In the Name of Justice: Chapter IV
I was hoping to upload two chapters tonight, but life got in the way. Rest assured that Chapter V is on its way.
Comments are <3
Link to old Chapter IV
Chapter IV
Garden
Later that night, Justice left his home for the last time.
There weren't many things he needed to take with him: a change of clothes, blanket, coin purse, two vials of his potion and one of the only books he owned, a well-thumbed copy of short stories, all stuffed into a satchel with room to spare. His dagger he kept at his hip, hidden beneath the folds of his tunic. He'd never been one for material possessions, and even after ten years of living in the cabin, there were few things he felt sentimental about leaving behind.
He headed towards the east, in the opposite direction of Rockwood, following a seldom-used trail that wound through the forests and kept him high above the valley floor. After about three hours, the valley levelled out into flatter ground. Forests stretched to the horizon and beyond, broken up by a green hilltop here and there. The terrain was typical of Vesteria, Marthiel's south-west region.
Justice looked to the east. The sky was starting to turn lighter; within the hour, the sun would rise. Luckily, he knew of a village nearby where he would be able to take shelter for the day.
The place was called Sandy, and it was more a scattering of shabby-looking houses nestled between the trees than a village. One path led in, and at the end of that path sat a tavern called The Crooked Fingers. Justice had passed it a few times from afar, but never been in. He'd never a reason to.
He rapped hard on the door. For a few moments, he feared nobody would answer, but then he heard footsteps on the stairs inside. A key turned in the lock and the door opened.
“Yes?” The eyes that stared out were half-closed, suggesting the man they belonged to had been asleep just minutes before.
“I'm looking for a room,” said Justice.
The man sighed, as if deciding whether it was worth his time. Then he opened the door wide and ushered Justice in.
The tavern was surprisingly small and smelt of wood polish and spilled ale, with a handful of tables topped with upturned chairs taking up the majority of the space. A bar ran along the back wall. The man led Justice over, walked behind it and opened up what could only be a lockbox from the sound of scraping heavy metal.
“I've been walking since dawn,” said Justice as the man took out a wad of papers. “Thought I could make it to Alborg, but I'm just so exhausted.” Alborg was the next village along and marked the furthest point Justice had ever been in a single night.
“Is that so?” grumbled the man. He shoved a sheet of paper before Justice, nodding to a quill along the bar. “Sign your name in the space at the bottom.”
Five minutes later, Justice lay in the bed of a tiny single room on the second floor of the tavern. Even with his clothes on, he could feel the scratchy covers irritating his skin, still sensitive after burning. His thoughts drifted to his own bed back in his cabin.
He wondered how long it would be until anyone realised he was missing. How long until someone commented they hadn't seen him at the market for a while? Very occasionally, Justice would receive a visitor from Rockwood, hence the vegetable garden and rotation of food hanging from his rafters. Once, Irina had brought him a homemade cake and Justice had invited her in. When she'd suggested he open the curtains to let some afternoon light into the dark little house, Justice had told her he was ill with a blinding headache, and any kind of light was like a stab to the head. She accepted the excuse as truth, although it didn't stop her from sitting at his table for two hours, talking and drinking most of his supply of herbal tea.
While it had been a pleasant diversion, Justice knew he was playing with fire that day. Irina had gone home apparently suspecting nothing, but one slip-up would have blown the fiction he had so carefully built up over the years. He would have had no choice but to flee.
Just like he was doing now.
Justice propped himself up on his elbows and examined the room, his enhanced eyesight allowing him to pick out details in the darkness no human eyes would have been able to spot: the mildew clinging to the wooden walls, the cracks in the chest-of-drawers, the dust collecting in the corners. The curtains on the window opposite his bed seemed thin and gauzy. Come down, he suspected the room would be swamped with light. Grunting, Justice walked over to the window and draped his cloak over to the curtain pole to create a second blackout curtain. He took a step back and examined it to make sure he hadn't left any gaps. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
How strange, Justice thought, that a piece of fabric was all that protected him from death. Just like the curtain in his house. It would only take a careless housekeeper to whip away his cloak while he slept, and Justice would have seconds to live. He'd seen it happen only once, a long time ago. There had been something unspeakably tragic about the look on the vampire's face, a being who for his whole life had thought himself immortal, untouchable, realising that the end had come. Justice remembered the way his skin had turned red in the sunlight, peeling like paper in a fire, before his whole body burst into flames, then crumbled into ash. He'd found it hauntingly beautiful at the time, like a lightning storm; a brilliant death for a creature that had brought death to so many others.
