The Vale of Glamorgan

(closed for ShyMystica)

http://i936.photobucket.com/albums/ad203/Tarnished_photos/Pemberton20Castle.jpg
The Estate at The Vale of Glamorgan

http://i936.photobucket.com/albums/ad203/Tarnished_photos/Viktor-1.jpg
Tristan Apollo Leopold Rousseau

“Rousseau! Rousseau!” Tristan had one foot on the bottom step of his carriage, his hands gripping the sides of the entryway, preparing to pull himself up, when he heard his name shouted from across the street. He stepped back from the carriage and turned to see Philippe, comte de Lautreamont, waving a hand above his head somewhat anxiously, as he dashed across the wet cobblestones, a glossy black cane gripped tightly in the other hand. So much for slipping quietly away in the dark of night, he thought to himself as he watched the slender man maneuver his way between a series of passing coaches.

“Where have you been hiding, Tristan?” Philippe asked, the French man’s English heavily accented, as he finally reached Tristan’s side. “You’ve been a veritable hermit these last couple of weeks, my boy. Of course, when we didn’t see you at Balston’s garden party, we simply assumed that you were a bit under the weather, but when you missed two of the parliament meetings, well, as passionate as you have been in support of the Duke’s claim, we feared only the most grave of reasons would have kept you away. Have you been ill? You look pale, and it’s obvious that you’ve lost weight. Perhaps I should send my personal physician to visit you. I stole him away from Paris just in the nick of time, you know. The prince himself was asking after him.”

The Comte de Lautreamont was known as quite a gossip, though it was a wonder, since he rarely stopped talking long enough to hear anything anyone else said. Tristan had no doubt that had he allowed it, the talkative nobleman would have continued on well into the night, but he couldn’t afford to be delayed any longer than necessary. Raising his hands as if to surrender, he smiled weakly at Philippe, “That is quite a generous offer. I have indeed been sick, as you surmised. Nothing too serious, nonetheless, I have decided to take a short break from the hustle and bustle of London, while I recover.”

“Off to your father’s estate outside of Rouen, then?” Philippe inquired. “It’s quite lovely there this time of year, isn’t it? What better place to convalesce.”

“Actually, no. I don’t think the boat ride would agree with me at the present,” Tristan explained as he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. “I’ll be traveling to one of my mother’s holdings in southern Wales, in the Vale of Glamorgan.”

“My lord,” Jonathon called from inside the carriage. “We’d best be on our way.”

“Right as always, Mr. Pembroke,” Tristan called over his shoulder. He extended his hand to the frenchman, “I fear I must be off. I will return as soon as my health allows, I assure you.”

“Of course, of course,” the Comte replied. “London won’t be the same without you my dear man. “ And with that Philippe was off, his cane clacking against the cobblestone street as he undoubtedly rushed off to tell anyone and everyone who would listen of Monsieur Rousseau’s hasty retreat from the city. Tristan gave the street one last glance then hoisted himself up into the carriage, taking the seat opposite Jonathon.

Jonathon extended his hand outside the open carriage window and knocked on the black lacquered wood, signaling the driver that they were ready to go. A moment later the carriage lurched into motion, the heavy clopping of hooves on pavement slowly growing faster until they settled into a steady rhythm. After pulling his hand back down, the man servant closed the window. He sat quietly for a moment, studying Tristan’s face.

“You’re looking a bit peaked. I think perhaps you need something to drink,” he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a small, golden flask. Pulling the top off, he offered the flask to his companion.

Tristan didn’t make any movement to reach for the flask, but his eyes were transfixed on it. Finally he waved a dismissive hand, looking out the window, “You know I abhor the taste of metal.”

Jonathon frowned but leaned down and began searching through a small bag beneath the seat. A moment later he pulled a small, wine glass from the bag. A bold look of defiance on his face, Mr. Pembroke slowly tipped the flask, pouring the thick red contents into the glass. “I thought you might say that, my lord,” he said, adding extra emphasis to the last two words, as he offered Tristan the glass.

Again Tristan made no move to accept the glass. He stared at the red liquid that swirled inside, trying to understand his thirst for it. It was as if it called to him, whispering his name, offering to quench his every hunger, his every desire, offering him more than just survival, offering him power. What sort of monster have I become? What horror is this?

