Page 46 of Besieger
The wind picked up suddenly and lifted his hair. He pushed it back and away, growing even more agitated.
“What bargain, Silvio?”
His lover continued to avoid his eyes, looking down, head turned slightly to the side. The knuckles of his hand clutching the hilt of the sword had turned ghostly white. Amerigo fixed his thoughts on Silvio, seeing in his mind’s eye a hand reach out, willing the other man to look at him, to open his mind. If the she-daemon’s thoughts flowed so effortlessly and echoed day in and day out, so could Silvio’s, if only Amerigo wished for it strongly enough.
The hair kept falling in his face. Flustered, Amerigo pulled the torn fabric to retie his hair, wondering if he should try braiding it. Something that would hold better. He started to gather the long tresses at the back of his nape when Silvio finally turned to face him. Silvio blinked once, twice, frowning as if there was something he could not understand. Something wrong.
Amerigo stared at the hair spilling from his fingers—it was long and dark, smooth as silk—his breath grew ragged. He inhaled in and out, in and out, tugging at the locks, his hands trembling.
“It grew back.” The woman, Dulior, chuckled and continued to walk, not even bothering to wait for them. She knew they would follow. She was the only thing close to normalcy they had left. “And it will grow back again, should you cut it once more.”
“N-no—” Amerigo moaned, the faintest of sounds escaped his lips, and pulled the strands with both hands.
“You will wake up night after night as you are now. For eternity.”
No—no—no—
He started tearing at the hair, clawing at his scalp. Silvio came towards him only to be pushed away. Amerigo did not believe her. Something was wrong with him but the hair could be cut. He had seen to it. He had done it once already, and he would do it again. Again until it ceased growing back and reminding him. Until he no longer felt its weight on his shoulders and back. He did not wish to carry tokens of his disgrace, of their… What had they done in Antioch? Him and Silvio… What had they left behind in the hollowed out belly of the citadel?
“Stop—please!”
Silvio whispered as he rocked Amerigo back and forth in his embrace. They had fallen to the ground and he was desperately trying to make Amerigo stop ripping out his hair, locks spattered with blood, clinging to his fingers.
“This is what you are now.” Dulior’s voice carried in the dark. “An unchangeable thing, a bygone product of mortality. No longer a fragile article of flesh but my divine companion. You will serve me forever, for this is how I have made you, Silvio.”
Paris had changed and yet it had not. The great city remained heedless when they joined the ranks of its many residents and ambitious fools. Paris did not weep when Gustave di Flaviari’s body crumbled like a puppet at Silvio’s feet, nor did the city applaud when Dulior led her new husband to the altar and bound him with vows to be hers.
The Count and Countess’ estate had many servants but they could house one more: Amerigo, who they had donned in garments suited to his new station. Within a fortnight the kitchen staff and maids, struggling to pronounce his name, christened himEmmerique. How awkward and unnatural it sounded on these mortals’ lips. Amerigo wondered what they would make of his family name Gabrielli. Would they butcher it as well, taking away the last remnant of his prideful father?
Tired from the journey, his head swimming in hateful mutters and memories full of holes, Amerigo took on the new name and station. There were times when Dulior allowed him to accompany her and Silvio across town. The newlyweds walked hand in hand, making calls, leaving alms to this parish or thathouse. Amerigo carried boxes with dresses and flowers, roses trailed after him on the pavement. If he was good and quiet, Dulior shared her meals, allowing him to feed on prey more noble than a dog. With time, as the months bled away, his mistress let him attend to Silvio.
“A lord needs a valet,” the she-daemon declared with a dismissive gesture, and threw Amerigo’s new uniform on the ground for him to pick up. “He frightens the servants with his silence. Teach him some of your charm, husband.”
EMERICK, 1791—1820
Emerick strolled around the garden, his eyes pausing now and then at the sundial. The sight made him almost giddy. What a silly thing to place as an ornament when they would never see it in the daylight. Neither would they ever again feel the warmth of the sun on their skin. The last time he had seen and felt the sun was when they crossed Europe so many centuries ago, off to do God’s work. Back then, the skin on his forearms and face burned and withered, his muscles ached, belly empty of sustenance but overflowing with determination.
