Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  René did not let go, only sliding his hands up to the pale, scared face, knowing the child would see the Devil in him now, with his white skin and uneven hair, spots of his blood touching everything. “I…I w…will not let you remain damned for this,” he murmured, uncertain what language possessed his stuttering tongue; no clue was granted him in confused, watching eyes. Strands of brown fell down to protect such frightened innocence, and René used his thumb to brush them away.

  “You will not kneel anymore.” The order came in English, from trembling lips hot against the skin of the boy’s marked forehead, and then René’s stiff limbs were moving, pulling him away and pushing him out onto the gray mud of the street.

  The mud was slippery under him, grasping at his feet, and he shivered as he went forward, not sparing a glance for the grooms as he tried the doors and found them open. Not even fully closed by James in his haste, but René shoved the thought away as he followed his steps and entered the great house.

  One hand went to his belt as he passed slowly through the antechamber, the other closing tightly around one of the interior door’s handles. There was no sign of the servants that had been ordered to light each candle, and René thought of Mirena’s warnings about servants and rats anticipating disasters. He exhaled, though he was no longer a child to pray under his breath as he pushed open the door, and this one held no strange sounds behind it.

  It had been the crash of pottery hitting the floor that had woken him from his feverish sleep, and withoutMaman nearby to soothe him he had risen. His room had been dark, only traces of wavering light sneaking through under his door—too many candles burning brightly in the hall as though someone else were afraid of the shadows.

  He blinked at the glare of the room, wanting to shield his eyes from the glow of countless candles reflected off bare surfaces and cold floors. For a moment there was no one, and then he could hear shouting, drawing nearer, louder; Etienne Saint-Cyr’s rich voice, and René’s fingers seized on the hilt of his short sword, his breath slow and dragging.

  “James.” The whisper was too weak, could not travel with so little air in his chest. Stars were already glittering at the edge of his vision, as though his head still ached, as though the fits would come again and he would wake somewhere else with a sore body, sand in his mouth.

  But as if he had been heard there were footsteps, even and quick, and then he beheld the pale skin of Etienne Saint-Cyr, wearing onlypantalons and a thin shirt to receive James, white arms marked with dark bruises as he reached up, black eyes wide and pleading under James’ strength. His fingers spread over the planes of the broad chest as he was forced backward, and James stepped into the room, hair as gleaming as the gold at his ear slipping from the tie at his neck, shimmering around the frown that cast the sinners from Heaven, fierce eyes revealing no mercy in his heart for the burning flesh of heretics.

  René’s knees were sick with the need to bend, and it was only the pain twisting in his belly that would not allow it, the sight of a Saint-Cyr falling before the flaming sword; the gaze that met his crying out.

  “James!” His voice cracked on the word, his throat last wetted by his own vomit, and his fingers slid down the hilt to the blade, sharp in numb skin. He had thought to namethis a pet; this terrifying angel, had dared to want its love and so had turned it to this. He would kill for James, and would bleed for it, but James could not do this, become this. He could not allow it.

  But James would not be called to heel now, and René wondered if he were already a ghost in this house, unheard and unknown but for the similar eyes fast upon him.

  “Où est votre raison maintenant?” Etienne Saint-Cyr was speaking, whispering quickly though James seemed to have no need of quiet, and René ducked in response to that, glancing beyond the stairs and over his shoulders. The source of Saint-Cyr’s fear was close then, and René let his lips part to draw in shallow breaths.

  James blinked at his friend’s words, as though he had heard them before in some dark space known only to them two of them, but did not pause until he had reached the foot of the staircase. He stopped of his own will with an ease that revealed a strength James had concealed before.

  The white lines of his hand were before René’s eyes, streaked with something dark and gleaming that he ignored, wondering when he had put out his hand at all for James to take, when James had grown too large to be held in his palm. It was a child’s hand next to his figure now, and René lifted it to his mouth, wetting his dry throat with his blood, his chest growing colder with each breath.

  “… Votre foi?” It was Etienne Saint-Cyr who spoke, tripping over the words as though he had never said them but need had forced it from him regardless. A bitter salt like seawater along his lips, René pushed them out as well, English as difficult now as Parisian might be for James.

  “Your faith, James?” James who always spoke of humility, who claimed God was in all and begged so often for life, turned to follow the sound. There was no pleasure in his gaze to see René, sweeping hard eyes over his shivering body before flinging a hand to wipe Saint-Cyr’s touch from him.

  The carvings in the door were hard at his back before René allowed his eyes to leave James, glancing once again to Etienne Saint-Cyr, seeing him stumble backward before he caught himself. Saint-Cyr looked around, quickly, and then stepped forward once more, at an angle, his hand at his side as though he wished he were armed, the muscles in his forearm flexing underneath the milk-white skin, sharp next to the large marks that his shirtsleeves did not hide.

  René tightened his grip on his knives as his stomach twisted, recognizing once more the healing shades of purple and brown on those arms, on the face and neck. They did not come from this house. Fresh, they would have been almost black on skin so soft and untouched, as dark as the shadowed, cramped space below a ship’s decks. Bruises forming over bruises that were never seen, never allowed to heal and fade, would never have been if not for the interference of someone stronger.

