Eternal Night

(III) Chapter 38: The Lost Restored

And yet, for weeks, he couldn't seem to muster the courage to ask her.

It just felt so selfish.

He had seen first hand what it had been like for her to blood-let in such a way when she had broken the hex on the Dracul Sânge. It had taken every drop within her – and as consequence, it had nearly killed her, had practically severed her blood-bond with Vladislaus, her sire-bond with Lyra.

He could not, would not be responsible for her making such a sacrifice again – especially since there was no guarantee that it would even be sufficient to bring back just one soul, even if that soul was the woman's own sister.

But Jacob couldn't shake that needling feeling in the back of his brain that had only grown all the more persistent the last few nights. It was as if Margot's ghost had taken to poking him, prodding him with her nail every time he tried to push the notion aside, to smother the hope of ever being able to hold his wife in his arms again. He had been able to see her, hear her, and touch her for a little over an hour – it should have been enough. Yet he knew, deep down, it would never be enough. All her return had managed to do was reawaken within him an old and familiar ache; a painful, crushing emptiness that had many centuries ago nearly driven him to madness.

The irony of it was, they had never even been blood-bound.

But her soul and his had been cut from the same cloth, and so her death, those centuries of separation – well, in his mind it was damn near close enough to a blood-bond.

Sitting on one of the steps of Augustine's now overgrown private garden, Jacob buried his face in his hands, elbows propped on his knees as the evening air settled around him – an oppressive, near deafening silence.

He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't even been aware of her sudden presence until she had sat down beside him on those steps, resting her cheek on his upper arm. Jake pulled back his hands to find Frankie seated beside him.

She was dressed in an elegant plum-colored robe of velvet lined in silk that fell an inch or so below the elbow, her hair pulled back into a thick braid, a tasteful diadem of gold and amethyst woven into place by strands of hair. She looked every-bit a queen to be – regal, serene, poised... and to his eternal chagrin, discerning.

Frankie smiled gently at him with a knowing expression when he met her gaze.

There wasn't an ounce of judgment in her eyes – only love and boundless compassion.

He knew without even needing to inquire that if he asked her to spill her blood on the off-chance that he could bring Margot back, that she'd do it in a heartbeat. And that he was still even considering asking that of her made him feel wretchedly selfish.

Frankie seemed to perceive that unuttered thought as well, because when he looked away to keep his shame from her view, she wrapped herself around his bicep, resting her chin on his shoulder like a curious little child would, her expression one of patient anticipation.

"Jacob," she said, the utterance communicating so much more than he ever dreamed possible.

When did she even learn to do that?

"I can't ask it of you. Dracula would kill me," he replied immediately, still unable to look at her.

Her chuckle was so much like Vlad's in that moment – low and dark like smoke.

"He would not."

"True – he'd probably torture me first for even suggesting it, and then kill me."

Frankie laughed outright that time, giving him a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"He still would not – and do you know why?" she asked. He gave a mere grunt in response as she straightened a little then, still holding onto him as she caught the corner of his eye, scrutinizing. "Because you're not going to ask. I am going to offer."