Shrugging on his cloak, its woolen folds flapping like massive featherless wings, Don sought to lose himself in the vast, winding passageways that loomed ahead of him. Replete with darkness, its shadows rallied behind him. It had a calming effect to the perennial chaos in his heart, relaxing his tense muscles and mollifying the visceral unease that strained his bones. But his heart remained evermore leaden and ripe with sorrow, as sure as his stride was heavy-footed and his mind awash with undue emotions; harried predominantly by unremitting grief.
As he rounded a corner, an unwanted memory met with acute pain on his inner musings. A low, guttural groan sprang from his throat as he resisted its worrying ascent, but it surged nonetheless, uninvited, shattering any semblance of calm.
"Kill them, Don." Seraphine commanded in that beguiling, sinister tone that shook with ill-conceived rage, and she wagged a finger to the village that resided just beyond the labyrinth of towering oak, where the blithe sound of children laughing could be heard succeeding an advancing wind. "I want them dead. Will you do that, my love? Will you gather their screams for me?"
Dread was an icy fist in the center of his chest as he gaped wide-eyed to the many cottages that dotted the clearing. The village was but one of many that resided on his lands, mayhap even the largest, teeming with unsuspecting innocents. "I cannot." He muttered almost indistinctly beneath the rising gusts.
As if her power and rage were in direct correlation to the elements, thick turbulent clouds rolled in with the promise of a torrential downpour. "You cannot?" she seethed, her cerulean eyes illuminating a blue, manic fire. "You would deny me this?"
At his silence, she gave a throaty, delirious laugh, the sound empty and uninhabited of the woman who had captured his heart. There were no traces of her now, nothing but this cold and ruthless enchantress glaring at him with ill-intent. "It pleases me to have their screams, lover, and you will seize them for me."
He was physically ill. "Do not ask this of me."
Red, shapely lips, lips he had kissed many times over in the heat of passion, curved into a thin and unsmiling display of a passable grin. Raking a nail unhurriedly down his smooth cheek, Sera stated, "It is them, or the last of your family, the decision is yours."
Don clenched his eyes shut, but there was no escaping his grim and unchanging past. It engendered unbearable pain. The horror and loss of that day is where he stayed, reliving the screams as they resounded in the deepest alcoves of his mind, wishing of different outcomes. Terror-stricken faces danced in the hazy shades of his nightmares. A violent, wild fire loomed in rapid saffron waves, parts of it even flickering an iridescent blue. Its flames flared wide and licked aloft, bereaving the air of its fresh, saline breeze and coating it acrid with death. It roared in its devastation, a living, breathing force all its own, silencing the cries of those caught amidst its searing blaze. Thick, black plumes of smoke curled skyward, smothering any shred of sunlight and casting a film of ash and embers over the ravaged.
With a deep and equally disheartened groan, Don shoved the horrific images away, adopting a cold and indifferent veneer.
You are not your scars any more than I am my blindness.
Oh, but he was. His scars were every bit indicative of the monster within. He had ended a throng of hearts and relinquished his own thereafter.
Don touched his chest, just above that slow but otherwise beating apparatus, and knew, there was no substance there, no stimulus for life, nothing moved it, but ... Elle.
Sera had been the evil and the hurt in the world, and in his unavailing attempt to save her, to love her, he too, had become that evil and hurt. Love had not been enough to keep her. How wrong he had been. Her golden beauty had disguised a cruel and unfeeling sorceress. A heart full of rage and vengeance, it had never belonged to him, even in their tenderest moments, a dark, underlining power had influenced her heart. Fueling it. Burgeoning it with depravity. And he had simply been a pawn in the grand scheme of her wickedness. The hand to deliver her pain.
Elle was nothing like Sera. He had been unprepared for her honesty and impossible sweetness. She carried not a trace of hatred or bitterness in her heart. She was everything his soul yearned and mourned.
Don expelled a harsh breath and adjusted his hood.
No amount of wanting could change the fact that she did not belong in his world.
Descending the stairs, he approached the hall and was relieved to find Givens posted at the entrance. With a brief nod in passing, assured that his "guests" remained within thoroughly soused, he proceeded further down the corridor, desiring a light that had nothing to do with the sun.
**************
Gareth buried his face in his dry and cracked hands; his bowed shoulders symptomatic of a despaired and defeated man. With an inward groan, he shifted in his chair and a knife-like pain lanced up his back, its sharp pang a stinging reminder that his slouched position was sorely unwise nevertheless deserved.
His chest was a cavity of emptiness, save for the number of grievances that encroached on his stricken heart. It was an unsettling variance how one could feel a deep nothingness and yet, everything all at once.
Would Elle ever forgive him?
Raising his head, he steepled his fingers and felt a stitch of humiliation at his cowardness, as he recapped his heated exchange with Rossetti from hours before. The bastard had said things no father should hear. He had tried in vain to make everything right again, but Rossetti had been unmoved by his entreaty.
