, Janette felt a 
wave of impatience sweep over her--this was taking far too long.  
The thought was quickly swept aside, for this was for Nicholas, 
after all, and for his dear Alyssa.  The girl's blood thrummed 
through her, the awakening passion intoxicating.  Her tongue 
flicked out to whet her lips for they were dry.  In response, 
Nicholas seemed to take even longer with the second stocking, 
his hand proceeding up her leg at a maddeningly slow pace, then 
leaving again before his fingers could reach the part of her that 
was tingling with a longing Alyssa had never felt so strongly and 
had not named before.        
        Impulse led her to reach her hand down to him and he took 
it, rising to his feet and drawing her close.  His left hand moved to 
her breast, covering it with splayed fingers, as if to find it behind 
the tent of her chemise.
        The deep breath was drawn in by Alyssa, shocked and 
emboldened by the pressure of that hand upon her, the way the 
fingers gently kneaded the flesh.  Two found the nipple and with 
the smallest pressure had goaded it into a tight bud that sang for 
more contact.  Moving closer, Nicholas touched his lips briefly to 
her own, then bent his head and captured the bud through the 
cloth of her chemise, nipping and sucking it as she moaned.  His 
other hand moved to her left breast and her arms went around his 
neck, fingers interlocking as he knees began to buckle.  When he 
switched his attention to her other nipple, she moaned aloud, her 
eyes closing of their own accord.
        Such sensation was anything but new to Janette, but for 
Alyssa it was just short of paradise.  The tips of her fingers 
tingled, the muscles in her legs felt like limp ropes, and there was 
such a burning in her nether parts . . . and yet a growing wetness 
there, as well.
        His mouth returned to her own and her kisses passed all 
limits now.  A hunger unlike any she had known before burned 
within her and she ached to taste his lips and mouth, her body 
tingling with the touch of his fingers as they slid up and down her 
ribs, over her hips, squeezed her buttocks, all through the cloth of 
the chemise.
        "I would see all of you," whispered Nicholas, kissing her ear, 
and neck and chin.  "All of you."
        What would have been unthinkable a moment before was 
now quite natural--as her husband he could demand such a thing 
and Alyssa gladly complied.  She planted her hands against his 
chest and pushed back from him, then moved to lift her chemise.  
Nicholas stepped forward to take her hands, clasping them 
together and placing a kiss on them before he released them to 
rest at her sides.  It was his own hands that grabbed hold of the 
cloth shoulder seams of the chemise, lifting it upward.  Her gaze 
was obscured by the white cloud, sailing up and up and over her 
head, and then she was freed of it.
        She should have been cold and was not.  The shiver rose 
from the intensity of his gaze upon her, the fervor in his eyes, the 
set of his mouth.  At first Alyssa thought the sight of her might 
have displeased him, her arms rising to cover her naked breasts.  
But he stepped forward quickly and took her into his arms.  His 
hand behind her head, he began to kiss her, his free hand slipping 
down the small of her back, to her buttocks.
        Her body pressed against his; without the covering of the 
chemise or the heavy dress, Alyssa began to feel the contours of 
his flesh.  There was strength in the muscles of his arms and leg, 
and the large, hard pressure at the center of his breeches, between 
his legs.
        Her mouth escaped from his and she panted against him as 
he kissed her hair and neck--this was what the sisters had warned 
her about, the bestial nature of man and how it would sunder her 
and how she must endure and pretend to be pleasured.  He was 
her husband after all and in whatever he would find pleasure, so 
must she take her joy from giving him such pleasure.  This would 
be the way to strong sons and heirs, the way to complete what 
she had been born and bred to do.
        Nicholas pulled away from her, his eyes hesitant.  
"Beloved?" he whispered, concerned.
        "I will please you, my lord."  Her teeth nearly chattered with 
it now, the fear blending with her passion.  "Do not stop.  You 
must take your pleasure."
        There was a darkening of his eyes, an anger--her heart sank 
at the thought.  But his hand caressed her face, his lips kissing her 
cheek softly.  "I want to <give> you pleasure, beloved, not take 
it.  Guide me in that.  Let me make you happy."
        His earnestness did much to shake the fear from her, as did 
the voice within her that told her to heed his words, to know the 
joy of his touch.  Nicholas seemed to sense it, for his hand slid 
down to her own, fingers intertwining.  "Come with me," he 
whispered.  "Let me love you."