Justice held up his hand, saw where the skin was still pink and flaky.
There was nothing beautiful about this.
He got back into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He could hear a man snoring next door, along with a second, lighter breathing pattern that probably belonged to a woman. It was a strange feeling, sleeping so close to a human after years of isolation.
For the first time since leaving his house, Justice felt a pang of loneliness pull at him. Before he could let it manifest, he rolled over, closed his eyes and waited for sleep.
---
The woman in white smiled as he brushed the last specks of soil from the leaves of her herb garden. She placed it on the outside windowsill and stood back to admire her creation.
It wasn't much, but Rosalie knew that it was always the little touches that livened up a living space. Growing up on her family's farm, she'd always made sure to keep a glass of cut flowers or two in her room. After all, her mother had told her, a house without greenery was just four cold walls. The same went for century-old castles.
She turned, walked to the other side of the hall and leaned over the banister. Beneath her, the staircase spiralled down to an empty floor, though she could hear soft voices from further along. Moments later, a pair of servants appeared with baskets of washing in their arms and began to make their way up the stairs.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” said one of the women as they passed.
“Evening, Katarina.” Rosalie flashed her a smile.
The two servants waited until they were in the next room before carrying on their conversation. Then their voices faded and silence returned.
That was something she still found it hard to get used to. The silence. Even in a castle as old as this, where the slightest sound echoed off walls and voices carried from room to room as easily as a breeze, Rosalie could go hours without hearing anyone else at all. Then again, it was hardly a surprise: the vampires in the castle were slow, peaceful creatures who favoured silence, quite unlike the monsters in the tales she'd been told as a child. The handful that lived here among the human servants had treated her with nothing but courtesy. That wasn't to say she didn't still feel a little scared around them, of course. She knew what happened behind closed doors, how every so often a vampire servant would leave the castle and return the following night, more content and full of life than when they left. She just didn't ask them about it.
One of the cooks had explained it to her the first week she'd started living here in a way that had stuck with her since. As he'd hacked up a piece of lamb for stew, he'd said, “Humans eat animals, but you still treat them with kindness and respect. Not every animal is food. You value their lives and personalities, even if the end goal is to consume them. The same goes for us and humans.”
Two years later, Rosalie still sometimes felt like that piece of lamb in the eyes of the servants.
She pulled back from the balcony and turned, only to bump into something solid. Strong arms encircled her and pulled her close, stifling her cry of shock. The moment passed, and she allowed herself to relax into the embrace.
“One day I'll hear you coming,” she said with a smile.
“But not today.” With one arm still holding her to him, Dreizehn placed a hand on Rosalie's cheek, tilted her head up and kissed her.
“The pot looks good,” he said, nodding at the window. “Another herb garden?”
Rosalie nodded. She knew Dreizehn had never been one for gardening, but he'd always admired her creations, even giving her a large section of the castle gardens as a wedding present.
Breaking away, Dreizehn walked over to the window and rubbed one of the leaves between two fingers. As the moonlight caught his face, Rosalie wondered whether she'd been able to create someone more beautiful had she sculpted them out of stone herself: long black hair framed pale skin, high cheekbones and eyes a shade somewhere between brown and crimson. He stared out into the night, and for a moment his face became a mask, his eyes turning vacant, as if his mind were somewhere else entirely.
“Darling?” Rosalie placed a hand on her husband's shoulder.
