PART SIX -- Obsessive Endeavors from The Chair

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Date Posted: 21:02:28 06/11/02 Tue
Author: VoodooDolly
Subject: PART SIX
In reply to: VoodooDolly 's message, "Casualty" on 20:20:15 06/02/02 Sun

Part 6

Without a conscious thought, she moved to Irons, taking his jacket and hanging it respectfully in the closest. Then approached him, stopping to stand by the room�s windows. This was one of the smallest of the house�s bedrooms, but instead of feeling less adequate, it was actually far more comfortable, more intimate.

His voice reflected his expression, tense, �You look upset. Has Ian been filling your head with onus warnings again? I do admit, he has been difficult, lately.� He stepped closer to her, one hand falling gently to her shoulder. �You won�t become difficult with me, will you, darling?�

The impact of the meaning rang through her ears with a certain melancholy.

A weeping willow stood alone at the far end of the yard, the setting sun casting it in an iridescent gold. Its green branches skirting the ground, creating a secret around its trunk.

A safe place.

�What happened between you and my mother?� The words were cracked and soft.

The sanctuary of the tree was invoking the urge to flee, to hide in its darkness.

Peripherally, she was aware of his shrug, the casual movement of his body close to hers. �She worked for me, we became lovers. After a while, she begged to wear the Witchblade, and I let her. Unfortunately, she was a pretender, and she paid the price for it.�

The hand on her shoulder tightened slightly, as if trying to comfort her. Then, slowly, he reached up and stroked one cheek before turning her head to face him.

�I don�t believe you,� the soft voice said. �Why did she come back?�

Soothingly, cooing as he spoke trying to reassure her of something. �Because she couldn�t stay away. She came back for the blade.� Then his eyes narrowed and his tone sounded even wearier

She studied him, saying nothing. His face was lined, liver spots blotching the high, drawn cheekbones. She could feel the pull of the willow, the desire to run and hide growing stronger as she stared into those cool, gray eyes.

�I grow tired of this interrogation.� He drew back, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked away from her.

Smoothing over each word, paying attention to each syllable, �No, you will answer me. I want the truth, I deserve that much.�

He spoke down to her in measure, like he had to Dante the other night. �I will dictate how and what you deserve.�

Her face became red and malformed. She spat out the words. �Answer me!�

For an instant, he stared at her. It was as though time slowed then stopped, freezing them in that place, in that moment.

And it was gone, as though it had never happened.

As though they had never had that conversation.

He was staring at her, his eyes pinning her in place. But his voice was calm, once more pleasant, soothing. Mesmerizing. �You like elegant things, don�t you? Roses? Which do you prefer, my dear � red, yellow, or white?�

There was a gentle shifting of light and shadow across the room as a cloud passed over the full moon � when had night fallen?

�Red,� she answered, but the voice was strange, less her own than the soft one from before. She felt the crush of defeat, but more than that, she felt a
strange dissonance, a blurring of her perceptions.

The sound of his voice stilled her. It was solid, real, something she could focus on. �There is a crystal shop in Manhattan. Tomorrow, I want you to go there. I�ve ordered some special vases, and I want you to pick them up. Take one of the cars.�

He was smiling at her. Charming her.

�I don�t understand.� Time was moving slowly jagged. Like a movie reel running incorrectly.

�I�ve been thinking, dear Eeva, that it is a waste of your intelligence to have you in domestic service. Tomorrow, I would like for you to run a few errands for me. You will have more instructions in the morning.�

She frowned, feeling fuzzy and confused. �Don�t� you have an. . .assistant for
those sorts of things?�

�At the office?� He shook his head. �These are personal things, and Ian is far too busy these days to take care of them.� There was a flash of something in his eyes � or was there? Had it been real or had she imagined it?

She shook herself, trying to overcome the fog that seemed to be clouding her mind.

Then he was speaking again, his voice just a whisper, but once more something tangible, something to focus on. �I am afraid that I can�t trust these sorts of things to anyone but you, my dear.�

Then, meeting her gaze directly, he held out his hand.

Fear. It knifed through her mind, cutting away the fog, the confusion. The call of the willow, the desire to run and hide.

�Eeva? Are you all right?�

It was gone, banished by his voice, his words, his concern.

She moved to him, her body seeming to have its own plan. With each step, she felt the willow recede, the veil of desire descend.

Slowly he started kissing her. It was gentle and smooth. Before she knew it, she was once more in his bed, responding to his needs.

This time it was all tenderness. A leisurely and peaceful sequence of pleasures.

She awoke later, still in his bed. Beside her, he slept deeply, curled under the blankets. In the bright moonlight, his face looked even more lined and drawn, as though their time together had extracted a high price.

Uncomfortable, she rose and dressed, then made her way to the kitchen. Expecting at this late hour to be alone, she was surprised to find Ian already there, cursorily going through the large silver refrigerator. He glanced at her as she entered, his dark eyes taking in her appearance, her tousled hair and wrinkled clothes, but he said nothing.

They shared a very late and very silent dinner, each lost in private reflections.

But as he finished rinsing the dishes and leaving them in the sink, Ian said very evenly, �You should listen to the willow, Eeva.� Then he, too, was gone, leaving her wondering if she had actually heard the words or imagined them.