“You’re insufferable, Mr. Pembroke,” Tristan finally said, as he leaned forward and accepted the glass from his servant. He hesitated a moment before lifting the glass to his lips and sipping the tiniest amount into his mouth. As he swallowed it he could feel his strength returning, and yet, his body ached for more. With a soft sigh, he downed the remainder of the blood, a look of distaste on his face as he passed the glass back to Jonathon.

“We’ll find a cure,” Jonathon said tentatively, the doubt evident in his voice.

“Have the preparations been made at the Vale?” Tristan asked, brushing aside the other man’s attempt to ease his fears.

“Yes, my lord. I have spoken with the Executive Housekeeper, Mr. Davies. He has prepared the estate for our arrival. Several new staff members have been hired, of course,” Jonathon explained. “I will take care of some of the more delicate arrangements myself, once we arrive, but I believe everything will be quite smooth.”

“Good,” Tristan replied absently, as he once again stared out the window into the night.

Arienna walked slowly down the old dirt path, through the overgrown trees adorned with raindrops glistening in the full moon’s beams, the winter chill passing through her red coat to tingle over her porcelain skin. She stopped, her sea-green eyes focused intently on the darkness around her, her ears absorbing the night song of the creatures around her. She listened closely, her ears creating the picture that her eyes could not see. Crickets softly chirped all around her as if singing her nerves calm. Frogs croaked further in the distance to her right, the smell of fresh water flaring through her nostrils. An owl swooped by her left causing leaves to rustle, shrieking a warning to all in its path. Then, as if responding to the owl’s caution, a lone howl ripped through the forest, silencing everything that inhabited it.

The sudden silence sent chills up her spine. Arienna began to run blindly from fear, her heart pounding in her ears as her feet hit the forest floor heavily. Naked branches scratched over her body, yet she sped up her pace, a cold chill running through her body. Within seconds she had found her way to the creek. The full moon reflected from the rippling water illuminating the creek and the bank in an enchanting light. Yet there was silence. She walked hesitantly over to the water, removing her cloak to see herself in reflection. Her light blonde hair fell softly over her shoulders to rest upon her chest in gentle waves. Her skin so pale in comparison to the darkness around her seemed to enlighten around her, accenting her eyes in almost hypnotic proportions. Her breasts heaved against the tight restrains of the ruby red corset she wore, laced with black silk which fell upon the ruffled skirt that flowed softly from her hips. She stared in wonder at the woman in the water, she hardly recognised herself. She seemed so beautiful, so angelic, almost beyond anything she remembered feeling before.

The breaking of twigs from behind her broke her trance, yet she remained still. Arienna listened attentively as she heard footsteps move closer; her heart beat beginning to race again as the hairs on her neck stood on end. Her senses went in to overdrive detecting the power from the being behind her. She heard every breath it took; deep, calm and controlled. She smelt the familiar scent of danger and power. She even felt the power radiate from the being behind her forcing her to stand up straight anxiously. Yet she did not turn around…she knew who it was, she could sense it.

The being moved closer to stand behind her, a warm hand reaching out to her right shoulder. Her heart thudded in her chest, her breath quickening as the hand explored her skin slowly, tracing across her shoulder, up along her slender neck, across her sensitive earlobe brushing away her golden locks to reveal her neck to his hungry eyes. He leant in closer, his breath moist against her skin causing her to shiver. His lips glided softly across her shoulder, up her neck to nestle under her ear. He nuzzled his nose against her possessively, taking in her scent as a deep moan rumbled in his chest. She leant her head against his; enjoying the feeling he seemed to uproar deep within her…the feeling so dark, so primitive, so primal. His hands now moved over her neck to her chin, tilting her gaze to meet his…his gaze shadowed with a need that fuelled her own…his eyes reflecting her own desires. He leaned in closer, taking her lips upon his and kissing her deeply, passionately, primitively, the force taking her breath away. She moaned softly as his name left her lips…”Tristan!”

~*^*~

Arienna bolted upright, her breath staggered, her heart raced as she awoke from her dream. Her eyes scanned the dark room in which she lay as her mind desperately tried to rid herself of her dream. She had had that very dream just last full moon, and the name shook her to her very core even then. Yet the name remained a mystery. She had never known anyone by the name nor remembered anyone with such icy cold crystal clear eyes. Yet in her dream the man was more than real, and in her dreaming state she knew him tenderly and affectionately.