He continued to stare for a moment, then shook his head abruptly. “It's nothing. Sorry.” He took her under his arm and held her in front of him, wrapping his cloak around her like a shawl. She leaned back into him, grateful for the warmth despite the mild summer air.
“I don't think I'll ever get bored of this view,” said Rosalie, staring out across the forests that surrounded the castle and the black crags of the mountains on the horizon.
“It's yours,” said Dreizehn.
“Ours,” Rosalie corrected him.
The king responded with a small “Hmm”, and once again Rosalie felt that his attention was far away. Her heart fell a little. He'd always been a quiet man, but she was beginning to sense something out of place.
“Dreizehn,” she said slowly. “You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?”
The king snapped out of his trance the same way he had the first time, sighing as he shook his head. “Of course. I'd never keep secrets from you.” His hand slipped over the curves of her waist to her hip. Rosalie placed her own hand over his and squeezed.
She believed her husband when he said no secrets; and yet she was keeping one of her own.
It had been two months since she'd last bled. She'd missed one cycle and was due to have another this week, but it was late. Her human handmaid, Amelia, was the only other person who knew. She had to be sure before letting herself get excited, and while she was certain Dreizehn would be just as overjoyed as she was, she wanted the perfect moment to break the news to him.
Soft lips brushed against Rosalie's neck. She gasped, her heart beginning to pound, and Dreizehn sped up his kisses to match. He grabbed the skirt of her dress and starting to pull it up, exposing her bare legs.
“What if someone comes up?” she said, glancing along the corridor. An image of Katarina returning with another basket of washing appeared in her head.
“I ordered for this wing to be left alone.” Dreizehn's voice was barely more than a whisper. Gripping her by the hips, he pushed her forward against the window, her stomach pressed against the inside sill. Her mind still raced with the thought of others lurking nearby - vampires had immaculate hearing, after all. But as Dreizehn leaned his weight against her, she found her worries dissipating, and she thought, Let them hear.
For the third time since finding Rosalie, Dreizehn looked up at the moon. Its position in the sky had shifted since he'd last looked, marking more precious minutes gone in a night where time was all but slipping away.
Next chapter→
Comments are <3
Link to old Chapter IV
Chapter IV
Garden
Later that night, Justice left his home for the last time.
There weren't many things he needed to take with him: a change of clothes, blanket, coin purse, two vials of his potion and one of the only books he owned, a well-thumbed copy of short stories, all stuffed into a satchel with room to spare. His dagger he kept at his hip, hidden beneath the folds of his tunic. He'd never been one for material possessions, and even after ten years of living in the cabin, there were few things he felt sentimental about leaving behind.
He headed towards the east, in the opposite direction of Rockwood, following a seldom-used trail that wound through the forests and kept him high above the valley floor. After about three hours, the valley levelled out into flatter ground. Forests stretched to the horizon and beyond, broken up by a green hilltop here and there. The terrain was typical of Vesteria, Marthiel's south-west region.
Justice looked to the east. The sky was starting to turn lighter; within the hour, the sun would rise. Luckily, he knew of a village nearby where he would be able to take shelter for the day.
The place was called Sandy, and it was more a scattering of shabby-looking houses nestled between the trees than a village. One path led in, and at the end of that path sat a tavern called The Crooked Fingers. Justice had passed it a few times from afar, but never been in. He'd never a reason to.
He rapped hard on the door. For a few moments, he feared nobody would answer, but then he heard footsteps on the stairs inside. A key turned in the lock and the door opened.
“Yes?” The eyes that stared out were half-closed, suggesting the man they belonged to had been asleep just minutes before.
“I'm looking for a room,” said Justice.
The man sighed, as if deciding whether it was worth his time. Then he opened the door wide and ushered Justice in.
The tavern was surprisingly small and smelt of wood polish and spilled ale, with a handful of tables topped with upturned chairs taking up the majority of the space. A bar ran along the back wall. The man led Justice over, walked behind it and opened up what could only be a lockbox from the sound of scraping heavy metal.
