He hadn't killed her. That was Kemp's work. But Lucy's blood was on Mitchell's hands in the most real sense--nothing poetic about it, no metaphor. Just real blood. He knew all about real blood, could count the number of times he had been in a situation so like this: a woman, in his arms, and her blood everywhere, and her face ashen, wide eyes full of terror--but it had not been a terror of him, this time. Is it a little sick to feel comforted by that? That at the moment of her death, it wasn't him, Mitchell, that had caused her horror.
There's still nothing right about it. And he can't explain to anyone that final choice that he made, the choice he made for her, pushed upon her. The choice to turn her. He shouldn't have. He should have let her die, gone to her-- judgement, her God and her Heaven-- or her Hell, but even that's of no concern to him. Everyone's got their ends to face, and they face it alone. No one knows that better than him. The yawning grave that swallowed him, he crawled out of it, but he hasn't forgotten that lonely chill of death, the final moment between last breath--and the new breath.
Herrick had given him his immortality. And Mitchell had made his own vampires, yeah, but never very many. He wasn't interested in progeny, and then the idea of it became sad, the longer that he lived. Not a gift, not recruitment--but a curse.
And it's Lucy's, now. For better or, more likely: for worse.
She hadn't known what to expect when she died. She'd hoped for heaven, of course, some final acknowledgment that in the end, she'd tried to be good. She'd always tried to be good. But either way, she died knowing that her death was for the best, that trying had never gotten her anywhere and she was done with it.
So when she finds herself awake and gasping, her mind still filled with the terror of dark corridors and men with sticks and rope, she knows something is terribly wrong. The first thing her eyes fall on is Mitchell and horrified suspicion starts to worm its way into her. Her heart should be racing but instead she feels... cold.
The moment that she wakes is abrupt--but he's watching for it, and when her eyes leap open--wide, panicked, as if she is still half there (the dark corridor, the one they all see, when they die, before some great and terrible force brings them back again), seeing-- what?
Shadows. And the world that she's returned to, it's full of shadows, too, a long life spent surrounded, a reminder, maybe, of what lies on the other side. What Mitchell saved her from, however temporarily. Saved: it's such an objective word. But he has, he knows that he has--she's here, isn't she? Alive, in whatever way passes for life, his same life. And he should, maybe, offer some instant word of comfort, but there's none to give. What the hell would he say? You're all right now--that's so objective, too, as if anything is going to be all right. They make the best of it.
"Hey." He sits forward instead; he reaches for her, wraps one hand around hers, one at her arm-- "Lucy. Look at me, Lucy--you're safe. You're safe now."
And she is. Nothing can hurt her now, more or less. She's somewhere beyond all of it now.
"It's all right." It doesn't even taste like a lie, when he says it. Even looking at all the naked fear in her face, he feels like maybe he can make it true, for her, in a way that has never really been true for him. It will be hard, but he knows that; he can help her know it, too, he can help her-- "It's going t' be all right. Look at me, Lucy--"
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carisma_sensei
no subject
Date: 2013-12-20 08:27 pm (UTC)There's still nothing right about it. And he can't explain to anyone that final choice that he made, the choice he made for her, pushed upon her. The choice to turn her. He shouldn't have. He should have let her die, gone to her-- judgement, her God and her Heaven-- or her Hell, but even that's of no concern to him. Everyone's got their ends to face, and they face it alone. No one knows that better than him. The yawning grave that swallowed him, he crawled out of it, but he hasn't forgotten that lonely chill of death, the final moment between last breath--and the new breath.
Herrick had given him his immortality. And Mitchell had made his own vampires, yeah, but never very many. He wasn't interested in progeny, and then the idea of it became sad, the longer that he lived. Not a gift, not recruitment--but a curse.
And it's Lucy's, now. For better or, more likely: for worse.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-25 04:01 am (UTC)So when she finds herself awake and gasping, her mind still filled with the terror of dark corridors and men with sticks and rope, she knows something is terribly wrong. The first thing her eyes fall on is Mitchell and horrified suspicion starts to worm its way into her. Her heart should be racing but instead she feels... cold.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-27 02:53 pm (UTC)Shadows. And the world that she's returned to, it's full of shadows, too, a long life spent surrounded, a reminder, maybe, of what lies on the other side. What Mitchell saved her from, however temporarily. Saved: it's such an objective word. But he has, he knows that he has--she's here, isn't she? Alive, in whatever way passes for life, his same life. And he should, maybe, offer some instant word of comfort, but there's none to give. What the hell would he say? You're all right now--that's so objective, too, as if anything is going to be all right. They make the best of it.
"Hey." He sits forward instead; he reaches for her, wraps one hand around hers, one at her arm-- "Lucy. Look at me, Lucy--you're safe. You're safe now."
And she is. Nothing can hurt her now, more or less. She's somewhere beyond all of it now.
"It's all right." It doesn't even taste like a lie, when he says it. Even looking at all the naked fear in her face, he feels like maybe he can make it true, for her, in a way that has never really been true for him. It will be hard, but he knows that; he can help her know it, too, he can help her-- "It's going t' be all right. Look at me, Lucy--"