A heavy knock at her door startled Arienna from her thoughts. She cautiously made her way to the door, wrapping her blanket tightly around her shoulders in an attempt to beat the sudden chill. Hesitantly she opened the door to find a man hidden within a dark leather cloak.

“Miss Warlow?” Despite the harshness of his voice, his deep brown eyes took her in carefully, before his lips curled into a gentle smile. “Miss Arienna Warlow?”

“Yes.” Her voice was horse yet remained sweet and light despite her startled state. “What on earth has you beating down my door at this hour?”

“Please forgive me, but time isn’t a luxury I carry with me at current.” Arienna cautiously studied the man before her as he removed his hood. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, his face gentle and warm, sporting several signs of his mature age. He carried no weapon that she could see, only a small leather satchel that sat snugly against his body. “Miss Warlow? May you be so kind as to let me in?”

“Yes, of course.” She opened the door and let him inside. He took several moments to look around her small cottage. He walked over to the small table in the far corner, his hands gingerly running over her mortar and pastel, vials, and several plants before he finally turned to speak.

“I am Mr. Davies. I have come on behalf of my employer.” Arienna gestured for him to sit at the small oak table, and he smiled warmly before taking his seat. “He has sent me to ask for your unique services.”

Arienna tensed and sat upright in her chair, her eyes intent on the man before her. “My unique services, Mr. Davies?” He nodded simply.

“Yes. Your gift of curing ailments is renowned amongst us simple folk. It is that in which he seeks.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Davies, but it seems your employer would be best to seek a doctor from the city. My work is simple and often seen as uneducated and outdated by those such as your employer.”

“Indeed. But his illness, from what little I know, isn’t common. Besides – he asked for you specifically.”

Arienna stood from the table and moved towards her table of work. She was known around the small farming town for her potions and remedies, the villagers often finding their way up to her isolated cottage in the forest to seek her advice. Yet she remained an outcast; the result of the legacy of her ancestors. Her family, for generations, were associated with the dark rumours of witches, warlocks and the dark magic. Arienna had come to the conclusion that these rumours were merely based on fear of the unknown, for their remedies often worked but had no religious reasoning. Her family were nothing more than herbologists; living off the land, experimenting with the healing powers of the flora and fauna in which they lived. Yet they were often chased from their humble homes to live a life of solitude for fear of being torched. That very fear was bestowed upon her since she was a child. She had only ever known the company of her mother and father, and when they passed just last summer, she has spent her time alone.

Arienna sighed deeply, her eyes returning to the gentleman at her dining table. “Mr. Davies, you must understand that I find this whole situation rather uncomfortable.”

He simply nodded, the warm smile returning to this lips as he regarded her nervousness. “Of course. I was merely sent to retrieve you so my employer could speak with you. If you do decide to take up the offer, you will be payed. You will be given a room in his home while you attend his needs. In your spare time you will have free range of the servants, gardens and surrounding forests to continue your research until such a time that the Lord returns to his health.”

The man stood from his chair and made his way slowly to her side. He extended his hand to her shoulder as Arienna’s eyes reflected her inner battle of the current situation.

“Please, Miss Warlow? It is merely a meeting. You have nothing to fear, you will be treated with the utmost care.”

Another sigh escaped her lips and she nodded feebly.

“Thank you, my employer will be so pleased. I will wait outside for you to change and we will be on our way.” With another smile, the man left her cottage, closing the door with a soft thud. Arienna looked about her small cottage once more, the loneliness seemingly echoed throughout. While nervous, the idea of having some company was an intriguing idea to her. Since the passing of her parents her heart yearned for company, the deadly silence of her home often reduced her to tears. And the opportunity to develop her work whilst getting paid was definitely an additional benefit.

Several moments later Arienna walked from the small cottage. Mr. Davies made his way to her side, taking the two, small leather suitcases from her grip and placed them on top of the carriage. She turned once more to take in the view of her small cottage and the surrounding forest before Mr. Davies escorted her into the carriage and closed the door behind her. Within moments the sound of hooves echoed throughout the silence of the night. She sat nervously in the carriage, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Surely she wouldn’t regret the decision to meet this Lord...