“I've been walking since dawn,” said Justice as the man took out a wad of papers. “Thought I could make it to Alborg, but I'm just so exhausted.” Alborg was the next village along and marked the furthest point Justice had ever been in a single night.
“Is that so?” grumbled the man. He shoved a sheet of paper before Justice, nodding to a quill along the bar. “Sign your name in the space at the bottom.”
Five minutes later, Justice lay in the bed of a tiny single room on the second floor of the tavern. Even with his clothes on, he could feel the scratchy covers irritating his skin, still sensitive after burning. His thoughts drifted to his own bed back in his cabin.
He wondered how long it would be until anyone realised he was missing. How long until someone commented they hadn't seen him at the market for a while? Very occasionally, Justice would receive a visitor from Rockwood, hence the vegetable garden and rotation of food hanging from his rafters. Once, Irina had brought him a homemade cake and Justice had invited her in. When she'd suggested he open the curtains to let some afternoon light into the dark little house, Justice had told her he was ill with a blinding headache, and any kind of light was like a stab to the head. She accepted the excuse as truth, although it didn't stop her from sitting at his table for two hours, talking and drinking most of his supply of herbal tea.
While it had been a pleasant diversion, Justice knew he was playing with fire that day. Irina had gone home apparently suspecting nothing, but one slip-up would have blown the fiction he had so carefully built up over the years. He would have had no choice but to flee.
Just like he was doing now.
Justice propped himself up on his elbows and examined the room, his enhanced eyesight allowing him to pick out details in the darkness no human eyes would have been able to spot: the mildew clinging to the wooden walls, the cracks in the chest-of-drawers, the dust collecting in the corners. The curtains on the window opposite his bed seemed thin and gauzy. Come down, he suspected the room would be swamped with light. Grunting, Justice walked over to the window and draped his cloak over to the curtain pole to create a second blackout curtain. He took a step back and examined it to make sure he hadn't left any gaps. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
How strange, Justice thought, that a piece of fabric was all that protected him from death. Just like the curtain in his house. It would only take a careless housekeeper to whip away his cloak while he slept, and Justice would have seconds to live. He'd seen it happen only once, a long time ago. There had been something unspeakably tragic about the look on the vampire's face, a being who for his whole life had thought himself immortal, untouchable, realising that the end had come. Justice remembered the way his skin had turned red in the sunlight, peeling like paper in a fire, before his whole body burst into flames, then crumbled into ash. He'd found it hauntingly beautiful at the time, like a lightning storm; a brilliant death for a creature that had brought death to so many others.
Justice held up his hand, saw where the skin was still pink and flaky.
There was nothing beautiful about this.
He got back into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He could hear a man snoring next door, along with a second, lighter breathing pattern that probably belonged to a woman. It was a strange feeling, sleeping so close to a human after years of isolation.
For the first time since leaving his house, Justice felt a pang of loneliness pull at him. Before he could let it manifest, he rolled over, closed his eyes and waited for sleep.
---
The woman in white smiled as he brushed the last specks of soil from the leaves of her herb garden. She placed it on the outside windowsill and stood back to admire her creation.
It wasn't much, but Rosalie knew that it was always the little touches that livened up a living space. Growing up on her family's farm, she'd always made sure to keep a glass of cut flowers or two in her room. After all, her mother had told her, a house without greenery was just four cold walls. The same went for century-old castles.
She turned, walked to the other side of the hall and leaned over the banister. Beneath her, the staircase spiralled down to an empty floor, though she could hear soft voices from further along. Moments later, a pair of servants appeared with baskets of washing in their arms and began to make their way up the stairs.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” said one of the women as they passed.
“Evening, Katarina.” Rosalie flashed her a smile.
The two servants waited until they were in the next room before carrying on their conversation. Then their voices faded and silence returned.
