[19-May-2007][Trinity Blood] In The End
Title: In The End
Day/Theme: May 19: 'der Tod und das Mädchen' (death and the maiden)
Series:Trinity Blood (anime or novel based)
Characters/Pairing: Caterina, Abel, Tres, William, Kate
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,353
Spoilers/Warnings: unsavory things referenced, dark introspection and spoiler for Caterina
Cross-Posted to:
trinityblood and
31_days
It was another Trinity Blood writing day for me with the
31_days challenge. So once again, I'll let you guys have a peek. This piece turned out really weird though, but I thought I would share even if I don't quite know what to make of it. It was inspired by the lack of Caterina-based fiction. Additionally by a Cat/Abel convo in R.O.M. 4: The Templar Witch, in case you were wondering, though it's not exactly linked.
I'm not here for your entertainment,
You don't really wanna mess with me tonight.
-Pink
I wonder, often, when I shall finally die.
It's not something I continuously think about though, because I can't. There are always other things that need doing, or Brother is once more playing some stupid little game and must again be pulled away from the third member of our odd triumvirate, the pope. I prefer to call him, our pope, Little Brother though. I doubt he will ever truly be more to me than that. After all, I remember helping our mother change his diapers.
Despite this, Death thinks of me, or so I believe. It has been my constant companion, the only loved one I can still hold close. Often it reminds me of our pale embrace when I cough at night, spattering blood across the pale cover of my pillow. Tres no longer asks if I am still 'undamaged' anymore. He knows that I will tell him if I need assistance after all.
For like any good hound, I have trained him accordingly. All here know I will accept nothing less.
I glance away from the window, gray eyes darting over the pale wash of my receiving room. The Vatican is silent this time of night, except for the ticking of an ancient clock on the mantle of one far-off bookcase. My father gave that clock to me long ago, before he ran off with that vampire whore that would eventually ruin my parent's relationship and open the way for his assassination. If only he had realized that women are often fickle creatures as well.
But well, with a knife at his throat I'm sure he finally understood.
In the end, I can't help still loving him, strange though that may seem, and though I would admit it to no-one. He taught me how to duel, in more ways than the physical, and how to curb my foolish wants so that I could become a force to be reckoned with. It leaves me wondering if he would be proud, seeing me now. Would he be disappointed that I and Francesco still act like mere children? Would he get between us, offering up some sort of compromise like he often did so long ago?
I don't think it would help though, Brother has grown too bitter over the years. Being a bastard son is not something I would wish on anyone, and yet he is. I admit I've taken a bit of satisfaction in it though, for many of our advisors laugh about him behind his back, calling him a mere dreamer, for he would never have been pope, even if he'd had aspirations.
I'm sure they laugh about me as well. After all, they think the only place for a woman is in the nunnery.
I don't regret the choices that I have made, and the people that I have lost to become the woman that I am. William and Kate often remind me of this when I go to have tea with them every Saturday after evening mass. I pretend every time that I feel nothing is different, as we try to make it informal, like old college alumni reminiscing. But it's never really that way, and I can trust both to know that, and to keep their distance. We laugh occasionally and Kate brings her famous tea, but we can never truly be what we were, and life cruelly reminds us each time.
The oak clock strikes twelve, glided hands casting back glowing slips of light from the fireplace, and the door behind me opens, slowly, hesitantly, hinges creaking. But it's only Abel who saunters in, his usual apologetic self, eyes shifting first to the right, and then to the left.
I glance up at him across the distance between the window and the door, and he merely watches me lazily, eyes widening just a fraction when my lips purse small. He is wondering if I will be mad because he has intruded without giving any sort of explanation, and he pulls a heavy looking, ancient tome-of-a-book tighter to his chest with his one free hand, the other gripping a fine china cup. It is odd, but occasionally I actually like to jerk his chain and watch him squirm beneath my boot. And so I merely stare back, challenging him, wanting him to be the one to answer.
I do not know how to rationalize this destructive need. Every time I see him something inside of me breaks just a bit more, and I want things from him that I cannot explain.
"Ah," he manages, shoulders hunching, sinking once more into that apologetic part of himself that makes me hate my own selfish nature even more, "it was getting a little cold in my room, Lady Caterina, and I was looking for a lit fire - um, I do apologize. I'll just be-"
"Abel-"
My word holds him, his eyes widening, and I marvel for a moment at my false power. I can't really keep him with words, the only thing stopping him is the fact that he sincerely cares for me. He wants me to be happy.