“Mr. Davies...I don’t believe you told me who your employer was...”

“Lord Rousseau...Lord Tristan Rousseau.”

"We should be arriving within the hour, my lord," Jonathon announced when he noticed that Tristan had awakened from his slumber. "Just after the sun has set," he added, his voice somewhat tentative.

The carriage ride from London to the southern coast of Wales had taken several days and both Tristan and his companion were growing restless. Tristan was tempted to take a peek out at the countryside but he could still see the sunlight rimming the edges of the shades that were pulled down over the windows. Ever since he'd become sick, he had been forced to avoid the sunlight. Even the slightest exposure could cause his skin to begin to burn, and leave him bedridden for days, too weak and too naseous to stand.

"Do you need something to drink?" Jonathon asked as Tristan sat up straighter in his seat and rubbed his eyes.

"No. I'm fine," Tristan replied. "I am anxious to be out of this god forsaken carriage though."

"Agreed," Jonathon said. He paused for a moment studying his master's face. "You were calling her name again."

Caroline. Poor, beautiful Caroline. Tristan didn't respond to Mr. Pembroke's comment accept with a slight nod of his head. He couldn't deny that he'd dreamed of her again. He'd done so every night since it had happened, since he'd awakened in his bed to find her cold, lifeless body next to his. They hadn't been lovers, so finding the lovely young woman in his bed had been a shock of its own, but when he saw the marks on her neck, the taste of blood still fresh in his mouth...on his lips. He knew what he had done. He knew he couldn't stay in London. He knew he couldn't be trusted to control the strange desires that now gripped him.

"You never told me what you did with her body," Tristan remarked, glancing up at the man across from him.

"Nor will I tell you now," Jonathon said. "You bare enough guilt already. It was an accident. You couldn't control yourself. You were...you are sick."

Tristan stared at Mr. Pembroke for a moment before his gaze finally dropped, "It was my fault, sick or not, and I fear her death will haunt me for the rest of my life. I cannot lose control like that again. I will not." Despite his last words, Tristan was filled with doubt. Doubt and fear.

The remainder of the trip passed in silence. The hints of yellow sunlight around the edges of the carriage windows soon turned to reds, oranges and purples, before fading entirely to a foreboding darkness. When the carriage finally stopped and Tristan stepped out, the full moon held sway over the sky and a handful of torches lit the entranceway of the manor.

Tristan stepped away from the carriage, grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs. Several servants appeared, hustling toward the carriage to assist in unloading the baggage. As Jonathon gave them a few quick instructions, Tristan allowed himself a moment to study the ancient stone structure before him. It's walls covered in thick green ivy, the castle seemed more foreboding than he remembered, lifeless and silent, a mere skeleton of the vibrant estate from his youth.

"It appears the Vale reflects my very soul," Tristan muttered to himself as Mr. Pembroke joined him.

"Did you say something?" Jonathon asked as he ushered Tristan toward the main entrance.

"It was nothing," he replied dismissively.

"The servants will see to the bags," Jonathon explained as they stepped through the grey, stone doorway. "Your things will be waiting for you in the master bedroom, along with several bottles of...wine. But first, I thought we would take a moment and introduce ourselves to Mr. Davies and the healer that he has employed."

"Of course," Tristan said with a nod as they stepped into a large open room, dimly lit by candles. The candlelight seemed to dance across the walls and furniture like darkly contorted sprites. A door to a small study opened to the right and a man of middle years appeared, escorting a young woman.

"Lord Rousseau, it is a great privelege to have you return to the Vale. Welcome," Mr. Davies said, bowing to Tristan. "Please allow me to introduce, Miss Arienna Warlow."

Hours flowed seamlessly into the next, the gentle rocking of the carriage and the echo of hooves only served to heighten Arienna’s anxiety. She was tired, her eyelids heavy and her body weak from exhaustion, but the name wouldn’t let her rest...wouldn’t let her relax. Destiny had a cruel and torturous way of playing her. She had dreamt the death of both her parents; every violent, gruesome detail painted clearly in her mind for months before the men finally broke down the small wooden door and slaughtered them both. She watched in stunned horror as every detail from her dream was played into life; her mother’s agonising pleas and her father’s brutal bellows rang in her ears, yet, just as in her dream, she was unable to do a thing. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t think. She could only watch, clinging to the leg of the bed under which she hid until the men left blood-soaked, her parents’ bodies still warmth with life laid mutilated on the cold, stone floor.