        His other hand scooped beneath her knees, lifting her from 
the floor.  She let out a short cry at the surprise of it, but closed 
her eyes and nestled against his chest as he held her in place for a 
moment.  As they began to move, she opened her eyes again and 
found that he was headed for the bed at the far corner of the 
room.  The canopy at the top and sides had seen better days, the 
hangings torn, the bedclothes rumpled from sleep.
        Nicholas lowered her to the bed as if she weighed no more 
than a feather and yet was more precious that any amount of 
gold.  He seated himself beside her, leaned down, and kissed her.
        When he rose from the kiss, she followed, but his hand fell 
to her shoulder, gently pressing her back against the pillow.  His 
gaze ran the length of her, from head to toe and back again, and 
he smiled.  "Beautiful," he said.  "Most beautiful, beloved."
        She stretched and raised her arms above her head almost 
shamelessly, warmed by his praise and wanting to give him 
greater sight of her.  His hand reached out to cup her breast, 
stroking lightly before it retreated.  Then he began to remove his 
shirt.
        Janette would have been content to watch, but Alyssa sat up 
with a cry of protest--it was her duty to provide such service for 
her husband.  Nicholas shrugged back into his shirt and pressed 
down on her shoulder again, a gentle but insistent pressure.
        "No--lie there, beloved.  Let me look at you."  
        She acquiesced--it was his command, after all--and with 
some relief and pleasure.  His shirt was removed first, revealing 
strong arms, fine blond hair on his muscled chest.  This much she 
had seen, for she had viewed men working in the fields in 
summer, had brought water for her father and brother while they 
were seated in their baths.  A man's chest was not approved for a 
young maid to view, but not strictly forbidden, especially when 
the man was doing the Lord's work or honest toil.
        When he unfastened his breeches and his hose, she looked 
away out of modesty.  That small voice within her bid her to 
sneak a look, for what should a bride know how to please her 
husband if some part of him remained a mystery to her.  The 
thought emboldened her to start at the legs, the calves and thighs 
well-muscled and comely.  It was the sight of his member that 
caused her to catch her breath and look away again, closing her 
eyes as if to reinforce the issue--she had never seen that portion 
of a man unclothed.  Even in the church was Adam shown after 
the fall, with nature covering his nakedness.
        "Beloved?  Do I displease you?"
        "Ah, no, my lord," she breathed.  Her eyes opened, but still 
she looked to the wall.  His shadow was large against it, thrown 
there by the sputtering candle at the other side of the room.  
Nicholas was kneeling beside the bed.
        "Look at me, beloved."
        She could not do but as he asked.  Turning her head, Alyssa 
found a gentle smile on his lips.  He caught her hand and kissed 
the knuckles, worrying them slightly with his teeth in such a way 
that her breath quickened.  After a moment, he held her hand to 
his naked chest, palm flat.  "Do I displease you?" he asked again.
        She swallowed, knowing her eyes must be wide as an owl's.  
"No, my lord.  You are most pleasing."
        "But you've never seen a naked man before."
        It was enough of a statement that she did not feel moved to 
answer.  Alyssa ducked her head to her chest and allowed that to 
suffice.  Her hand was still pressed against his chest.  His skin was 
not uncommonly warm or cool, it seemed to her, and was soft 
beneath her fingers.  She pulled back her hand.
        "It is well to look upon the body of your husband, is it not?"
        "If you wish it, my lord."
        "I wish it.  I wish you to be pleased."  His shadow fell across 
her and he seated himself partially on the bed.  She dared a look 
up at his face and found him smiling.  "Look, then.  Ask if you 
would.  And do not fear to touch me."
        How could she refuse her lord what he asked?  His words 
gave her strength to look.  She raised herself to sit beside him.  
Her hand lifted to his shoulder--he gave her leave with a nod 
before she let her fingers slide over the pale skin covering the 
muscle.  How lovely he was!  He kissed her forehead and then her 
hair as her fingers glided across his back, his neck, and then to the 
front of his chest.  His nipples were small and pale, half hidden by 
the tufts of blonde hair.  When she stoked her fingertips across 
them, he shivered and they grew hard and firm under her touch.