  “René.” James spoke at last, his lips moving as though he had perhaps been speaking all along, his language one René did not know and could never learn. “You should not be here.” Childish whispers, low and frightened, intruded, left him blank at James’ words, looking away to where his brother had darted a glance before, to the cracked door and the black eyes watching this. Their eyes were wide with confusion. Their skin too was pale, waves of hair unbound around untouched faces as though this had roused them from bed.

  They had left the door to shield them, she had, when she had not seemed so frightened before. But this James would not blush for her, would not allow her to touch even her littlest finger to his arm and so she stood there, stupid and helpless. The other simply watched, as quiet as René should have once been.

  His sisters, James had named them, as though it were true, as though it mattered next to this. They knew what kind of monster swam in their veins, as did the Etienne that René had not killed. How long they had hidden there would not matter, they could not escape this anymore than he could.

  “It is you who does not belong here.” He turned away from faces that meant nothing to him, and felt himself moving from the doorway as he drew all eyes to him. He lifted his arm as the light of the candles hit his face. The smoke singed him, but he could hear his words above the angry cursing, above even the beat of his heart.

  Why, he had asked once, with his blood hard in his ears, as sharp on his tongue as his strange words to James, but those around him stilled as James stopped his forward motion, and without looking, René could feel James’ eyes on him, regarding him with knowledge that should not be there.

  Such light was not for this place, and René frowned, swaying as he kept his eyes on the ground, smooth marble marred with black drops, splashing circles on a costly floor. A quickly drawn breath hissed through teeth somewhere, startling, and René blinked, wondering when he had last breathed, when last the air rushing past his lips had been sweet.

  “René…” Jame
s had wept his name, his voice heavy and thick with a rain René had tasted before, and he recalled sweet air at last, in an eager mouth offering him pleasure, his own mouth numb from James’ kisses and the ache pressing inside of him.

  “James.” That voice was too full of feeling for him, for this, and though it could not be James who would ask this of him, René lifted his head, his throat rasping and dry when he tried to speak.

  “You are bleeding.” As though it mattered, James had truly stopped, trembling as though he wore no coat and was cold. Strange, when heat was stinging in René’s cheeks to see James watch him so carelessly before others, and he would have looked away if James had not raised his chin and closed his eyes.

  There were lines marring James’ handsome face, his ugly glasses hiding little, and René felt the need to be away, amidst nothing but green waters, the sun warm at his back. He curled his fingers easily around the hilt of one blade and watched James exhale, knowing that when they had spoken of this so long ago, James had not welcomed the blade pressed into his hand.

  He wore no blade now, and René blinked, dragging his eyes down to the belt James had taken, a match to the stolen pistol waiting at his hip, half-hidden in the red of René’s coat. The silver was dull next to his radiance, but only a fool could not see it, could not see his intent, and the Saint-Cyr son was a dog but no fool though he thought to reason, as persuaded perhaps by past words as René had been. His own mouth was moving, forming words to bring James’ eyes back to him, and he would please James now, suck his cock before the family James wanted to give him if it would make James leave this place.

  “Please.” There was no sort of plea in the word, not with Saint-Cyr staring at René, only a frown crossing his face now. It was a pretty face, seeming as fresh as the ladies hiding behind nearby doors now if not for the wounds of his eyes, the curse in their colour. The sick throbbing at his wrists increased, but René held onto his blade, glaring back at the slender figure.

  “Devotion to your Papa?” Eyes that knew pain did not make him flinch, and he twisted his mouth into a sneer to ask the question, pushing out words though his chest held no breath. His brother lifted both eyebrows, an affectation of surprise and innocence that belied that smile slashing across his face. He said nothing to that, did not defend his honour or demand blood as any son, innocent or guilty, should have done. He did not move at all, and René wondered if he would have been so still, down in the hold of his ship with René’s sword at his neck.

  He had not, René had been fevered, but if it had not been for James, Etienne Saint-Cyr would be nothing more than a corpse tossed onto the steps of this house, paler than he was even now, the hard misuse of many hands leaving nothing untouched.

  One bruise still marked his cheek, some red streaked unevenly around the lips, and René shook his head, looking away when the red seemed to grow brighter, when candlelight flickered around dark edges, giving swollen flesh the shape of a hand.

  It took a strong man to hold another still, unless the figure was slight, or bound, or long forgotten by those who should have interfered. “James…” James would have been nothing but a child, younger than that boy outside; he could have done nothing. James had not learned to fear the dark, had never been left to the mercy of the shadows. He should never have learnt what dwelt there. James would say that none should.

  René’s eyes were closed, they must be, but René turned his head from his brother. His hands were cold, his palms seeming empty no matter how tightly he curled his fingers. “James, we must leave this place…” His mouth was sticky, trapping and holding the words that he wished to say, the questions. What had been passed between them, on his ship when René had been mad with fever, when he had walked everywhere but below the decks knowing the lick of heat on his skin was to be his for all eternity?

  “He is not well.” The cool voice held a note of pleasure, as sickening as perfume splashed into fresh water, and René opened his eyes, his gaze on James, who dared to look at him with such concern. The other one knew he did not deserve it. He was smarter than James. Even the boy was smarter than James. They all knew exactly what René had done, what he had allowed to happen.