Just as then, destiny seemed to be playing with her again, giving her the smallest glimpse into her future and a name that haunted her. It sent chills of fear and pleasure down her spine and into her very soul...’Tristan...Tristan Rousseau’. Arienna clasped her hands on her lap, her fear beginning to show in the tremble of her delicate fingers. The dream played havoc in her mind. Had she dreamt the last moments of her life? Was she to die at the hand of Tristan Rousseau?

Before she could continue her thoughts, the carriage came to a steady holt. Voices and footsteps rustled outside the carriage until the door swung open, revealing her destination to her eyes. The moon peaked shyly from behind the large stone castle, bathing it in a silvery veil. Vines clung decoratively to the walls amongst the large wooden windows, the faint glow of candles highlighting several rooms in use. Arienna took a deep, controlled breath, wrapping her cloak around her body as the night air stung her bare skin. Yet she remained speechless. The building before her; while it extravagantly exuded an overpowering sense authority and wealth; seemed cold, isolated and unforgiving. Another small shiver wrecked through her body as her fear, once again, came foremost to her mind.

A soft touch on her shoulders brought her eyes from the building to the stone path before her. Mr Davies slowly guided her, his palm on her shoulders while the other held an oil lantern to guide their way up to the grand wooden doors. He spoke softly to her, but his voice was nothing more than a murmur she was unable to focus upon. Her mind spun with violent possibilities, painting her psyche with brutal images of her possible death within the walls before her. She closed her eyes yet the images continued, the hand on her shoulders softly pushing her up the stone stairs and through the open wooden doors. She needed to run, be as far away from here as possible, to be free of the dream that haunted her...free of the man that held her fate in his hands. Her heart began to race as her body tensed, her breath coming in short, panicked pants as she was guided into a small room.

A strange warmth rushed over her body and she opened her eyes hesitantly to see the warm, caring and worrying gaze of Mr. Davies. His lips moved slowly, yet she couldn’t make out his words. Shaking her head, she willed herself calm, desperate for control of her own mind and body.

His voice slowly came into focus...”Miss Warlow? Are you alright, dear one?”

“Ye...yes Mr. Davies. I am but tired; nothing a little rest won’t cure.” Her voice, despite her best efforts, was hoarse and soft. Yet the gentle man smiled softly before releasing his grip on her shoulders, seemingly content with her explanation. He moved swiftly to the small fire place, poking the wood as the flames leapt higher. Her eyes slowly roamed around the small space. A dark wooden desk sat before her, a large window located behind with the decorative silk curtains closed from the midnight sky. The room remained dark, the only light coming from the dwindling fire of the fireplace. Two brown leather chairs and a red leather chaise sat before the small fireplace, an extravagant white fur rug nestled below. Bookcases adorned the walls, filled with novels, encyclopaedias, dictionaries, texts on every subject the mind could conjure. In the corner, huddled away from site, a large object remained hidden below a white sheet.

Mr. Davies made his way out of the room, his voice still audible through the large door as he spoke orders to maid. Slowly Arienna made her way to the covered object, her fingers delicately roaming the surface before pulling the sheet away. Despite her current frayed state of mind, Arienna couldn’t help the small smile that crept to her lips as she let her fingers trail slowly over the small piano before her. Why on earth would they hide such a beautiful instrument? Hesitantly she dragged the small stool from under the piano, her ears intent on any movement from the other side of the door. Content that she was safe, she sat and lifted the lid to reveal the beautiful ivory keys below. Her fingers gingerly glided over the smooth keys, memories of her mother assaulted her as she slowly, softly began to play her mother’s favourite tune: Au Clair de la Lune.

The closing of the door startled Arienna, and she jumped from the stool, turning on her heels to find Mr. Davies smiling warmly at her. A deep blush raced to her cheeks as her mind frantically searched for words to explain her curiosity.