And I him, I think, in my own odd way.
"-why didn't you use the fireplace in your room?"
One corner of his mouth quirks, and he gives me that fatherly smile that suddenly makes me feel much younger than I am.
"My Lady, surely you remember that the flue needs to be cleaned in my room. I can't use it for another week, as per the maintenance order."
If I were a woman any less than what I am, I would have giggled, or smiled in apology. But I don't, because I can't. He has seen me too many times ashamed and lost, and I will be strong tonight.
"I can't remember everything Abel...you are well aware of that."
He glances away at my rebuke, and when his eyes come back, they are soft and forgiving. He's looking as gentle as possible tonight, trying to escape that little bit of hardness he can hear at the edge of each word that leaves my lips. Unlike some nights, he doesn't want to argue or angst, and as I watch a shiver tremble over his arms, I feel suddenly very rude.
"As I said, I'll just be-"
"Please stay," I try to find some part of myself that can say words even remotely kind to him. "You shouldn't have to be cold."
He considers this for a moment, then steps fully into the room, looking a bit uncomfortable as he slides down onto one of my new leather couches over by the hearth, placing the china cup onto the small table beside it. I continue to watch him silently as he pulls up his knees, leaving both boots behind, sock-covered toes curling close rather like a child would, flipping the book open as his chin comes to rest on one cupped palm. He says nothing more, and I feel something akin to affection as he picks up the cup after another long moment, dipping it to his pale lips, his eyes trained on the words that now hold him rapt.
I turn back to the window then, eyes narrowing as I stare out along the courtyard. Rain slips in heavy sheets over the cobblestones, fat glistening droplets sliding down the panes before me, illuminated by a sconce just off to the side of the glass. I don't know what to say, or what to do. Even when he is in the same room as me, I cannot word properly the one thing that I desperately want to tell him. I cannot open up to him anymore like that, for the little girl that once told him everything is gone, as dead to me as my parents now are.
Is losing a part of yourself what death is really like I wonder?
"Uh, Caterina?" Behind me Abel shifts on the leather, dropping my title, but not for the first time. And I forgive him. We've known each other long enough that alone it does not matter. "Would you like to talk or something?"
"Why?"
He yawns, and I have to stifle one of my own with a set of, albeit, more delicate fingers.
"Because you look a little...well, disappointed I guess, and," he shuts the book and scrunches down further in the seat, curling up against one of the velvet cushions at one end. "I'm starting to fall asleep, honestly. You should be trying harder to keep me awake!"
I smirk at this. Oh, the games he plays. But why not, I've been alone long enough. I slip across the distance between us and sit down across from him, realizing that it is comfortingly warm this close to the flames.
"Would you answer an honest question if I asked it then?"
"Oh anything," he smiles, delighted at my company. He puts the book down onto the rug below us, wrapping his arms around the cushion and leaning toward me.
"I know this will be difficult for you to answer, but I need to know. What do you think death is really like? I remember you telling me...that you died once?"
He sighs, as if the very act of remembering is slightly painful, and moves closer to me, one cheek coming to rest on the side of my shoulder. Though surprised, I don't push him away as I usually do when he gets this close. His warmth is actually reassuring, and I've longed to have someone to comfort me, though I'm wont to deny it.
"Yes, I have. I told you about it when you were little, remember? It was part of the story of how I became a crusnik. You asked me once about monsters, right?"
The crusnik. I tense just a bit, and he groans unhappily when I move my shoulder, causing him to slide down slightly. I've only seen him change five times in my life, but once was more then enough. Not because I am afraid, no. I have never feared the darkness that lies in men's hearts, because I've seen it laid bare so many times before me, mirroring my own inner ebony pit. Instead, it is because I fear for him, fear losing him to that other creature that hunts the night with ivory fangs and blood-slicked claws.
Nights are always the worst for him, I think, because the crusnik hungers for them. Some nights it fights with him for dominance, and often he gives in when he knows it is safe and he's resting here after a mission. I know because the sound of wing beats often echoes over the roof above my bedchamber as he slips up into the sky, heading toward the sea. I do not know where he goes, those nights, but sometimes I wish I could go with him.