That harsh, disfigured countenance emerged on his reflections like a specter of terror and Gareth shuddered in dismay, for there was nothing he could do.
Peering at his wife sitting opposite of him, Cora's nimble fingers dexterously turned needle and thread, but her stoic expression exhibited no pleasure in the pastime.
The air seemed copious with heartache, the sadness more prominent in the quiet moments such as now.
Cora hadn't been the same since Rossetti had taken Elle. Her already petite frame had grown thinner and her skin alarmingly pale, apart from the dark circles beneath her rheumy eyes that lacked their inherent luster. Her smiles were half-hearted and quivered as if she frequently fought back tears, and he knew, she was imbued with grief.
Elsa and Esme had grown withdrawn and despondent, immersing themselves in chores. They also gave him a wide berth, as if fearing at any given moment, he would barter another daughter in exchange for a ration of food or other. Could he really blame them? In their eyes, he had betrayed their trust. He had done a terrible and unforgiving injustice. A father was supposed to protect his children and keep them safe from monsters like Don Rossetti.
His injury may have healed, but it had had some lasting effects, both physically and emotionally, oftentimes the pain of both impacting him all at once that it was difficult to determine where it had derived from. The shame, guilt, depression, and fear were a part of him now, and he was unsure if he would ever be the man he was before he was thrown from his horse.
A shadow fell across his feet, drawing Cora's attention from her needlework and Gareth from his engrossed thoughts. They both gaped in mild surprise at the young man filling their threshold.
"Hello, Abram." Cora greeted softly, offering one of those timid smiles that didn't quite reach the blue of her eyes. "Is everything alright? 'Tis a bit late to be calling."
Abram returned a hasty smile. "Aye, Mrs. Duncan. I apologize for appearing unannounced at such an untimely hour, but if I may, could I have a word with Mr. Duncan?"
Cora exchanged a cursory glance with Gareth but did not question Abram's sudden presence any further than a puzzling arch of her delicate brow. "Aye, of course." She gestured to Gareth with a small, fragile hand.
With some reluctance, Gareth struggled to his feet, the dull ache in his back doubling to a steady throbbing as he came vertical.
Gritting his teeth against the immediate discomfort, he turned and motioned Abram outside.
He was a bit surprised to see Abram Bouchard. He could never recall a time when the young man had personally sought him out. As the blacksmith's son, and at four and twenty, he was a good-looking lad well in his prime, with a wealth of thick, tawny hair and eyes akin to a green pasture. Gareth had overheard on more than one occasion that Elsa found the young man to be very attractive, if not somewhat arrogant.
He sensed that over-confidence now in Bouchard's inflated chest and long, confident stride.
Abram had a disarming grin that garnered many feminine appraisals, but those somewhat well-defined and respectable features disguised a hair-trigger temper. He was known for being hot-tempered and a bit rash and heedless with his words. He surmised that he wasn't all that different from their neighbors by means of narrow-mindedness and insensitivity.
Shaking his head of his rambling thoughts, Gareth felt a cold sweat mist his body as his lower back spasmed with his upright position. "What can I do for you at this hour, Bouchard?"
Abram raised his chin a notch, illustrating some of that innate smugness as he squared his shoulders. "I thought it wise to inform you that two women have been missing since morn."
Gareth frowned, "Missing?"
"Aye, that's what I said." Bouchard returned with a hint of irritation. "The Huxley girl, and Mr. Atherton's granddaughter." He paused, his green eyes assessing as they darted in all directions, as if to guarantee they were alone.
The gesture raised a fraction of wariness in Gareth.
"They are of similar age as your daughter," Abram continued, "And seeing as how Rossetti has a penchant for taking women, I have a strong suspicion he is behind their disappearances."
"That's a hefty accusation, boy. How can you be so sure?"
Abram leveled a hard stare on Gareth. "Is it so hard to believe, old man, considering what that bastard demanded of you?"
Gareth sighed heavily and pinched his forehead, feeling a headache gathering behind his tired eyes. Nay, it wasn't so hard to believe, but it was hardly proof, and he hadn't the energy to encourage Bouchard's wild imagination at this hour, even if a still-small voice at the back of his troubled thoughts urged him to mull over it.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Bouchard gave an aimless shrug, but the steadfast look in his sharp eyes belied that this was anything but trivial, and that uneasy feeling from before about the young man and his motive resurfaced. "I would think if anyone need know, it should be you. If Rossetti has taken these girls, then it goes without saying that Elle's well-being remains uncertain. Would you not agree?"
His heart leapt with alarm in his chest.
Touch her, nothing would give me greater pleasure.