Instead, Mr. Davies moved to her side, sighed softly before lowering the case back upon the keys. “It was a gift for Lady Rousseau. Lord Rousseau had it especially made for his wife on the dawn of the birth of his first son...Master Tristan Rousseau.” He spoke with a deep longing and sorrow. “Alas, these cold walls haven’t heard such music since she passed away.” He took her hands and gently guided her to the red chaise, removing her cloak before moving to place it on a small wooden stand.

“I fear, Miss Warlow, that your curiosity may get the better of you here. These walls have seen a great many tragedies, and in my experience, it is best that they remain silent and untouched.” He slowly walked towards her, his eyes still warm and gentle, and she nodded her understanding before moving to warm her hands by the fire. The middle-aged man slowly made his way to her side, his gaze upon the fire as intense as the flames themselves.

“Mr. Davies...I am so sorry, I was unaware of the importance of...”

“Shh, dear Arienna...” He spoke softly, yet his eyes remained intent on the flames, “It was a joy to hear a soft melody resonate from the instrument once again.”

Before Arienna could continue, the small wooden door creaked open. A middle-aged man made his way through the door, escorting a younger gentleman who was immaculately dressed but appeared weak and pale despite the dim lighting of the room. Mr. Davies made his way swiftly to greet them, his bow deep before speaking.

"Lord Rousseau, it is a great privilege to have you return to the Vale. Welcome," Mr. Davies turned to the younger man, nodding and bowing before guiding Arienna gently to his side. "Please allow me to introduce, Miss Arienna Warlow."

Arienna couldn’t breathe, her breath momentarily caught in her throat as she gazed upon to two men before her. The middle-aged man was tall but lean, his long black hair tired neatly at the nape of his neck, his attire clean and cut well to sit upon his body sharply. His deep, dark brown eyes studied her intently, his brow furrowed in contemplation. She had seen many of his type on her few trips to the city. He was upper-class if ever she saw one, his very posture and aura resonated propriety and class. Arienna slowly brought her gaze to the weakened young man to his side. He was taller than his companion, but seemingly broader in the shoulders. His very complexion sent shivers down her spine; he was paler than death itself and his large hand shook either from the cold or weakness, she wasn’t sure. She slowly brought her eyes up his body; he was dressed in the latest city trends, immaculately hand-crafted attire that sat snugly against his form. His long brown hair was tied to the nape of his neck; a few strands fell from the leather tie to fall about his pale face. Yet, it was his eyes that shocked her, left her speechless. His cold, icy gaze shot through her and left her breathless; the blue orbs seemingly searching her soul for answers she didn’t know. Images of her dream flashed before her mind’s eye, and she curtsied quickly, tearing her eyes away from his in an attempt to rid herself of the dream’s torment.

She remained low until a warm hand found hers and pulled her to stand. The middle-aged man slowly brought her hand to his lips, his smile broadening as he observed her discomfort. “I am Mr. Pembroke. I am Lord Rousseau’s personal servant.” He gave Arienna’s hand a soft kiss before extending to stand upright. His eyes, unlike previously, now shone with hope and confidence, his gazing never leaving hers as his brow furrowed once again as if in thought. “Mr. Davies, if you will, we have some private matters to attend to. Please take Miss. Warlows’ luggage to her sleeping quarters?”

With another deep bow, Mr. Davies was gone, leaving her alone in the study with her possibly new employers. Mr. Pembroke guided her gently to the leather chair by the fire, he taking a seat by her side while the young lord sat weakly on the chaise in front of her. Arienna kept her gaze low; she didn’t want to see those brilliant blue orbs, to succumb to their icy chill any more than what she had to. Instead she kept her gaze on her lap, her fingers entwined within each other as she fiddled nervously with the lace of her dress. The silence was chilling, and despite the warm fire that blazed by her side, Arienna found herself trembling slightly. Eventually Mr. Pembroke spoke; her eyes finding his, the sudden huskiness of his voice caused her intuition to peak.

