"Julien, I cannot right now." My senses are fading in, and the sounds and smells disappear, leaving only a grey, ash-like quiet; I've become a fire killed by a relentless rain.
I walk into the garden, my feet being abused by gravity's wicked pull. Where the hell is Christopher? We still have a job to do. I signed up for this, but any day now my head will be served to the king.
Oh God, he is not in the gardens. He is likely in the laboratory, so I push energy into my limbs and sprint towards the passageway and into the laboratory. There he is, his hair blending with the wood. There are flasks on a table, and it is likely he was attempting to prove his formulas. He has on a black tunic and pants that match the room. Why is he not wearing protection? I swear someone whispers something, and I look around.
"Celeste, are you okay?" I focus my attention on him, and the temperature of my body skyrockets, visibly red. Is it anger or something more akin to hunger? I get closer to him and smell a mixture of substances. The air is contaminated by charcoal, and if you smell for a bit longer, you will smell flowers, likely dandelions. He finally notices my presence in the room.
"You look angry."
"No need to state the obvious." I walk closer to the table and see complex mathematical equations; the equation explains the relationship between the brain and the mind... and homeostasis. Christopher covers it with his body and looks closer into my eyes. I do not dare break the eye contact.
"Why are you here?" he continues, looking straight into my eyes. I believe I heard someone calling my name. I cannot seem to reach the voice; we are parallel lines.
"We must assist the princess in her chambers." The words come out of my mouth. The air becomes warmer, and my mind delves into a fantasy of our lips meeting in an endless loop. Back in reality, he moves away from me and starts cleaning up his experiment. What experiment would need dandelions and coal, especially one that is relevant to Chantiere? You would need vocals, not... substances.
"May I see the equation?" His body stiffens; the muscles in Christopher's body are brick-like; he clearly dislikes my inquiry. I debated telling him it was fine, but I showed the equation to him.
"What is it for?" He comes closer and starts explaining the math to me. I can't tell what it is, but I know one thing– it is psychology.
A voice jolts me back to reality, and I open my eyes to see a tan, blond-haired man staring at me, as if I were close to death. Was I close to death? Why did my mind decide to show me such an irrelevant memory? Julien's arms are wrapped around me while I am on the floor. At least that motherfucker is dead. I should have bashed his head myself, healed him, and created wounds in all his delicate parts. Maybe even poison him.
His muscles loosen up, and words want to come out of his mouth, but words spill out of mine. "It is an equation."
He stares, a puzzled frown etching his face as if I were speaking an alien tongue, completely lost in translation. Holding this information is like intentionally losing a queen in chess. Difficult.
My reticence has ended, and my pronouncements are bordering on the delusional. He believes, I think, that the torture caused all of this, messing up my brain. I know what I saw, and I am not crazy. I cannot stop telling myself, 'Am I sane? But if so, why the hell do I have to justify it?
Julien's surprisingly neutral expression doesn't indicate that he thinks help is needed or that I am mentally ill. Of course, there is concern in his grassy eyes; it is not a look any woman would want to see on him. I want to comfort him, declaring that our situation is not dire, but the British bitch is dead. He is an aristocrat, and the conflict between France and Great Britain is, to put it mildly, regrettable.
"How advanced are you?" My eyes focus on his earth-themed skin, and I await a response. His demeanour attempts to trick me; he understood all that I said. "Julien, how advanced are you in Helwyrf?"
Before my lungs taste air, shadows take hold of all my skin, seeping in like water, chilling me. Sharp points are centimetres from my neck, and Julien rises. He wants to end me; he is a prince humming in an octave that is banished for reasons that precede my past life. His voice is likely deeper than oceans.
"How did you find out?" His voice is profound, and his eyes are hungry—not for food or fornication. My heart will kill me before he does, and I struggle to let the words out of my mouth. Maybe the adrenaline will kill me before my heart ruptures. He is advanced, but logic is not one of his skills.
"I can perceive most frequencies, and you are not great at masking your voice." My muscles are too stressed to form a smirk, as his shadows are entering my body, dropping my blood's temperature.
"If you kill me, you will be blamed for starting a war. I can help; you already know my secret." It was far from audible; he likely has an above-average hearing range.
"How can you help?" I see the lust for blood fade, and the shadows holding my body hostage instantly pull out of me but still are hugging my body.
"Since you have the vocals, I can show you how to make a graveborn. I was gifted a lighter voice, so you can rely on me to clean up." My vocals rise in a soft hum, and I create an illusion of a piano. The piano begins to play a fast and deep melody all by itself, and Julien softly hums along, matching each note with ease.
I turn to the corpse of the Brit, and a rune forms on his forehead; it is old English. The veins become black, and his skin is like the clouds. His body rose, neither truly alive nor truly dead, a horrifying, grotesque joke of nature. The owner of this body had not gone anywhere, as that look on its face is one that would instil fear in most. He obviously looks like he died, so my voice deepens, and I make him look like himself. He still has bloodlust, but what can he do? He is merely a puppet for Julien. Voices can be heard from a distance.
Someone calls our names. Francois and the King found us. We are so very dead.