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Francis trudged his way home, taking a shortcut through the woods that surrounded Holstenwall. As exhausted as he was, however, he smiled to himself, recalling the way Jane embraced him, the dark shroud over her countenance finally lifted. When he took her in his arms, he delighted in knowing he still held her trust; he was her protector and liberator- but most importantly, her friend, and seeing how happy that made her, he wouldn't choose to be anything else. By letting her take the creature that haunted his nightmares into his house, he made a decision that surprised even himself, but if it could maintain what he was so desperate to preserve, it would be worth it.
And yet, he froze as he came to a clearing in the woods. It was that same clearing that he and Alan would walk through many times before, sometimes with animated conversation and sometimes with silence. Alan who seemed to drive away the shadows that constantly surrounded them just by smiling, who bubbled with laughter like a rippling stream, whose pen brought flowers and sunlight to even the darkest winters. Francis could still remember how he punctuated his sentences with a wistful sigh, or gazed at him with those sparkling, youthful eyes that welled with spring-green promise.
Alan, who was stabbed multiple times in the chest one night, his life ripped from him by a wild-eyed, skeletal wraith that stalked the twilit border between living and dying, a wire-limbed marionette that danced a silent pantomime on his rotting grave. For all his days, the image of Alan's body would not leave Francis' mind- his rosy complexion turned to ash, the blood-soaked sheets and broken window, his glassy, staring eyes drained of the promise of youth. From then on, Francis vowed justice- and not just that, but revenge. Who could be so cruel as to slaughter someone as innocent and pure as Alan in the prime of his life, without a care for what would be left behind? One of the culprits was dealt with, as far as Francis was concerned- and the other was currently in his house.
It was that same clearing, too, where Cesare's body had been found many nights ago, presumed dead. At the time, Francis thought it was poetic justice- but now, he didn't know what to think. The wind rustled the surrounding tangle of branches, and he startled, half-expecting to see Alan there beside him. He shook his head, knowing he had to get home, although he dreaded what he'd face when he did.
-
"Looks like that rope cut into you a bit," Jane whispered, gently holding Cesare's wrist. "Hold still; I'll try to bandage it for you."
Reluctantly, Cesare allowed her to, still wincing from even her softest touches. She was very nice to him, he thought, but they weren't supposed to touch. Even if nothing happened when she brought him here, what if, at any moment, something would suddenly change? After all, it was touching her that caused him to do something very, very bad- something that hurt her and almost killed him, even though he could hardly remember it, just screaming and panic and aching everywhere. And then afterwards, once he was brought back to health... He suddenly hissed, pulling his arm back before she could finish applying the bandage.
"I told you to hold still!"
"Touching..." he muttered. "Do not..."
"I just want to help you feel better, okay? Are you worried about... that happening again?"
He nodded.
"It's all right; I promise it won't."
"But... if I..."
"Look at me," she said. "Things are different now, okay? You're free; he can't hurt you anymore. And I'm not scared of you; I know how good you are. Now, try to hold still. I just want to help you."
He nodded, but edged away from her.
“Hold out your wrist, please.”
Shaking, he extended it to her, and she took it, slowly wrapping the bandage around it.
“There. Was that so bad?”
He nodded again, still trembling.
“Oh. Maybe you just need to relax. Francis has lots of books around here; would you like me to read to you?”
“Yes,” he said, holding his bandaged wrist.
“Okay; just stay here. I’ll find something for you.” She adjusted his pillows and got up from the couch, heading to a bookshelf. What might he like to hear? Francis had plenty of murder mysteries, but she doubted those would put Cesare at ease. There was a set of encyclopedias, but reading those aloud would be exhausting. And there, off to the side on a shelf all its own, was a leather-bound notebook covered in a layer of dust. She picked it up, leafing through it; the handwriting was familiar. She recognized the words, and when she read them in her head, could picture the exact voice that used to recite them. These words had not been spoken for a long time, and they did not deserve to be silent forever. Besides, what better book to calm a restless mind than this one?
-
Francis felt near ready to collapse as he reached home, having taken the shortcut, but still a tiresome walk. He’d lock his bedroom door when he went to sleep tonight, he decided; there was no way he’d be able to rest soundly with the thing he invited into his house still there. It was for her, he reminded himself. That was the only reason why he’d done it; she had some sympathy for that empty husk of what had once been human. And besides, this arrangement wouldn’t last any more than tonight; he’d already crossed enough of his own boundaries as it was.