From the instant that Tristan’s crystal blue eyes fell upon the young Miss Warlow, he felt stricken, what little color had been left in his cheeks drained away, his knees weakening beneath him. Images flashed through his conscious mind, striking his body with an intensity bordering on brutality; images buried deep within his memory, now brought to the surface, apparently, by the sight of the healer. The images were too fractured, the flashes too brief for him to recognize. He could find no clarity in them, and yet each seemed to brim with power and emotion. As he struggled to remain standing, Tristan was aware of Jonathon speaking, dismissing Mr. Davies. Grateful for one less set of eyes upon him, he somehow managed to reach a nearby seat and collapse into it, sitting askew. He pulled a small, white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his brow, his breathing shallow and labored. He was aware of Mr. Pembroke and Miss Warlow sitting across from him, but was unable to focus his eyes or his thoughts on them.

The images continued to pound into his mind, one after the other, burning themselves into his consciousness. Pain flared through his entire body as he tried desperately to shut the thoughts out, to force them back down into the darkness from whence they came. To no avail, it seemed, for they came again and again. Taking a deep breath, Tristan closed his eyes for a moment. If he couldn’t shut the images out, he would do his best to embrace them, so that he might somehow understand them. In the darkness of his mind, the images shone a bright red; a crimson red. There was a rose, a white, white rose floating on a darkened pool, and then it was gone, replaced by another image; the full moon shining through a forest canopy, the sound of a wolf howling. The last image was a woman with blond hair…covered in blood, but the young lord was unable to decipher who the woman was, her face turned away from his gaze. Was it Caroline again, the nightmares come back to haunt Tristan now, even in his waking mind? Or was it the young woman who sat before him, looking so uncomfortable, so timid, her hands clasped in front of her? Was it not the sight of her that had triggered the painful images? But who was she that he should react so?

Taking several deep breaths, Tristan was finally able to regain enough composure to reopen his eyes and sit up slightly. The images were slowly fading, allowing him to take a tenuous grip on his surroundings. Slowly he became aware that someone was speaking. It was Jonathon, speaking to the young woman who sat across from him. Tristan latched onto the sound of the man’s voice, clutching to it desperately in an attempt to regain his composure.

“…weakness in his muscles. His skin is noticeably paler and often cool to the touch as well,” Mr. Pembroke said, clearly listing some of the symptoms that Tristan had begun to display. Jonathon’s voice was even and calm, betraying no hint of concern except perhaps to the most perceptive of listeners, his face steady, almost dispassionate. It was his hands that hinted at the depth of his anxiety, clenched together tightly, his knuckles white.

“There is also the matter of his sensitivity to sunlight, a sensitivity that seems to have developed almost overnight,” Jonathon continued. And don’t forget the blood, my dear Mr. Pembroke, the constant craving for blood, Tristan thought to himself as he shifted his focus to Miss Warlow. She was quite attractive, her blond hair and pale complexion accentuating the beauty and depth of her eyes. There was an intelligence in her eyes, in the way she held herself, but more than that…a wariness, as if at any moment she might bolt away like a rabbit in the brush. Tristan couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take before something would startle her and send her running into the night…running away from him.

“Will you help me, Miss Warlow?” Tristan finally spoke, his eyes studying her face. “I need your help, Arienna.”

Arienna listened intently, her mind and intuition dancing frantically within her head as Mr. Pembroke listed off several of the lords’ most concerning symptoms. Whilst she remained intent that she wasn’t an expert on the recent developments in medicinal affairs, she couldn’t help the peak of her curiosity at the unusual sensitivity to sunlight that the ill lord had developed. She had seen her fair share of diverse illnesses from the village people; skin ailments, infected wounds, the common problems associated with pregnancy, and seasonal diseases. But nothing in her memory of such a predicament associated with the sun. Something about the situation wasn’t making sense and it caused every hair on the back of her neck to stand on edge.

Arienna let her emerald eyes take in Mr. Pembroke, silently searching for any clues that would settle her uneasiness. His voice was calm and even, yet soft and lined with a huskiness that seemed to accentuate the secretiveness to his current state. His brown eyes gazed upon hers with confidence and radiated with a strange sense strength and knowledge, but she couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of detachment as he continued to talk softly. His breathing was calm and his entire physique poised with an elegance that only came from years of etiquette training and service. By every obvious inclination the man was at ease and in complete control. However, his hands told a very different story. They were restless and clutched tightly in his lap, his knuckles tensed so tightly they appeared as white as the ill man to her side. The more she observed and let him speak, the more she was certain that he and his employer were hiding a very dangerous truth which was obviously affecting the lord as each day passed. So much so that he appeared to be close to death.