Fireflies flickered in the bushes and Emerick watched them, reminiscent. There were little flower-beds scattered across the garden, the petals closed and hidden for the night. Sometimes the gardener would cut and arrange bouquets in the dining room and library. Emerick found lilacs, dayflowers, or large-flowered sparaxis set at his bedside—a gift by Silvio, the aroma clinging to the sheets and to his hair. He liked the snapdragons best,running his fingers over their velvety mouths, dusted with pollen.
Something stirred in the dark. He turned to the sound of heavy footsteps expecting to see Silvio behind him but there was noone. A nearby bush rustled and a tiny creature emerged, making its way across the garden. A hedgehog, out into the night. It stopped and lifted its little head, sniffing the air before continuing on its journey. He watched the creature disappear and smiled, full of good cheer.
There were no roses in their garden. Silvio had arranged for exotic flowers, a sea of pinks, purples, and blues: fig-trees and lilac bushes. The gardener tried to meet his master’s demands but his exasperation was almost audible, a garden was not complete without roses.
Emerick might grow accustomed to this, to eternity with Silvio, to a second chance. A fresh start in Béziers. Away from the cold and suffocating embrace of a mother, and into the veiling guidance of an ever-present father. He took out the fabric he had been clutching in his pocket. The centuries had not spared the silk, once smooth and Venetian yellow, now coarse and bleached white, a gift from Silvio to his majordomo, small, yet costly, which Emerick wore with every setting of the sun. If Silvio knew he had kept this tattered old thing he would laugh and cast it away, replace it with a new one, something extravagant.
Count di Flaviari had spoiled Emerick but Marquis Bracci would engulf him in every pleasure known to man, pushing the limits of his hunger beyond the realm of reason. TheMarquishad watched his lover get anointed in thethermae, patiently waiting for the servants to feast on theComte, and theComteto feast upon them, drawing blood with each burning kiss and caress he left on their mortal skin. That night, in their bedchamber, Silvio’s mouth had been sweet and soft as a ripe fig.
There were times when Emerick found the tower too vast, too opulent. Everything within it was excessive, overwhelming to the eye, with all the art hanging from ceilings and walls, the very windows painted, no surface left untouched. Everything desperately begged for attention when the only thing worthSilvio’s attention was Emerick, and Emerick alone. Silvio had laid him on their bed like a sacrificial lamb on the altar of a starved god, ready to be swallowed in a single mouthful, ever ravenous for more.
That first fortnight, theMarquishardly allowed him to leave the bedchamber. Silvio feasted on him, overcome with hunger and desire. He worshipped every part of Emerick, an altar of the flesh demanding its slab of meat. No matter how big the bed, Emerick would somehow find himself pressed against the mirror, his breath clouding the glass, his mouth open, lips and tongue lapped at the cool surface, while Silvio kissed his shoulder blades, and crept upwards Emerick’s neck. His throat and face relentlessly covered in kisses, mouth parting to receive the cool wet tongue, his whole body trembling from the effort to remain on his knees.
Silvio appraised him, a glint of possessiveness twinkling in the green of his eyes. He never found Emerick wanting; yet there was want and hunger in the way his hands roamed over Emerick’s body, the way Silvio’s mouth sought and claimed him. The way he breathed Emerick’s name as a binding spell.Rico,Rico,Rico. Undone and reshaped into whatever image Silvio decreed. Every time they were together, Emerick melted into the embrace, into the kiss, as famished for it as his maker.My deviser.To be made and unmade—and made again.
A pair of hands cradled his face, positioning him closer to the wall of mirrors, as Silvio held him, forehead pressed between Emerick’s shoulder blades. A mouth moved against his lips in a liquid motion, mute words spilling out of it.
You feel so good, in a sigh of pleasant exhaustion, an unknown voice cut inside his head, its timbre crackling, cold and from somewhere within the room.
Emerick groaned against the mirror, his breath fogging the glass. His reflection was odd and broken until the features slowly rearranged themselves into those of his own face. He could not focus on Silvio’s image behind him, only on the mouth kissinghim. His lips, his throat. Hands slid down his face, fingers pried his mouth open. Fingers dug into the flesh of his thighs, locking him in place, spreading him wide open.