He opened the door, hearing the faint sounds of a silvery voice from inside. As he drew closer, the distant sounds began to form words- words he never thought he’d hear spoken aloud again. Something felt wrong, making his stomach twist. That voice and those words, which once filled him with a tranquil bliss, now felt like- he grimaced- a stab to the heart. He stood in the doorway, open-mouthed, to see Cesare, macilent form curled up in his sleek leotard like some molting insect, his legs draped like a gossamer pall across the couch. His pellucid, piercing eyes stared into some shadowed distance, black lips hanging slightly open in an expression of subdued awe. Beside him, Jane read aloud from a book, Cesare transfixed by the careful verses and clear tone she spoke in as she recited Alan’s poetry.
Francis didn’t know what to say. Betrayal poisoned the peaceful scene, lacing each honeyed word. Alan’s poetry did not belong to the creature reclining on the couch, who had stolen his last words and replaced them with bloodcurdling screams. And Jane- Jane certainly knew better, didn’t she? Didn’t she have the slightest idea how wrong this all was?
“The book,” Francis managed, pointing shakily to them.
Jane froze, then looked up, smiling. She had the audacity to smile! “Francis?”
“Put the book down,” he said through gritted teeth, in a tone he never used with her.
She dropped it on the table in front of the couch. “Oh,” she gasped. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you- he was so stressed, and I just wanted to…”
“Why?!” Francis exploded. “Why did you think that was a good idea? I let… I let that into my house, and you- Alan...”
Cesare suddenly shifted upright, eyes trained directly on Francis. Jane moved to pacify him, but he lurched away, hissing. Francis approached him, fists clenched.
“You are not to listen to those words, ever,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Francis, it’s okay,” Jane insisted. “He liked the poems-”
“Oh, he liked them, did he?”
“Yes,” Cesare’s creaking voice came from behind them, silencing them both. “I like…” He gestured with his hands, then shook his head. “Will… show you.” He eased himself off the couch, attempting some limping dance, before sitting down again, clutching his head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Francis asked.
“He’s trying to communicate,” Jane said, handing Cesare a glass of water from the table. “He can’t talk much, so if he doesn’t have the words, he tries to express himself by dancing. In any case, I think Alan’s poetry has been good for him. He’s so starved for beautiful things, Francis.”
“You took Alan from us,” Francis said, watching Cesare. “You don’t deserve his words. They’re not yours to enjoy.”
“Francis, please,” Jane said. “I found that book covered in dust; you haven’t touched it in ages. At least someone is enjoying it. Isn’t that what Alan would have wanted? For someone to read them again, and for someone to love them? He wanted to publish that book; how would he feel about it being abandoned on a shelf gathering dust?”
Francis stepped back, trying to hold back tears; if not for Cesare, it certainly would have been published by now. Alan would have written many more poems. “I loved him,” he said. How could he tell her how afraid he’d been to open that book, how he dreaded the thought of reading those words without their author beside him? “I loved him.”
Cesare stirred, tilting his head. He reached out a spiderlike hand towards the book, snatching it from the table and holding it closely to his chest.
“Cesare-” Jane gasped, as Francis stifled a sob. “Put it down, please.”
Cesare looked at her, but only clutched the book tighter.
“Put the book down,” she said. “I know you liked it, but we can find something else to read-”
Cesare got up, limping, and dragged himself towards Francis. There was something judgemental in his gaze. “You have… trapped… him,” he choked, hands shaking as he held out the book to him.
Francis grabbed it from his hands, unable to look away. “Tomorrow, you leave my house,” he said. “I don’t want you haunting me any longer.”
Cesare bowed his head, and returned to the couch. “Then let… him… speak.”
Francis glared at him, flipping through the book to make sure it wasn’t damaged. Upon seeing that it wasn’t, he tucked it under his arm. “I’m going to sleep,” he said. “Jane, if you need me, I’m down the hall.”
“I’ll stay here,” Jane said, watching as Cesare settled into the pillows that had been laid out for him. “Thank you.”
With a final look back, Francis headed into his room, shaking his head in disgust. What right did Cesare have to tell him what to do with the book? He should never have touched it in the first place, let alone heard what was in it. And yet, his hollow, rasping words pierced Francis’ heart- let him speak. Was it a mockery? A curse? Or…
Francis locked his door, then sat down on his bed, opening the book. He couldn’t believe he no longer remembered the first poem by heart.