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As I ran to embrace her she stumbled and fell into my arms.
“Elizabeth!”
I held her fast but she did not stir, her body was cold, hanging limp from my arms. My gut roiling, I held her out at a small distance, letting the swarthy light fall upon her face - even as I moved, cold dread gripped my heart. It was not Elizabeth that I held - but my Mother.
I was frozen in place, holding her at an arms length. Her corpse was new but quickly it bloated, her limbs swelled and shrunk - blue and black bruising spread even as I watched for only a handful of heartbeats.
Every nerve in my body screamed at the horror as her eyes withered and the rotted flesh fell from her cheeks - her skull shining forth from a meaty smile.
Grounded here - unable to make sense of my surroundings, all my attention tuned to the sight and smell and feel of her body rotting in my arms. Even the sound of it, a dull cracking from her brittle bones, a damp squelch as her organs slid past each other, falling through the weak decaying skin and piling at my feet.
I could not throw her from me, my hands were frozen as if stuck by the viscera. It could not be so - surely this was not truly happening. My mind rebelled, crying out in terror as my heart nearly burst from the strain.
Something shook me violently, I felt rather than heard my name through the terror.
With a sharp pain that felt as though an axe had cleaved my skull in two I woke, gasping for air.
Warm, living, arms quickly wrapped around me, a voice soothed in rushed tones, hands trembling from where they held my shoulders “You’re safe Victor, you’re safe.”
“Henry” the knots of terror slowly bleed from my shoulders, I let myself fold into his embrace. Why was he here? I must have been screaming. How else would he have known to rescue me?
I turn, hiding my face in his shoulder, ashamed to feel how strongly I was trembling. His heart beats steadily - if not a little fast - he is warm against me, smelling of pine. The soft pads of his fingers trace slowly under my eyes.
Tears.
I had not noticed I had been crying.
“Henry. I think I’m going to be sick.” My voice sounded small, wavering. The nausea was already swimming in my gut, sending my head spinning. I tightened my hold on his tunic as the floor swayed beneath us.
He tenses the way he always does when making a quick decision.
“Okay. That’s okay. Wait here - “
He dashed off, returning just in time with a pail. I lost what little food was left in my gut, heaving until I was soaked with sweat and my muscles felt limp and heavy. Henry stood by during the entire unsavory affair, holding my hair away from my face and running small circles across my back.
“Is that all? Are you okay?” He murmured softly.
I let myself slump into the pillows, grateful no bile had stained the bed, and nodded my assent.
“Okay. Alright. I’ll be right back.” He gestured out with his hand, as if pleading with me to stay put. If I were not so ill I would have laughed - there was no way for me to go anywhere.
He left and swiftly came again, having disposed of the pail. Settling next to me he pressed a cool cloth to my face, wiping away the sweat gently before pressing a glass of water to my lips.
We sat thus until dawn, Henry coaxing water and murmuring words of comfort. I tried to be a good patient, taking what was offered, doing my best to hold down any meager sustenance. But in truth I felt my spirit running thin. Despite Henry’s relentless effort my illness for weeks had little improvement. Sleeping spells would take me with no warning — an annoyance that had quickly turned to a hazard once I moved beyond my sick bed. And in my dreams endless torments awaited me.
I turned, hiding my face against Henry’s shoulder. We were beyond ungraceful thanks and apologizes. Though guilt pulled at my heart he had time and again proclaimed himself to be my protector, so I refrained from expressing my grief.
Henry had seen far worse than this.
He folded an arm around me, his words trailing off, humming to an old tune - a distant memory from our childhood shook from the back of my mind. I could not quite grasp it, but from Henry’s voice I found its sound.
The room warmed, each article softened as the night’s darkness bled away. When I turned again to face it, I found it transformed - golden as if dipped with honey. The sun painted each dark wall with warm light, in the same shades and tones as it had in our family halls of Geneva.
A deep hollowness opened in my chest, glancing up I found Henry’s clear eyes distant, and I wondered if he felt it too.