That was something she still found it hard to get used to. The silence. Even in a castle as old as this, where the slightest sound echoed off walls and voices carried from room to room as easily as a breeze, Rosalie could go hours without hearing anyone else at all. Then again, it was hardly a surprise: the vampires in the castle were slow, peaceful creatures who favoured silence, quite unlike the monsters in the tales she'd been told as a child. The handful that lived here among the human servants had treated her with nothing but courtesy. That wasn't to say she didn't still feel a little scared around them, of course. She knew what happened behind closed doors, how every so often a vampire servant would leave the castle and return the following night, more content and full of life than when they left. She just didn't ask them about it.
One of the cooks had explained it to her the first week she'd started living here in a way that had stuck with her since. As he'd hacked up a piece of lamb for stew, he'd said, “Humans eat animals, but you still treat them with kindness and respect. Not every animal is food. You value their lives and personalities, even if the end goal is to consume them. The same goes for us and humans.”
Two years later, Rosalie still sometimes felt like that piece of lamb in the eyes of the servants.
She pulled back from the balcony and turned, only to bump into something solid. Strong arms encircled her and pulled her close, stifling her cry of shock. The moment passed, and she allowed herself to relax into the embrace.
“One day I'll hear you coming,” she said with a smile.
“But not today.” With one arm still holding her to him, Dreizehn placed a hand on Rosalie's cheek, tilted her head up and kissed her.
“The pot looks good,” he said, nodding at the window. “Another herb garden?”
Rosalie nodded. She knew Dreizehn had never been one for gardening, but he'd always admired her creations, even giving her a large section of the castle gardens as a wedding present.
Breaking away, Dreizehn walked over to the window and rubbed one of the leaves between two fingers. As the moonlight caught his face, Rosalie wondered whether she'd been able to create someone more beautiful had she sculpted them out of stone herself: long black hair framed pale skin, high cheekbones and eyes a shade somewhere between brown and crimson. He stared out into the night, and for a moment his face became a mask, his eyes turning vacant, as if his mind were somewhere else entirely.
“Darling?” Rosalie placed a hand on her husband's shoulder.
He continued to stare for a moment, then shook his head abruptly. “It's nothing. Sorry.” He took her under his arm and held her in front of him, wrapping his cloak around her like a shawl. She leaned back into him, grateful for the warmth despite the mild summer air.
“I don't think I'll ever get bored of this view,” said Rosalie, staring out across the forests that surrounded the castle and the black crags of the mountains on the horizon.
“It's yours,” said Dreizehn.
“Ours,” Rosalie corrected him.
The king responded with a small “Hmm”, and once again Rosalie felt that his attention was far away. Her heart fell a little. He'd always been a quiet man, but she was beginning to sense something out of place.
“Dreizehn,” she said slowly. “You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?”
The king snapped out of his trance the same way he had the first time, sighing as he shook his head. “Of course. I'd never keep secrets from you.” His hand slipped over the curves of her waist to her hip. Rosalie placed her own hand over his and squeezed.
She believed her husband when he said no secrets; and yet she was keeping one of her own.
It had been two months since she'd last bled. She'd missed one cycle and was due to have another this week, but it was late. Her human handmaid, Amelia, was the only other person who knew. She had to be sure before letting herself get excited, and while she was certain Dreizehn would be just as overjoyed as she was, she wanted the perfect moment to break the news to him.
Soft lips brushed against Rosalie's neck. She gasped, her heart beginning to pound, and Dreizehn sped up his kisses to match. He grabbed the skirt of her dress and starting to pull it up, exposing her bare legs.
“What if someone comes up?” she said, glancing along the corridor. An image of Katarina returning with another basket of washing appeared in her head.
“I ordered for this wing to be left alone.” Dreizehn's voice was barely more than a whisper. Gripping her by the hips, he pushed her forward against the window, her stomach pressed against the inside sill. Her mind still raced with the thought of others lurking nearby - vampires had immaculate hearing, after all. But as Dreizehn leaned his weight against her, she found her worries dissipating, and she thought, Let them hear.
For the third time since finding Rosalie, Dreizehn looked up at the moon. Its position in the sky had shifted since he'd last looked, marking more precious minutes gone in a night where time was all but slipping away.
Next chapter→