Promises - Part 6

The continuation of my NaNoWriMo 2005 novel, Promises.

         Haydn had been awake for some time, and yet the dream hadn’t ended. He was still watching it play out in his mind’s eye as though it were the first time he’d seen it. But he knew how it ended. But still he was being made to watch. Was it a punishment? he asked himself. What else could it be? But what part of him felt he needed to suffer so by making him remember what had happened? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
         He watched himself carry Rhiannon’s body through the sewers, wandering for what felt like hours until he picked up on the familiar scent of the safehouse. It was night time when he reached the building, though come to think of it he didn’t know what time it was when he set out carrying his dying friend in his arms. Friend. She truly was that, at least now. But anyway, now it was night, so he risked being seen since he knew he wouldn’t be able to lift her weight in his own shape and size. Rhiannon was a large woman, nearly all muscle, and more or less the opposite of Haydn, who was short and fairly scrawny. Above ground at last, Haydn ducked into the back door of the brick apartment complex that served as the safehouse for them and others like them.
         The door was nearly kicked off its hinges when he entered, but those who happened to be in the lobby didn’t ask any questions of him. They were moving even before Haydn could give the low whine that was the signal for help. No doubt they could see how bad off she was, even from that distance. Somewhere, someone called to him, and he responded on autopilot, taking Rhiannon wherever they gestured him, laying her down on the bed they pointed to. It seemed like so many people were milling around in there, though someone would tell him later that there hadn’t been all that many, and all Haydn could do was shrink slowly back to his normal size, letting his clothing reappear from within the tufts of chocolate brown fur.
         A hand was on his shoulder then, pushing him gently back out the door, which closed behind him before he registered that he had moved. There was a chair behind him and he stumbled back into it, apparently at the desire of whoever’s soft touch had ushered him out of the newly designated triage. A stabbing pain shot through his leg, bringing Haydn immediately back to the present where he found himself staring down at an aging woman with silver flecks woven into her dark hair. She was dabbing the wound on his leg. She looked up at him somewhat apologetically when he flinched.
         “This ain’t too bad,” she said as she began to unwind a roll of gauze around his leg. “Barely anything to—”
         He glanced down at his arm and noticed that it was already bandaged. He hadn’t noticed her do that. “Is she alright?” he asked, ignoring the woman’s statements entirely and turning to look off toward the closed door.
         “I couldn’t say from out here,” she replied, tying the ends of the bandage tightly. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Haydn. “She didn’t look too good. What happened, kid?”
         Haydn’s eyes didn’t leave the closed door. “She was shot.”
         “Yeah, I saw that. But how’d it happen?”
         “Silver.” Still staring at the door, unblinking. “They shot her with silver.”
         The woman shook her head and pushed herself to her feet with a quiet grunt. Without another word, she walked away, leaving Haydn to stare blankly toward where he’d left Rhiannon in the care of their healers. With anatomy like theirs, normal hospitals and doctors couldn’t be used. It would call too much attention to them. So every safehouse had their own doctor; a couple of them if they were lucky. Growing up as werewolves, most took it upon themselves to learn at least a little medicine. Being built for battle as they were, they tended to find themselves in need of medical care on a fairly regular basis. Luckily for them, part of the werewolf curse, or gift as most called it, was unnaturally quick healing. From everything but silver. That damned lunar metal… It was the source of far too much trouble for their kind.
         It was a long time, or at least it seemed so to Haydn, before that door opened again. His muddy-brown hair was ruffled atop his head, but he didn’t bother to smooth it out before hobbling into the room where Rhiannon lay alone, now that everyone else had filed out, mumbling of there being nothing else to be done. He pulled a chair from the far corner of the room, dragging it across the floor to right beside the bed, where he sat and looked over her. They had pulled a blanket over her, so Haydn couldn’t see the bandages that were already beginning to be stained with blood.
         A groan came from her, and Haydn realized he had no idea how long he had been sitting there staring off into space. An hour? More? He shook his head and turned his gaze back to Rhiannon, who was looking up at him through half-closed eyes. “The others?” Her voice was faint; it hardly sounded like her at all. Haydn swallowed hard and shook his head. Her emerald eyes slowly glanced about the room. It took a moment before there was a look of recognition in her face. “How did we…?”