Throughout the next day, her perceptions fluctuated. Through the fog, she ran his errands, did her duties, occupied her time.

Throughout the day, she had moments of complete clarity, instances when the anger she had felt the night before burned through her, clearing away the false serenity and disorder. As the day progressed, those flashes come more frequently, and lasted longer. By nightfall, she knew she had to talk to him, had to know the truth.

She could no longer push it aside.

She would not wait to be summoned.

He was in his usual place � before the fire in the living room. Without greeting him, she started, afraid that if she gave him the opportunity at all, she would relent.

�I want to know the truth. I want to know why my mother. . . why she became so ill. What happened between the two of you?� Already it was growing difficult to keep her thoughts focused, to form the words and give them sound, substance.

His reply was even, tinged with the slightest hint of amusement. �Nothing beyond what I have already told you.�

It was spilling out now. They were looking at one another, both aware of a growing fury. �You lie. Nottingham told me she came back. Why? When?�

He glared at her but never lost his composure. Then, after a while, he sighed as if resigned to the inevitable. �You say you want the truth, my dear. So I will give it to you. I just hope you are strong enough to bear it.� He settled back into his chair, wincing at the movements. He appeared tired, and even older than he had last night. For an instant, she almost felt sorry for him.

Then he spoke. �She did come back, begging for it � for the Blade and for my affections. In a moment of weakness, I gave in. For one night, I let her wear the Blade. I knew the harm it would do to her, so I took it back before it killed her.�

It was too simple. �What else?� she demanded. �What are you hiding? Why do you do this to me?�

He rose, his movements stiff and uneven. With effort, he approached her. �Do what, Eeva? Try to spare you the horrible details of your mother�s instability? She was full of spite and greed � do you wish to know all of this? Is this what you want?� He watched her, his eyes tracking her every reaction.

As she stared back at him, though, she saw something beyond his irritation: sorrow.

�I don�t believe you!� she screamed. Her clenched fist hit the small table, sending it crashing down.

Irons did not bother to look at it. Instead he stared into her, cupped her face and spoke fluently, calmly, as if trying to bring some serenity to the situation. As if trying to bring everything under control, bring her under control.

�Believe me, my dear, I remember the instance very well.� He tilted his head and smiled down at her. She looked away, shaking with barely controlled fury and with the unfortunate pleasure of his touch. �It was winter, a very cold night . . .� He paused, his fingers tightening on her face as he forced her once more meet his eyes. �. . . about nine months before you were born.�

With that, he released her and stepped back.

Her whole being trembled, �What are you trying to say?�

He arched one eyebrow. �You know very well what I am saying. Do you really think your mother could afford such a fine education for you? Could she have provided so well for you?� His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed as he placed one of his hands over his own heart. �No, my dear, it was I. All along, it was
I who insured that you had what you needed.� With that, he turned from her and started back to the fire.

She grabbed his arm, pulling him back to face her. �Don�t mock me with your pretence of concern�

He pulled free of her, his voice as tight and angry as hers had been. �Then
don�t mock me with your pretense of ignorance. You knew the truth the moment you
came through the door.�

She slapped him.

The motion was not of anger, but of grief and shame.

Then she was aware of landing hard, pain shooting through her arm as her elbow hit the floor. Her cheek burned from his retaliatory blow. She was amazed at his strength.

�Let's not have a tantrum. What will you do? Leave here? Run away? You�ve perfected a kind of art in that haven�t you. Running. Do you honestly believe there is anything out there for you?� His voice softened then, sounding almost remorseful. �No, Eeva, the world is cold and it will spit in your beautiful face. Stay. I offer you your heart�s desire.�

�You have no idea what I desire.� She was unsure if he had heard her. Moving into a sitting position, she stared down at the rug .Her hair had come partially undone and fell in font of her face.

His silky hiss came forth, �Hmm really�� He ran end of his cane up the inside of her calf, �somehow I doubt that.�

She jerked away, still unable to look at him, �Bastard.�

He chuckled. �I am your savior. There is nothing out there for you. The world will drive you mad. Remember this, sweet Eeva: it is my blood running through your veins. We are connected through that blood, connected through the power of the Witchblade.� His voice was cool, tight. �Don�t turn away from that. There is no need to feel shame. Accept what I have given you already. Consider what I can still give you.�

She swallowed, then slowly looked up. Through the curtain of her hair, their eyes met.

His eyes were the same ones she saw every morning in the mirror.

She jerked, shutting out the sight. She dug her nails into the rug, trying to ignore the sound of his voice, the reality of the situation.

�The wickedness of what you�ve done continues to evolve within you. There is no turning back from this point. I assure you that no one will ever understand you, or care for you the way I do. Certainly no one will ever give you what I offer. Without me, Eeva, you are incomplete.�

The shadows distorted the images around her.

She heard him move, knew that he was towering over her. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the weight of the truth in his words.

She felt herself drowning, unaware that she was turning her head from side to side, mouthing the word �no� over and over and over. . . .

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Replies:

PART SEVEN -- voodoodolly, 21:04:12 06/11/02 Tue

Re: PART SEVEN -- Miculawitch1, 04:48:10 06/16/02 Sun