—
Victor’s healed in increments. He seemed almost blind to his improvement, but I can see it - slow though it is.
Color dusts his cheeks which were before pale and sunken, his emaciated frame has taken some softness, his shoulders no longer so sharp and frail. He has recently been well enough to study again. Albeit - from our shared dormitory; but nonetheless the mental exercise does wonders for his morale. Slowly each terror that had oft seized him receded like the tide.
There was of course the issue of his sleeping spells - if that be what they are. I had at first assumed it was due to his frail state - that perhaps with rest and nourishment the condition would be remedied. But even after weeks of improvement, and a steady decline of all other symptoms, these strange trances remain in their full effect.
I cannot deny that it is frightening.
He will for one moment be standing perfectly erect, busy with some chore, and suddenly collapse. Not in the way that one swoons and is taken in a faint - but with complete loss of control, as if every muscle simply ceased to hold him. It is not unlike a marionette cut at the strings.
It frustrates Victor greatly. He tries not to show it but it is clear in his eyes - plain in the way he draws away from me, as if determined to face this struggle alone.
I fear he may come to harm if this condition does not mend itself. What if he were taken suddenly in the street - if he fell before a carriage, or whilst boarding a train, or climbing a stair? What would become of him? I have been fortunate enough to be there should an episode seize him whilst standing - but if this ailment persists how shall he live? I cannot always be with him, though I may try. It pains me, for he is young and should be in the very bloom of health and vitality. How could someone with so much promise have fallen to such dependence?
It tears at my heart. But I’ll not waste time toiling over the future, there are many more present battles to win.
—
The weather had been utterly lovely upon the journey out, taking them through dense pine on an easy trail. Yellow light filtered through the dark pine, warm breeze flowing over and around them in comforting buffets. The brown needles made for soft footfalls, letting the forest's natural music fill the warm space.
It was only once they reached the lake that the sky darkened abruptly. Great looming pillars of cloud arched over them, devouring the calm blue day.
Henry was hesitantly watching the sky, torn between awe at the plumes of gray overhead and worry for Victor should it rain.
Victor, who was a few feet ahead. He settled down at the base of a great oak, a small cloth bound book tucked against his chest. He did not open it, but stared out across the lake.
Glancing up Henry examined the push and pull of each cloud above. They moved swiftly and darkened even swifter. Their forms were intricate, each curve cleanly defined - as if drawn out by an artist's brush. He started, blinking. The first drop had hit him squarely in the eye.
“Victor do you think we should — ?” He cut himself off with a small noise of surprise. Victor was sitting, curled over his book to protect it from the steady on pour, his face tilted to the sky.
His eyes were closed, glasses hung delicately from one hand. Water glistened from his dark lashes, catching the light playfully. Droplets began to fall in a steady rhythm. He grinned as the rain slid down his elegant face, like a river flowing over stones.
A sharp pang of longing shot Henry to the core. Victor looked like the boy he had known back in Geneva. Young, his eyes bright and cheeks flush with passion. Henry could see him now, waving his hands excitedly, speaking of some new theory, some new book. Leaning in to listen to others, expression always hungry for more, as if he could soak up their thoughts by proximity. His love for his family, his doting attention to William, his constant battle of wit with Elizabeth - the way he seemed to glow from within when he was around them.
It was Victor’s laughter that drew him back to the moment. Delicate, twinkling - though he would object to such a description - it danced at Henry’s ears.
“Why so stoic, dear Henry? Come, join me. Or should I take up the role of artist today?”
Henry huffed a quiet laugh, moving to settle next to Victor. The student curled himself closer, laying his head heavily against Henry’s shoulder. He was cold, and still too thin for Henry’s peace of mind, but his eyes shone with life.
“Here-“ Henry shifted, lifting and tucking his jacket around Victor, folding his arm over the smaller man’s shoulders. “I fear you’ll catch a cold.”