         Haydn wet his mouth, which had become so dry in the time that had passed unnoticed. “You killed the rest of the guards,” he said, leaning forward in the chair a little to speak confidentially to her. “Then I… I, uh, found the right lever to shut down that corridor. Greg…” He took a deep breath, preparing to tell Rhiannon his second lie. “He had the wrong one.” A moment passed as he guaged her reaction before he continued, “I carried you here. We’re in the safehouse.”
         “You… didn’t leave me behind.” It was more of a statement, but she asked the question with her eyes. Why?
         Haydn slid his hand gently onto her arm. “You saved me, Rhiannon. I would have died there if you hadn’t been there. I couldn’t leave you behind.”
         “Well.” A weak smile crossed her pale pink lips. “I would have died… if you hadn’t been there.” A chuckle turned into a slight cough, but she soon continued. “So I guess I can’t leave you behind either.” Haydn couldn’t help but share her smile.
         “We’re unstoppable together,” he joked, giving her arm a light squeeze.
         Her smile broadened a little bit, even as her eyes closed completely. “So you won’t be wandering off without me?”
         Haydn shook his head. “Never.” Rhiannon’s breathing slowed until her chest was rising and falling beneath the blanket in a steady rhythm. “I promise.”


         The cool night air surrounded Isolde as she walked back to her small apartment. The breeze caressed her cheeks; the feeling only making her clench her fists harder. A voice somewhere behind her stopped her before she could set her foot down in its next step.
         “So you’re going to do it then?”
         Familiarity cascaded through Isolde’s mind and, were her heart still able to beat, it would have skipped straight up into her throat at the sound of that voice. That voice that she hadn’t heard in far too long. She turned around slowly, hoping that it was a figment of her imagination, her mind playing cruel tricks on her, and that there was truly no one behind her. Especially not him. Her eyes traveled down the dark street as far as she could see, but there was no one there save the odd middle-class employee heading home after a late night at the office. She let herself relax a little, chiding herself for such a foolish reaction. Of course it wouldn't be him. It was impossible, or at least nearly so, after all these years. But when she turned again to continue on her way, she almost screamed as she found herself suddenly staring into his eyes. Tristan.
         “You’re going to do what they asked?” His eyes were a deep golden color which stood out very sharply against his hair. It was as black as pitch and would have fallen onto his shoulders if he ever chose to leave it loose, which he never did. He was wearing an expensive looking suit, dark grey with barely visible pinstripes. And he was smiling. “It’s been a long time, Isolde,” he said, not waiting for her answer.
         Not long enough. She recoiled a little when he reached for her hand. It was a reaction that seemed to give him no small amount of amusement. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrowed on him as she spoke and she could feel that every nerve in her body was on edge.
         “Is that all the greeting I get?” He chuckled a little. That voice; so calm, deep, soothing. It only made her cringe now, but long ago… long ago it had a far different effect on her.
         “What the fuck are you doing here?”
         “Just paying you a visit,” he replied, and most of the humor fell out of his voice. Isolde continued to eye him skeptically.
         “How did you know about that?” When he gave her a quizzical look, she continued, “You asked if I was going to do what they asked. How do you know about that?”
         The man’s eyes drifted over his shoulder for a moment, as though he was concerned about someone listening it. “Is there somewhere we could go to talk?” Her arms folded themselves defiantly over her chest. “I’m being serious, Isolde,” he said. “You really want me to tell you what I know in the middle of the street?” He had a point. Damn him. With a resigned sort of sigh, she nodded. Brushing past him without a word, Isolde led him the remaining few blocks to her apartment.
         Once they were inside with the door closed firmly behind her, she stared over at the man she hadn’t seen in at least three centuries. “Now answer me this time. How did you know about that?” She kept her eyes trained on him as he moved through her living room, glancing about at the furniture and scattered belongings. When he stopped to look in the box that had arrived that evening, Isolde cleared her throat loudly, recapturing his attention.
         “You remember who those men are, don’t you?” His eyes were on hers now, and Isolde strengthened her resolve to not look away.