"Yes," I finally answer.
"Caterina, you're thinking about your own death again, aren’t you? You know what I've told you about that."
His chiding tone makes me shrug. He isn't my father, though sometimes the title seems apt.
"I will die very soon Abel, we both know that. None of the therapy ever really worked."
He does not say anything for a very long time, and the fire crackles at us both, popping occasionally as the raindrops spatter out a discordinant rhythm into the growing night.
"It was very dark," he finally whispers in answer, voice sinking, becoming deeper, "and there was...nothing, absolutely nothing. No angels, no golden gate, not even a single fluffy white cloud."
I consider this. What do you say to a man that sounds so desperate for anything but the truth?
"Then why do we tell ourselves lies about Heaven, do you suppose?"
"It wasn't Heaven," he manages to say, eyes closing in pain, "it was Hell."
I decide I should probably tell someone the truth, and if anyone, it should be him.
"I don't think I believe in Hell."
This shocks him. He tenses, then sits upright, pulling away from me and giving me one of those eerie sidelong glances that most normally reserve only for the truly insane.
"But...but you're a cardinal of Rome! And you don't believe in-"
"Not if it takes men like you. Where do you suppose I would end up then?"
He considers this, and I see his silver brows slide closer in thought, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, glasses slipping down to the tip as he peers at the rug.
"I don't think I would know," he finally sighs, eyes darting back to my own, "I hardly see myself the proper judge."
And I finally give him a hint of a smile, for yes, we are alike, him and I. And as he gazes at me across the cold expanse of this place that is slowly becoming my death, I realize that this is the very reason that I can never get any closer to him, or my brothers, or anyone within this dark and corrupted land of the already walking-dead. Because I already know what sort of demons lie waiting behind those lapis pools, though he hides them well. For they hunt me too, and their mark is already on my flesh.
But there is a difference, even in our symmetry. Like the subtle point of a fine-honed blade, small but visible if you watch for it. Because one day, no matter what I have to offer, I shall leave him. And he shall have nothing of his own to hold close...save death.
But I will wait for him, even if it is in Hell.
For I am a wicked maiden.
And I think he knows.
Day/Theme: May 19: 'der Tod und das Mädchen' (death and the maiden)
Series:Trinity Blood (anime or novel based)
Characters/Pairing: Caterina, Abel, Tres, William, Kate
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,353
Spoilers/Warnings: unsavory things referenced, dark introspection and spoiler for Caterina
Cross-Posted to:
trinityblood and
31_days
It was another Trinity Blood writing day for me with the
31_days challenge. So once again, I'll let you guys have a peek. This piece turned out really weird though, but I thought I would share even if I don't quite know what to make of it. It was inspired by the lack of Caterina-based fiction. Additionally by a Cat/Abel convo in R.O.M. 4: The Templar Witch, in case you were wondering, though it's not exactly linked.
I'm not here for your entertainment,
You don't really wanna mess with me tonight.
-Pink
I wonder, often, when I shall finally die.
It's not something I continuously think about though, because I can't. There are always other things that need doing, or Brother is once more playing some stupid little game and must again be pulled away from the third member of our odd triumvirate, the pope. I prefer to call him, our pope, Little Brother though. I doubt he will ever truly be more to me than that. After all, I remember helping our mother change his diapers.
Despite this, Death thinks of me, or so I believe. It has been my constant companion, the only loved one I can still hold close. Often it reminds me of our pale embrace when I cough at night, spattering blood across the pale cover of my pillow. Tres no longer asks if I am still 'undamaged' anymore. He knows that I will tell him if I need assistance after all.
For like any good hound, I have trained him accordingly. All here know I will accept nothing less.
I glance away from the window, gray eyes darting over the pale wash of my receiving room. The Vatican is silent this time of night, except for the ticking of an ancient clock on the mantle of one far-off bookcase. My father gave that clock to me long ago, before he ran off with that vampire whore that would eventually ruin my parent's relationship and open the way for his assassination. If only he had realized that women are often fickle creatures as well.
But well, with a knife at his throat I'm sure he finally understood.