        She smiled at this small discovery, feeling the nipples of her 
own breast harden in memory of his kisses there not so many 
moments before.  Her hand slid down his thigh, the calf of the leg 
hanging from the bed.  And a peek at the center of him, where his 
member stood erect and firm, like a flag staff.  She dared not 
touch it and yet there was something within her that whispered 
such a touch would bring him great pleasure.
        As if he could hear that inner voice, his hand took her own.  
With a gentle smile, he placed her hand upon his member, his 
fingers guiding her own to slide back the skin from the tip.  The 
head was bulbous, a red and purplish color.  Feeling his body 
shudder beside her, she would have removed her fingers from 
him, but his hand guided her to stay.  One of his arms moved 
around her shoulder, bringing her closer, while the other stayed 
with her hand, instructing it on sliding up and down the shaft.  
She watched it wonder as it seemed to grow even more beneath 
her touch, felt the hardness of it.
        She glanced at Nicholas and his eyes were closed.  His 
expression was caught somewhere between ecstasy and pain--she 
could not be certain of which.  When he led her hand to touch the 
sacs beneath his member and she caressed them lightly, he 
moaned aloud.  His hand left her own and he caught her head 
between his hands, kissing her lips desperately and fervently.
        The kiss emboldened her to squeeze just a little more, to 
raise her hand to stroke him again.  There was wetness at the tip 
of him.  When she scraped it slightly with her fingernail, he 
shuddered against her, moaned into her mouth.
        She found herself pressed back to the pillows, Nicholas 
beside her and leaning over her body.  Her hands moved to his 
back, touching and caressing the planes and muscles, then to his 
front as he held himself above her.  One of his hands moved to 
her breast, squeezing one, then the other, teasing each nipple in 
turn, until his head dipped to follow his fingers.  She gasped, her 
lower body pushing up from the bed to meet him, to press his 
member between them.
        "Ah, not yet, beloved.  Not yet."  Nicholas rose to his knees 
on the bed, his own breathing ragged.  He lifted her hand and 
touched it lightly to his shaft.  "See what you do to me.  Your 
beauty, your touch, your love."
        She stroked him lightly, smiling, watching his face as his 
body responded to her touch.  "I wish to please you, lord."
        "You do," he whispered hoarsely.  "God, but you do."  
Again, he leaned down for a kiss, pausing long enough to 
whisper, "And I will please you, beloved.  Guide me.  Let me 
know how much I please you."
        His words did not make much sense to her at first.  She was 
curious as he grabbed a bolster from the bed, half turning her so 
that it slipped beneath her hips and raised her lower half.  He 
leaned down again to kiss her breasts, his lips and teeth teasing at 
each of her nipples.  Her hands moved into his hair--she could 
barely keep her body from squirming beneath him as he left her 
breasts and kissed his way down her skin.  There was a pause as 
he dipped his tongue into her belly, but then he moved lower, to 
the bush of hair that covered her private parts.
        She met his gaze, saw that sly smile on his lips, and then felt 
his hand slip between the folds of her legs.  She felt slick and wet.  
A finger probed within her and she started, then relaxed as it 
began to slide in and out of her.  Another finger joined the first--a 
fuller feeling.  It was odd, but so pleasant and there was a burning 
sensation above that, just at--
        Nicholas lowered his head, his free hand parting her folds 
slightly.
        His tongue was rough upon her and an instant later, she felt 
a liquid fire spread throughout her being.  It was as if the sun had 
exploded within her.  The warmth spread throughout her body, 
her limbs seemed to lock, and then release.  Waves of 
contentment washed over her.
        And still she felt his fingers moving within her, stroking her.  
She opened her eyes, found him watching her, and could not help 
but let him see the love and adoration she held for him.  The 
sisters had never spoken of this, unless . . . was this what they 
meant when they spoke of the mysteries of a blessed union?  For 
if so, her union with Nicholas would be most blessed.
        His fingers stopped stroking her, his hand was slick as it 
moved to her hip.  "Beloved," he whispered, reaching down again 
to kiss her.
        It was during the kiss that she felt the first pressure against 
her opening.  From some distant place she knew that his shaft was 
trying to enter her.  The first fear at the thought of it, for she had 
seen and felt the hardness and the thickness of it, was calmed by 
the stoking of his hand against her skin, his kisses on her mouth 
and lips and eyes, and that voice within her that told her she 
would not need to fear, that this was not the first nor the last and 
that flesh would know flesh as it had known it before.