Victor was shivering slightly but huffed a laugh nonetheless. “I’m fortunate to have remembered my furnace,” he said, melting closer to Henry’s warmth.
It was a silly thing to say. Girlish, perhaps frivolous. Henry only smiled, small and tender as the rain petered around them.
It was easy here, in this place that felt so much like home.
—
Sleep was a weighty thing. The night terrors subsided, replaced with a deep slumber that left a residue of fatigue in the sinews of Victor’s limbs. Waking was exhaustive, as if the torment of the last two years was suddenly falling on his unsuspecting being all at once.
Through the thick fog of sleep came a strange sensation of warmth – more than the gentle sensation of sunlit rays, both foreign and familiar. Something was pressing heavily on his chest, lifting - moving to his neck. It dragged him from unconsciousness to the sound and sight of a rather panicked Henry Clerval — several shades paler than his usual lovely tones.
“Henry - what is the matter?” The words felt awkward on his lips, still dense with sleep.
The poet let out a shaking sigh, falling back against the bedside chair with a thud — all the tension abruptly dropping from his shoulders.
”sorry.” The poets voice was small and quiet in the empty room. Victors face pinched, battling himself awake with great effort. Henry was still speaking — French. He was speaking French, voice low and trembling, unnaturally clumsy around their native tongue. “you were so still and pale, Victor. I was sure — sure I’d failed you.”
Victor sat up abruptly, forcibly ignoring the dizziness this wrought. Spots of black flashed before him, obscuring his view of Henry, who was running his hands through his auburn locks – clearly suppressing the extent of his panic.
“Mon cher – Henry,” he catches the poet's face between his hands, thumbing away hot tears, “Do not cry, I’m okay.”
Henry let out a stuttering breath, melting into the touch, his hands darting to hold Victor’s own. “You were so very pale Victor.”
Victor shook his head, brushing a lock of hair from Henry’s eyes before drawing him close. The poet followed easily, hiding in the crook of Victor’s neck.
“I don't know – what would I do if you were –” Henry's voice peters off, but Victor feels his full meaning.
What would he do? Alone, in unfamiliar country – forced to face the corpse of his dearest friend? Victor could not bear it.
“Fret not my dear,” Victor drew back, forcing a smile to his lips, “I’ve got the best nurse in all of Europe, he will prevail over any ailment” he pressed a steady kiss to Henry’s freckled temple, taking a moment to breathe in the mild smell of pine that seemed to forever linger over his friend.
The poet laughed wetly, holding Victor with delicate tenderness, clinging to every breath that rose in his chest.
In increments they separated, Henry wiping the moisture from his face as Victor stepped from bed, slipping regretfully from the embrace, and began gathering his clothes for the day.
“You can go back to sleep, I’m terribly sorry for waking you.” The poet called gently through their shared quarters.
Victor glanced behind him, considering. He enjoyed his mornings with Henry, the slow easiness of preparing breakfast, boiling water for tea – settling at their table to spend time in conversation, or in comfortable silence as they worked through their shared book collection. However, his limbs were still heavy with fatigue, and the morning sun had only hardly begun its journey past the horizon. As much comfort as his practiced routine brought, the promise of rest called more fervently to his mind.
“Very well,” He said, placing his clothes back in their respective drawers, brushing his hand over Henry’s shoulder as he passed back to his bed, “Enjoy your morning.”
“Enjoy your rest,” the poet responded with a smile, closing the door to his bed chamber with practiced ease.
—
Victor awoke much later in the day, guilt tugging at him as he noted the low light of the sun, midday had already passed.
He turned to rise from the bed only to stop and stare, a quaint arrangement of flowers rested upon the nightstand, over which a small curl of parchment lay.
“Spring has come, it seems to me as if it has been waiting for you, my dearest friend.”
Victor smiled, a soft noise escaping him. It was pleasant — more than pleasant, how easily Henry could turn his mind to the quiet ecstasy of life. Newly grown flowers, kind words spoken between friends, simple yet wondrous things that he had for so long neglected.
—