In the end, I can't help still loving him, strange though that may seem, and though I would admit it to no-one. He taught me how to duel, in more ways than the physical, and how to curb my foolish wants so that I could become a force to be reckoned with. It leaves me wondering if he would be proud, seeing me now. Would he be disappointed that I and Francesco still act like mere children? Would he get between us, offering up some sort of compromise like he often did so long ago?
I don't think it would help though, Brother has grown too bitter over the years. Being a bastard son is not something I would wish on anyone, and yet he is. I admit I've taken a bit of satisfaction in it though, for many of our advisors laugh about him behind his back, calling him a mere dreamer, for he would never have been pope, even if he'd had aspirations.
I'm sure they laugh about me as well. After all, they think the only place for a woman is in the nunnery.
I don't regret the choices that I have made, and the people that I have lost to become the woman that I am. William and Kate often remind me of this when I go to have tea with them every Saturday after evening mass. I pretend every time that I feel nothing is different, as we try to make it informal, like old college alumni reminiscing. But it's never really that way, and I can trust both to know that, and to keep their distance. We laugh occasionally and Kate brings her famous tea, but we can never truly be what we were, and life cruelly reminds us each time.
The oak clock strikes twelve, glided hands casting back glowing slips of light from the fireplace, and the door behind me opens, slowly, hesitantly, hinges creaking. But it's only Abel who saunters in, his usual apologetic self, eyes shifting first to the right, and then to the left.
I glance up at him across the distance between the window and the door, and he merely watches me lazily, eyes widening just a fraction when my lips purse small. He is wondering if I will be mad because he has intruded without giving any sort of explanation, and he pulls a heavy looking, ancient tome-of-a-book tighter to his chest with his one free hand, the other gripping a fine china cup. It is odd, but occasionally I actually like to jerk his chain and watch him squirm beneath my boot. And so I merely stare back, challenging him, wanting him to be the one to answer.
I do not know how to rationalize this destructive need. Every time I see him something inside of me breaks just a bit more, and I want things from him that I cannot explain.
"Ah," he manages, shoulders hunching, sinking once more into that apologetic part of himself that makes me hate my own selfish nature even more, "it was getting a little cold in my room, Lady Caterina, and I was looking for a lit fire - um, I do apologize. I'll just be-"
"Abel-"
My word holds him, his eyes widening, and I marvel for a moment at my false power. I can't really keep him with words, the only thing stopping him is the fact that he sincerely cares for me. He wants me to be happy.
And I him, I think, in my own odd way.
"-why didn't you use the fireplace in your room?"
One corner of his mouth quirks, and he gives me that fatherly smile that suddenly makes me feel much younger than I am.
"My Lady, surely you remember that the flue needs to be cleaned in my room. I can't use it for another week, as per the maintenance order."
If I were a woman any less than what I am, I would have giggled, or smiled in apology. But I don't, because I can't. He has seen me too many times ashamed and lost, and I will be strong tonight.
"I can't remember everything Abel...you are well aware of that."
He glances away at my rebuke, and when his eyes come back, they are soft and forgiving. He's looking as gentle as possible tonight, trying to escape that little bit of hardness he can hear at the edge of each word that leaves my lips. Unlike some nights, he doesn't want to argue or angst, and as I watch a shiver tremble over his arms, I feel suddenly very rude.
"As I said, I'll just be-"
"Please stay," I try to find some part of myself that can say words even remotely kind to him. "You shouldn't have to be cold."
He considers this for a moment, then steps fully into the room, looking a bit uncomfortable as he slides down onto one of my new leather couches over by the hearth, placing the china cup onto the small table beside it. I continue to watch him silently as he pulls up his knees, leaving both boots behind, sock-covered toes curling close rather like a child would, flipping the book open as his chin comes to rest on one cupped palm. He says nothing more, and I feel something akin to affection as he picks up the cup after another long moment, dipping it to his pale lips, his eyes trained on the words that now hold him rapt.
I turn back to the window then, eyes narrowing as I stare out along the courtyard. Rain slips in heavy sheets over the cobblestones, fat glistening droplets sliding down the panes before me, illuminated by a sconce just off to the side of the glass. I don't know what to say, or what to do. Even when he is in the same room as me, I cannot word properly the one thing that I desperately want to tell him. I cannot open up to him anymore like that, for the little girl that once told him everything is gone, as dead to me as my parents now are.
Is losing a part of yourself what death is really like I wonder?