        He moved slowly and with great care, whispering 
endearments, calling her beloved over and again.  She was only 
half aware of the words, focused on that fullness within her, an 
inner voice calming and cautioning and then ceasing with a 
tearing pain.  She gasped with a slight cry and Nicholas froze 
above her and within her, raising himself above her, looking down 
into her eyes.
        The pain faded almost as soon as it had come, bewilderment 
flooding through her.  She smiled for him, raised her hands to 
draw his lips back down to her own, kissed him.
        He began to move within her again.  And when it seemed 
that they had joined as completely as they could, he slowly began 
to withdraw.
        That small voice that had bolstered her when she'd faltered 
seemed perplexed, but Alyssa cared little.  As Nicholas drove 
down within her, she thrust up to meet him, her body shaking 
with delight at the sensations.  He kissed her again and again, rose 
above her to push deeper, would withdraw and plunge in again . . 
. and her nerves seem to begin to wind themselves taut with each 
thrust and withdrawal.  She felt like a bowstring ready to be 
plucked, eager to find out whether the release would be as 
glorious as that which she'd felt before.
        Nicholas held himself above her now, his thrusts deliberate, 
as if he had found some inner rhythm.  Her arms went around 
him, drawing him close.  The ecstasy rumbled through her like a 
great song, as if she were a cathedral filled with candles that were 
at an instant all lit, and then all extinguished.  She whispered his 
name as the first of the waves rolled through her, opened her 
eyes, and found that he, too, seemed lit from within, his eyes 
golden like the sun.  He kissed her lips, her neck, and then . . . .
        There was pain in her neck, but it was followed by a rapture 
that surpassed the others.  It was as if he passion were drawn 
from her, alighting each one of her sense again as it passed to that 
point of brief pain, to the place at her neck where Nicholas drank.  
Knowing that he took her blood did not surprise her any more 
than knowing that she was expected to take his.  The voice within 
her knew what to do and she followed, blindly, knowing only that 
it would please him.
        And how could she not please her husband after he had 
given her so much pleasure, so much of his love?  There would be 
strong sons and beautiful daughters from their union.  God with 
grace them with fine crops and great lands and glory all of their 
days.  And Nicholas would love her always, as he had loved her 
this night.  It would always be like this, with the passion and the 
storm and the brightness and the glory of his love.
        It was a mystery as to how her teeth grew sharp and why the 
room turned gold, like seen through a sheer veil, but she bit into 
his neck.  The taste of his blood was like fire, like swallowing 
sunlight, like swallowing love.  There were pictures in her mind, 
feelings of adoration as she saw herself through his eyes through 
their courtship, desperation in his soul as he offered her father a 
marriage contract.  And though there was some dark intent in 
him, some heaviness that she could not see, some danger, it was 
swept aside by his resolve to love her, to make her his wife in all 
things, to bring her joy as she had brought him joy, to love her as 
she loved him, without limits, beyond the limits of life and death.
        And then, in the pictures, their wedding day.  The bridal 
chamber.  His promise to be with her when she wakened.  His 
kiss . . . .
        His kiss.
        A different place than this.  A different body.  But the love 
he had given tonight was for her.
        The voice whispered within her she now knew how much he 
loved her.  That she had loved him in return.  And that it was time 
to go.
        There would be no fair-haired daughters and strong sons.  
There would be no fields or hold or life together.  There would no 
longer be love for her, but the memory of his.  And yet she did 
not blame him.  He was her husband.  He was her lord, to do with 
her life as he willed.  He had not meant to end it.  He had loved 
her.
        It was enough that he had loved her.
        And that she loved him still.


        They had stopped drinking from one another at some point--
Janette was not quite certain when it had happened.  He was lying 
with his head on her breast, weeping.  She could fear his tears 
against her skin.  Her hands moved through his hair, comforting 
him.  She whispered to him words of peace as if he were a child, 
which he still was in matters of the heart.
        It was a quiet time.  She rested her head against the pillow 
and wondered if she'd been right to do this thing.  He had not 
gained forgiveness from this--what she had recreated of Alyssa 
had not been enough to understand fully what there was to 
forgive.  That would come some day, in its own time.  But he 
now knew at least how much Alyssa had loved him, that the girl 
had appreciated what he had given her . . . or would have given 
her if he'd had any sense in him.  Perhaps it would be enough to 
give him a small measure of peace.
