I gasped for air, a sob bubbling up inside me. I didn’t know why I was crying, but tears bore down on me like an oncoming storm.
“Come,” you said, draping me in your cloak.
“Where are we going?” I asked, already staggering after you. The bodies lying in a desiccated heap around the still-smoldering fire were hideous, but not half as gruesome as what had been done to my entire village, my family.
You shot me a thin smile that made my heart swell.
“Home.”
Your home was half in ruins, covered by the slow creep of ivy and time. It was perched high above the village, in the craggy mountains where few of the common people ever ventured. Crumbling and faded, it looked almost abandoned. But all I saw was splendor. The fine parapets and oak doors and black peering windows. The way the tips of the towers seemed to puncture the grey sky, calling forth thunder and rain.
I began to tremble, looking at that fine house towering over me like it meant to devour me. By that point, the drunkenness of blood and vengeance had worn off. Fear stirred in my stomach.
“It’s yours,” you said, leaning down. You were so tall, and had to bend towards me like a tree in the wind to whisper in my ear. “All within it is yours to command.”
In that moment, my life was not my own any longer. I felt it slipping away from me the way girlhoods must slip from women who are given proper church marriages and cups of communion wine, not bruising kisses and battlefields full of blood.
“I…”
My voice wavered and so did my knees. You must have sensed my weakness. You always did.
You scooped me up into your arms as though I weighed no more than a child and carried me across the threshold. You held me so gently, careful not to grip too hard or leave any bruises. I was more shocked by your tenderness than by your miraculous arrival at the moment of my death. In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to the convenience with which you arrived. There are no angels in this world to accompany the dying in their final moments, only pickpockets and carrion birds.
I want to believe you weren’t just playing your part. I want to believe your kindness was not just another note in the well-rehearsed aria of your seduction, trotted out countless times for countless brides. But I have loved you too long to imagine you do anything without an ulterior motive.
The foyer gaped open in front of me like a hungry maw. Cool shadows fell around us as we crossed the threshold, and the tarnished finery of the home took my breath away. Every detail, from the iron candle sconces on the wall to the brightly colored rugs underfoot, boggled my mind. I had known a very simple existence before then, happy but unadorned. The only gold I had ever seen was the gleaming chalice the priest produced from his sack when he travelled from a nearby city to administer communion twice a year. But now it glinted out at me from nooks and shelves, giving the whole room an air of sacredness.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, tipping my face to follow the line of the rafters until they disappeared into vaulting darkness.
“It’s yours,” you said. No hesitation. Was this the moment we were joined in marriage? Or was it when your blood first spurted into my mouth?
You kissed me coldly and chastely, and then set me down on the floor. Our footsteps reverberated through the house as you lead me towards the stone staircase. You were sure to retrieve a flaming torch from the wall before leading me deeper into the shadows. Already, my ability to see in the dark was better than ever, but I was not as strong as you yet. I still needed the assistance of a little light.
Rooms passed in a blur of grey stone and tapestries. I would come to know them all, in time, but that night I could scarcely tell them apart. The house seemed bottomless, endless. I had never set foot in a building so large, and we seemed to be the only living creatures inside it.
Well. If you can truly call things like us living.
“Are you alone here?” I asked quietly. My filthy feet were leaving a trail of blood and mud on the carpet, and I wondered who would clean it up. “Where are the servants?”
“Fled or dead,” you said, and offered no further explanation. “We ought to get you cleaned up, shouldn’t we?”
You led me into a small room, and methodically began lighting candles. There was a long, shallow brass tub in the middle of the room, with buckets for ferrying water beside it. Tiny bottles of oil and perfume were scattered about on the rug, the kind of bottles one might find in a queen’s bedroom.
“This is for me?” I said quietly. My voice was shaking. My feet stung from the long walk and every muscle in my body sang with the pain of dying slowly into a new life. With my bloodlust spent, I was unsteady on my own two legs. The whole night started to feel like a blurred, ecstatic dream.