"Uh, Caterina?" Behind me Abel shifts on the leather, dropping my title, but not for the first time. And I forgive him. We've known each other long enough that alone it does not matter. "Would you like to talk or something?"
"Why?"
He yawns, and I have to stifle one of my own with a set of, albeit, more delicate fingers.
"Because you look a little...well, disappointed I guess, and," he shuts the book and scrunches down further in the seat, curling up against one of the velvet cushions at one end. "I'm starting to fall asleep, honestly. You should be trying harder to keep me awake!"
I smirk at this. Oh, the games he plays. But why not, I've been alone long enough. I slip across the distance between us and sit down across from him, realizing that it is comfortingly warm this close to the flames.
"Would you answer an honest question if I asked it then?"
"Oh anything," he smiles, delighted at my company. He puts the book down onto the rug below us, wrapping his arms around the cushion and leaning toward me.
"I know this will be difficult for you to answer, but I need to know. What do you think death is really like? I remember you telling me...that you died once?"
He sighs, as if the very act of remembering is slightly painful, and moves closer to me, one cheek coming to rest on the side of my shoulder. Though surprised, I don't push him away as I usually do when he gets this close. His warmth is actually reassuring, and I've longed to have someone to comfort me, though I'm wont to deny it.
"Yes, I have. I told you about it when you were little, remember? It was part of the story of how I became a crusnik. You asked me once about monsters, right?"
The crusnik. I tense just a bit, and he groans unhappily when I move my shoulder, causing him to slide down slightly. I've only seen him change five times in my life, but once was more then enough. Not because I am afraid, no. I have never feared the darkness that lies in men's hearts, because I've seen it laid bare so many times before me, mirroring my own inner ebony pit. Instead, it is because I fear for him, fear losing him to that other creature that hunts the night with ivory fangs and blood-slicked claws.
Nights are always the worst for him, I think, because the crusnik hungers for them. Some nights it fights with him for dominance, and often he gives in when he knows it is safe and he's resting here after a mission. I know because the sound of wing beats often echoes over the roof above my bedchamber as he slips up into the sky, heading toward the sea. I do not know where he goes, those nights, but sometimes I wish I could go with him.
"Yes," I finally answer.
"Caterina, you're thinking about your own death again, aren’t you? You know what I've told you about that."
His chiding tone makes me shrug. He isn't my father, though sometimes the title seems apt.
"I will die very soon Abel, we both know that. None of the therapy ever really worked."
He does not say anything for a very long time, and the fire crackles at us both, popping occasionally as the raindrops spatter out a discordinant rhythm into the growing night.
"It was very dark," he finally whispers in answer, voice sinking, becoming deeper, "and there was...nothing, absolutely nothing. No angels, no golden gate, not even a single fluffy white cloud."
I consider this. What do you say to a man that sounds so desperate for anything but the truth?
"Then why do we tell ourselves lies about Heaven, do you suppose?"
"It wasn't Heaven," he manages to say, eyes closing in pain, "it was Hell."
I decide I should probably tell someone the truth, and if anyone, it should be him.
"I don't think I believe in Hell."
This shocks him. He tenses, then sits upright, pulling away from me and giving me one of those eerie sidelong glances that most normally reserve only for the truly insane.
"But...but you're a cardinal of Rome! And you don't believe in-"
"Not if it takes men like you. Where do you suppose I would end up then?"
He considers this, and I see his silver brows slide closer in thought, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, glasses slipping down to the tip as he peers at the rug.
"I don't think I would know," he finally sighs, eyes darting back to my own, "I hardly see myself the proper judge."
And I finally give him a hint of a smile, for yes, we are alike, him and I. And as he gazes at me across the cold expanse of this place that is slowly becoming my death, I realize that this is the very reason that I can never get any closer to him, or my brothers, or anyone within this dark and corrupted land of the already walking-dead. Because I already know what sort of demons lie waiting behind those lapis pools, though he hides them well. For they hunt me too, and their mark is already on my flesh.
But there is a difference, even in our symmetry. Like the subtle point of a fine-honed blade, small but visible if you watch for it. Because one day, no matter what I have to offer, I shall leave him. And he shall have nothing of his own to hold close...save death.
But I will wait for him, even if it is in Hell.
For I am a wicked maiden.
And I think he knows.