        "She's gone," he whispered, in a voice almost too faint for 
her to hear.  "She's gone . . . ."
        "Yes, she's gone.  And you are here.  And I am here."  She 
smiled down at him as he shifted enough to look up at her.  "Fool 
that I am, I <am> here."
        He pressed his lips to her breast, kissing it lightly.  "You are 
no fool," he answered.  "I'm the fool."
        "Yes, you are."
        The grin that lit his face at the comment couldn't help but 
warm her heart.  Those blue eyes had a light in them again.  Was 
that all it took?  To know that you were loved, that you <are> 
loved?
        "You <will> forgive me."
        Janette pressed a kiss to his forehead in answer, deciding, 
under the circumstances, to ignore the fact that it was more of a 
statement than a question.  Then she shifted him from her.  
"Look, you've gotten me all damp.  I must clean up and go to see 
LaCroix.  I shall tell him that you need to rest for a time."
        "I do," he agreed, but then caught hold of her arm as she 
rose and tried to slip away from him.  "Stay with me?"
        His face was still stained with tears.  Lying naked in the bed, 
Nicholas was a pitiful sight--but he was still glorious to behold.  
He had indeed robbed Alyssa of much in denying her that part of 
him.
        Janette was tempted, then shook her head.  "There's much to 
do before we leave."
        "Let LaCroix do it, then.  Stay with me.  Please . . . 
beloved?"
        She told herself the twinge at her heart was only a faint 
memory of Alyssa's blood in her veins.  That, and the fact that he 
looked so damnably angelic in that bed.  
        "You'll sleep?"
        "Like the dead."
        After a moment's pause, she gave a slight nod of agreement 
and climbed back into bed.  As Nicholas moved up to lie beside 
her, she reached down and drew the coverlet up over both of 
them.  When she tried to lean back against the pillow, Nicholas 
snuggled up beside her and wrapped her arm around him.  His 
head resting on her shoulder, body curled up beside her like a 
child, he fell almost immediately into a sound sleep.
        Somewhere in the castle below them, LaCroix had ceased 
fuming--she felt his inquiry through the threads that bound one to 
another through the blood.  She reassured him that all was well, 
that Nicholas was resting.  In response she received his approval, 
his relief, although he'd never have admitted to such, and his pride 
in her efforts.  She ignored the faint inquiry as to how she'd 
managed Nicholas without using bribery, threats, or force of will.  
How she'd done it shouldn't be his concern.  That she'd managed 
to do it at all would have to be enough.  It was near enough to 
daybreak to forget travel for this night--the day's rest would do 
them all some good.
        But there was no sound sleep for her.  Much as it gladdened 
her that Nicholas had found enough peace of heart to achieve the 
rest he needed, remnants of the memory of Alyssa's blood still 
haunted her.  She'd taken a chance in surrendering herself to the 
blood and what had it gotten her?  Well, an evening's romp with 
Nicholas, but she'd felt more of a voyeur than a participant.  The 
girl's innocence had been interesting--annoying at times, but 
enlightening at others.  The sheer joy she'd experienced from the 
act had been so unexpected it had been overwhelming.  The pain 
felt at the sundering of a virgin body that had been anything less 
than virgin . . . there was no explanation.
        If anything, it was the last of it that haunted her, the regret 
that there'd be no children, that there'd be no life together, that 
the love would have to be enough.  Childish nonsense!  To think 
that love could last more than a mortal lifetime, if that long, was a 
foolishness Janette couldn't tolerate.  The idle romantic fantasies 
of a convent-bred schoolgirl, that's all it was.  Her half dozen 
centuries had taught her that nothing lasted over time.  Nothing.
        Except for her.  And LaCroix. And Nicholas.
        Janette finally surrendered to the stupor brought upon her by 
the rising sun.  Yawning, she snuggled down beneath the 
blankets, raising a hand to brush it through Nicholas's tousled 
hair.  He looked so innocent when he slept.  So much the angel.  
She would not like to think of the world without him.  His 
presence would be enough.  His occasional attention.  The 
knowledge that he would come back to her, and leave and come 
back again . . . yes, unlike Alyssa, she was too experienced to 
believe in a dream.  She knew the reality of the thing.
        And yet . . . love would be nice.

The end
        
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