“Will you help me, Miss Warlow?”

Arienna’s eyes shot away from Mr. Pembroke and settled upon the ill lord. His voice was strained and very weak yet the deepness shot through her conscious mind like a bullet to her heart. She sat in stunned awe as the fire flickered a soft glow upon his face. His brow was bathed in a sheen of sweat, his jaw clenched tightly causing the veins of his neck to press against his pale skin. His skin seemed far paler than what she knew was healthy for a man and his eyes, despite the cool harshness of the blue orbs, seemed dull and empty of life. A small ache radiated from her chest as the realisation of his current health entered her mind. He wasn’t going to live much longer in his current state. He needed help, that much was clear, but it seemed that he needed the aid of someone far more intelligent and knowledgeable of medicine than her humble potions and remedies.

“I need your help, Arienna.”

His plea rendered her paralysed. Her soul yearned to help him, ease his pain no matter what the costs and comfort him in hopes of bringing him back from the current illness that was threatening his life. But she couldn’t help the small voice of her psyche that screamed of a hidden danger. Her tiny fingers gripped the lace of her dress tightly as she attempted to hide her current nervousness. She wanted nothing more than to run; be free of this haunting house and the dangerous aura that radiated from the ill lord before her and be back within the warm walls of her beloved home. But his plea continued to ring in her ears, his eyes silently begging for her aid, his soul seemingly tearing at hers to free him from his agony. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths in a futile attempt to will her nerves to calm to a state where she could at least think clearly.

“I fear, Master Rousseau, that your faith in my abilities is misguided. I am not a healer, nor a doctor in any sense of the word.” Arienna opened her eyes and studied the lord closely. What little hope that was alight in his eyes had now faded. Her heart lurked painfully and she felt the need to explain herself more clearly. “My work stems from generations of knowledge of herbal remedies and potions to aid the body to heal and recover. Your illness is far beyond anything I have ever heard of. I do not know the current science of medicine nor do I have the knowledge of doctors who have studied the human body in great detail. I fear my limited knowledge would only serve to bring upon your death more swiftly.”

Arienna turned her attentions to Mr. Pembroke as her mind swam with unanswered questions and silent subconscious warnings. “Have you not sought out a doctor?”

Her question was met with a deadly silence of almost deafening proportions. But before she could investigate the sudden silence she was met with, her attention was drawn swiftly to the ill lord. Arienna promptly pounced from her chair and kneeled by Tristan, who was now struggling to reach the fallen handkerchief that had fallen upon the floor. She gracefully picked up the white cloth and placed it gingerly in his trembling hand. A sudden chill rushed through her body as her fingertips brushed softly against Tristan’s palm.

Instinctively she pulled her palm away, her eyes widening in shock at how cold he truly was. He was as cold as ice itself and just that smallest touched made her very soul seemingly freeze over. She watched as Tristan’s fingers slowly gripped the small cloth, his eyes twitching at the small amount of effort. Suddenly his eyes blanked over, his facial features drooping into a dreamy gaze. His body suddenly became limp and fell forward, Arienna swiftly capturing him as she knelt by his side. She gasped at the sudden weight she was bearing and despite the constant chill that ran through her spine she gripped him tightly by his ribs.

Mr. Pembroke jumped from his chair to grip his employee by the shoulders. He worryingly looked at Arienna, his eyes silently begging for her aid.

“Mr. Pembroke? Will you please fetch my small leather case from my quarters? It is black and has an ivory handle. Be quick!” She watched as the man looked at her hesitantly before dashing from her side and out the door, his footsteps could be heard as he ran. Her attention was once again brought back to the unconscious lord that was threatening to push her completely to the floor. It took all her strength to push his chest up and back to rest against the back of the chair. Her hands gently cupped his jaw, tilting his head so that it was level with hers. Her heart began to pump wildly in her chest as her mind fought off the idea that the lord had just...no, she couldn’t allow herself to think such thoughts. She gingerly stroked her delicate fingers over his cheeks, as she whispered softly in a desperate plea...

“My lord? Wake up, please? Open your eyes...look at me...look at me Tristan.”