         “I remember. The Sacred Order—”
         “Of Lazarus, yes. Good. I was worried you were walking into this blind.” He unbuttoned his suit coat and sat down, crossing his legs and resting his hand on his ankle. “The you also remember what they’re capable of.”
         “Yes, I know, Tristan,” she said, her voice rising in volume. “They could have killed me just then and they’ll kill Liam if I don’t do what they want me to, ok?” Liam. She tried not to think about him, but there he was in her mind, on his knees, praying for forgiveness. Pretending to, at least. She flinched—even now she flinched—when she remembered how they struck him. How they’d beaten him until he had fallen silent again. When she had finally turned and left the church, he still hadn’t moved.
         “So you’re going to do what they asked?” It was the third time he had asked her that question, and it was really beginning to grate on her nerves. As was the fact that he hadn’t answered any of her questions yet.
         “Yes!” she practically shouted back. “What choice do I have?” Tristan’s eyes seemed to cloud in the moment before they looked away from Isolde. Her back stiffened as she realized what he must have been thinking. “Now tell me how you know about all this.” She did want to know, but now she wanted more to cover that horrid silence.
         “I tracked you down, Isolde. I’ve been trying to live without you.” His gaze shifted back to her, but she was already moving, beginning to pace uncomfortably.
         “Dammit, Tristan…”
         “I’m serious.” She turned to look at him again and she could see the pain buried in his golden eyes. “I tried. Not like before when I… Not like then, Isolde. But these last three hundred and fifty-six years I’ve really been trying.” He pushed himself to his feet and took a couple steps toward her, but all Isolde could focus on was that he knew how long it had been. He knew exactly how long it had been. “Do you know how long three hundred and fifty-six years can be? I can’t imagine that you do, since you’ve been able to spend all that time with the one you love.” He was standing in the middle of her living room, staring at her pathetically. She couldn’t bear for him to continue on like this.
         “That explains why you’re here,” she blurted out quickly. “But not how you know about the Order?”
         Tristan cleared his throat. “I would have thought that was obvious, Isolde. I was following you. I snuck inside the building and overheard what happened. Do you have it?” Slowly, Isolde’s hand slid into the pocket of her long, black coat and withdrew a stoppered vial. She held it up to the light and looked at the faint blue mist contained within. Tristan’s eyes never left her face. “When are you—”
         “I don’t know,” she barked, slipping the small vial carefully back into her pocket. “But it has to be soon. Otherwise…” She silently damned herself for not being able to say it, for not being able to voice what would happen if she failed or if she waited to long. Instead the words simply hung there in her throat just as the image hung in her mind.
         After a moment, Tristan spoke again. “Otherwise Liam will die.” Isolde nodded silently. “Because he needs your blood to survive.” Another nod. “Because he should have died long, long ago, but you’ve kept him alive as your slave.”
         Isolde’s head shot up to send a glare of fury at Tristan. “You bastard!”
         “Is it not the truth?” He held his hands up defensively, as though trying to stave off the anger in her stare. “Because of your stubborn refusal to give him your Kiss, he’s bound to you in this way.”
         “Bastard!” She knew he was right. Somewhere she knew he was right, but she didn’t want to hear it right now. Not from him. Not right now.
         “If you had Turned him, Isolde, he would have been free to stay with you or go away as he chose. But instead you have forced him to stay with you. He’ll die if he tries to leave. He needs you, whether he wants you or not.”
         She felt her hands clenching tightly at her sides. “I refused to curse him!” she screamed. “I refused to condemn him to this existance!”
         “But you’ve taken away his choice, his freedom.”
         “And what do you call what you did to me?”
         It was Tristan’s turn to sharpen his gaze, and the gold of his eyes seemed to flash with a new intensity. “I may not have given you the choice to live as a mortal or to exist forever, but I allowed you your free will. And it was that free will that you exercised when you left me. In your cowardice, your fear of being left alone like you left me, you’ve stripped your lover of his free will.”
         There it went again. That animal she kept chained down inside herself. It was begging to be let out again. I’ll fix it, it was saying. Let me fix it.

To be continued