  “You will not deal with the Saint-Cyrs.” The tightness in his belly spoke of more sickness, and he had lied when he had declared they had taken all of his blood already. He could feel it along his teeth, the itch as it dried on his skin. He shivered, and then James was moving, striding to him, pushing René hard to the door and reaching for his hands.

  They were dark, thick blood under his fingernails, drops painting his fingertips before James turned them over to expose his palms, his wrists just visible underneath James’ coat.

  “Sweet Jesu…” Words James only spoke in pleasure were as raw as James’ touch to the wounds, but René yanked his hands free, staring upward. “Whatever you swore to her, you must not do it.” He had begged in his fever for a hand to pull him back, but begging was not praying no matter how James might wish it so. He had wasted strength falling to his knees for a God who would not forgive him because he deserved to burn as he burned now, his flesh blistered and oozing. He deserved nothing, but still he dared, reaching up with cold fingers to stroke the lines of James’ face, unsurprised when James flinched from him.

  “Her?” Disgust turned James’ eyes from him, and René scowled, swallowing bile and blood. James thought this a matter of jealousy, of tormented dreams and visions of laced bodies. There was no love there, only an ugly need. This was so much more.

  “Not for you!” The scream cracked his chest in two and sent James’ reeling back, looking as ignorant as he first had, eyes wide and arms shaking from the weight of a weapon. That James was no longer, and René could not speak to ask for his return, his insides dry and wasted as his strength slipped from him. His body fell against the door, his gaze traveling up to find James and then darting away, beyond their frightened faces. “God in Heaven…”

  He could not allow it, and turned his eyes to the movement flickering at the edge of his vision, the impatient flip of a silk coat, the shine of new buckles, announcing his presence. The servants were gone, smarter than René was, no matter what Maman said. But when the whims struck Father, it was best to be elsewhere, to vanish into dark corners, hearing the click of his heels as he passed, moving only whenMaman’s doors had closed behind him.

  There was nothing of her in him, and he wondered how James had even known her for his mother. If James had looked, he would have found no trace of the darkness in her that he had first seen in René’s eyes, only a shameless love.

  René’s eyes were a black so dark that once someone had sworn he had a foreign blood in him, black eyes that had given his ship its name. He had laughed to see it written there, knowing it right.

  Candlelight shimmered on the steel of his sword, only the tip dulled with his blood as he swung it wide in warning. James and the others moved back, startled, but the man did not move, only standing at the foot of the staircase behind them all, watching. Today the short sword was an iron weight but René kept the end up even with the ache, staring down the length of the blade into eyes that matched his own.

  He wanted to be sick and would not. Neither would he fall, not in front of this, with those around innocent. His hand was trembling with the ill-health that Père had always seen as fear. He had wished forMaman when the shaking would not stop, but there was no one to soothe the visions away; she had been sent away as well, left to madness and dreams of the fate of her son. He had shared her horrors when he had been allowed to close his eyes at night, waking to wet cheeks.

  He looked up, though there was no hiding his weakness. His belly twisted to see that this had told James the truth, that he had also seen it in her eyes, the fear that left them all silent now, bowing before the beast in their house.

  “Father…” The son spoke first, one hand rising gracefully in front of James as though to acknowledge his father’s arrival. He seemed as if he would hold James back. James who
had not moved, who would not move, not before René.

  “You will not…” It was a child’s voice that cracked, quivering with unsaid prayers as René gazed up, lifting his eyes to study the white face, blinking to see the stains of red that had not come from a pot of rouge. Hard and angry, stretched over thin, powdery flesh. There was no need to raise his eyes further, and René felt his brow heavy with a frown and shook his head, swaying when black swirled around him. He stamped a foot and the dizziness faded, his vision clearing again. “You will not move, Father.”

  It was not confusion that drew arching brows down, or curved red lips into a pretty smile as Father’s eyes traveled on to take note of the ridiculous scene they made, hesitating only on James but not slowing even for his own flesh. He had no interest in the presence of his daughters behind the door, his smile only growing sharper, revealing teeth. Unstained lace fell around his fingers as he lifted one hand to wave at the iced form of Etienne Saint-Cyr, no jewelry to flash in the unceasing light as he pointed.

  “ That is my son.” The chest rattled as he drew in a breath to sigh, a herald of life not buried by layers of brocade and velvet. Rich padding could not disguise the thin fingers, the sickly white next to the full red of his mouth where no paint had been needed. René knew his shoulders would also break with the weight of age and sin, and any pleasure James felt in the sight of him would fade.

  It was not pain at the thought that tightened René’s throat, making him choke on his own spit, not when hemust make James leave, and he brought his eyes back to the wrinkled, marked man who stood before them.

  He cast no shadows now and yet his breath had been cold, an ill wind that had brought no rain, had brought nothing but shudders to René’s small body. How he had twisted up his lips into a sneer at that, a sneer that not even his dog of a son would have dared to make, even before René had made him share in the fear of darkness, not wanting to realize that Etienne had already grown up in a house of terror.