Rossetti's crass words rang in his pounding skull and he bit back an expletive. His pain momentarily forgotten as anger flourished in his brittle bones. What Gareth wouldn't do to have his strength back, to have the courage to run that bastard through with a blade and watch him bleed out. The fear of not knowing his daughter's fate was almost too much for his weakened body to bear.
At his lengthy silence, Abram stated without a shred of subtlety, "How can you abide the thought of her in his hands? How can you live with that?"
He fixed Bouchard with a venomous glare, "If you think I am without guilt, Bouchard, then you are mistaken. If you have come here to make me feel even lesser than a man, then we have nothing more to say."
Abram held up a staying hand, "On the contrary, Duncan, I have come with an objective that I think may appeal to you."
"And what is that?" Gareth demanded, is patience running thin with the man's impertinent behavior.
"We kill him."
It was said so matter-of-fact that for a moment Gareth believed his ears had deceived him, but peering into Bouchard's grim and unflinching eyes, he felt what little color left in his face deplete all at once. "You cannot be serious?"
"Come now, Duncan." Abram started with uncanny smoothness. "That monster has your daughter, and mayhap two others, I would think you would be leaping at the opportunity."
His nostrils flared with his anger as he wagged a finger in Bouchard's presumptuous face, "You are a fool if you think you can best that man. Rossetti is dangerous, and lest you forget, he is our feudal Lord. What do you think will happen once word spreads of our misdeed?"
"I would think a father would do just about anything to save his daughter." Bouchard stated with increasing ire.
Gareth stabbed the air once more with his finger, "Don't give me that sanctimonious babble when you speak of murder!"
"Do you honestly think anyone in this village would speak against us?" Abram snapped. "We are not alone in this, Duncan."
His head was pulsating tenfold now, and he felt it had much to do with Bouchard rather than the tenderness in his back. "Why come to me? I am in no condition to assist you, even if I were that foolish!"
"Why not?" Abram argued, "You have lost more than just your daughter to that depraved devil. Why not gain it all back and be hailed a hero?"
A realization struck Gareth in that fog of incessant pounding. Alongside Bouchard's unflattering characteristics of being cantankerous and impulsive, he was also a damned good manipulator.
"Murderers are not praised, they are condemned!" And then, Gareth demanded, "Why do you care? What's in it for you?"
A dark emotion flickered fleetingly in the animated green of his eyes, almost dehumanizing the young man as it set Gareth's heart to an uneasy patter. "I want to be known as the man that killed the Rossetti Beast."
Incredulous, he could only gape in disbelief at the young man, convinced that he was of unsound mind, but furthermore, Bouchard was starting to persuade him!
Damnation! Was he really that desperate? Was he truly considering murder?
Admittedly, Abram's ill-advised idea engendered hope for the first time. He thought of Elle, somewhere in that desolate array of stone, shackled to an unforgiving wall, wasting away while he sat here contemplating a means to save her while her fate lay in limbo. Rossetti has assured him that Elle would be returned but had never alluded as to when. That could be a fortnight from now. Mayhap months, or even years! And in all that time, Rossetti could do every unspeakable thing to his daughter.
This was all his fault. He had to make it right somehow, and that somehow was staring him in the face with a smug expression.
Murder Rossetti. The gut-wrenching thought had Gareth swallowing uneasily and swaying on his unstable feet. If he did this, there was no turning back. He would have to commit and accept the consequences thereafter.
But what of Elle upon her return? Her start to life had been difficult at best, and now, he had guaranteed her an even harsher future. What kind of woman would she be after this was all said and done? What kind of life would she lead afterwards? Would it be rife with loneliness and despair? She would be considered ruined. No man would want her for a wife.
A surprising notion took shape on his thoughts as he studied Bouchard in a different light. "If I agree to help you in this, you will grant me a boon."
Abram instantly became wary and his green eyes narrowed, "And what might that be?"
"You will marry my daughter, assuming that we escape conviction and execution."
Bouchard stiffened, his eyes widening with incredulity and then slowly tapered with anger. "What makes you think I would have her? She is invalid."
Gareth solidified with anger, "You are like all the rest, boy. Following flock in your mockery and apathy. Truthfully, you do not deserve my daughter. She is too good for you."
"Then why demean yourself, Duncan?"
"Because we both require something of the other, whether we like it or not." Gareth answered frankly, "I have been inside Rossetti Keep. I am familiar with its design." With a heavy sigh, he scrubbed a hand down his face. "And I see no other way to save Elle."
Bouchard fell quiet and Gareth could see the young man turning the idea over and for a moment, he questioned whether he was doing the right thing, and knew in his heart that he wasn't, but a desperate man was prone to do reckless things. "My daughter would make you a good wife. She may be blind, but she is kind and gentle. I ask only that you treat her the same." With another exaggerated sigh, he said, "That is my request. Take it or leave it."
Gareth turned to retreat inside.
"Wait!"