Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “They must prove themselves,” he pronounced slowly, and James saw him as he had only once before, his hands holding tight the massive wheel despite his small frame, staring straight ahead.

  “René?” The words did not make sense, at least not to him, but René snapped his head up, unfolding from the floor and sweeping out one arm to gesture at the others.

  “Perhaps they learned nothing, frightened sheep.” René spat the words and then smiled, so pleased that James felt his breath quicken to see it. “He is dying.” He had to wonder that Etienne would dare, now. The remark was a slap to the face. With the blood still on his hands he thought to remind René of respect, as though any one of them had run to offer succor.

  James felt his stomach twist to acknowledge his own guilt in that, and took his gaze from René, searching out those eyes across the room. But the father had closed his eyes, his breathing so laboured James could see his chest move from where he was. The purple was gone from his skin, his face ashen. There were three smears of red across one cheek. He must have put a hand to his face, but they were both limp at his sides now.

  James stared at them, at the ever-expanding pool of blood flowing out toward the center of the room, toward the trails René had made, already dried.

  “He would kill and turn away,” René declared in icy tones. “You will go and look in his face.” James looked at René, heard the echoing, quiet sobs from one of the women. He twitched, mayhap flinching from the sound, but René remained still. He opened his mouth, licked at his cracked lips, and narrowed his eyes when there was finally motion.

  Etienne moved, his hands out once again, but there was another behind him. She moved past him, her hands buried in her wide skirts, the colour of summer flowers. James nearly expected to hear tinkling bells when she moved, but her feet made no sound as she stepped to the side, behind him and not around René.

  “My God,” Etienne swore softly, stopping for a mere heartbeat before he followed after her. The sobbing grew stronger, louder, and then cut off sharply. The last stayed where she was, and James felt his mouth turn up, the sneer unpleasant.

  René closed his eyes, and let out a sigh, a soul-deep ache flying from him.

  James forgot his cruel smile, forgot everything for a moment but that sound. He let it eclipse the horror near him and raised his hand, tracing a careful touch to one of René’s cheeks. He wanted to, so he reached further, running a fingertip along René’s ear, shuddering at the noises now. Inescapable, the wet sobs, the shaking from inside the chest where the soul was tearing loose, the humours mingling unchecked. He shuddered, but René did not. He could not, for that was his blood too spilling from the man’s mouth. But he opened his eyes, staring at James.

  “I would not have had this for you,” James told him in return, knowing now he would be heard. “It is not yet done,” René answered him, softly, and put up a hand, curling his fingers into James’ chest as though seeking his old cross. But James only nodded and allowed it, waiting for René’s breath to even out before he lifted his chin, and felt René’s eyes follow the gesture.

  He responded with a nod, almost too slowly, but he knew the workings of James’ mind as he always had. He closed his hand, pressing a tight fist to the soft cloth of his shirt, pulling it from him until a portion of his skin lay bare. Then René inclined his head once more.

  He did not close his eyes, and James knew he would not, but he did lower his head, pulling in a sharp breath when James slid his hands beneath the stiffness of the coat he had forgotten, the one René had borrowed. His fingers fit easily between his ribs, and though René said nothing, James shuddered to imagine them just as easily broken.

  René shut his jaw tight with a strength meant to deny his thoughts, perhaps the only gift from the man dying on this same floor. Those he had scorned would survive him because of it, and he would know it was his own doing.

  James raised his eyes and found René’s dark eyes blazing at him with the rich, harsh amusement in their depths he had not seen since Jamaica. René knew his mind indeed, and James smiled for him as he summoned his strength and pulled them both from the floor.

  His knees ached as he stood, but he remained standing, and kept his arms out and locked tight around René’s weight. René was for him, and he would not be judged by a house of killers.

  “Strange,” René murmured, adding nothing else, his head angled slightly down as though he wished to stare for hours at the hand he had left clutching James’ shirt. If James looked, he would see the white of bone showing through the thin, pale skin. He turned his head instead, tracking the small sounds of delicate slippers sticking in blood.

  The Lady Suzette stopped just short of her father’s body, her hands at rest on the length of her skirts. She looked up only once, blinking when Etienne came to stand opposite her. Her lips opened, and she whispered soft words that sank to the marble.

  James turned his head and found Etienne watching them, his eyes watchful despite the high colour in his cheeks. His gaze was too bright, as feverish as James had thought René to be. Then as James studied him, he curled his lips up into something dagger-sharp that only seemed to be a smile.

  A long, sputtering breath pulled all their eyes away, drew them to the figure on his back, staring upward with wide, horrible eyes. Another James would have felt sick at the sight of those eyes. Eyes of the dead even if the chest still moved, ghosting up and down in shallow motions. He could not hear them yet he could hear every other sound in the house, the far off voices of the hiding servants, the creak of careful steps far above them, René’s heart. Then there was only the rattling of fluid in his belly and the weak, wet coughs of an old man drowning.

  He felt René’s sudden stillness beneath his fingertips. None of them moved, and in some unholy, too-wise part of his mind, James thought they made an odd collection of carved figurines, all trapped in place amid the dark and light patterns on the floor. Doomed to remain trapped until James sucked in air, trying to ease the burning knot of his stomach.

  René released him just as Etienne dropped to crouch at his father’s head. The lady only drew in a shuddering breath. If she could hear the words that Etienne spoke into their dying father’s ear, so close as to have his lips to his skin, she gave no sign. Her face she kept blank, as prettily interested in the scene before her as she might have been in the contents of a shop window.

  Her hands gripped tight at the fabric of her dress as Etienne rose gracefully to his feet and the dark eyes, already glossing over, went to each of them in turn. The dull lips, nearly white and startling next to the splashes of crimson-tinted spittle, moved but James could not detect any words.

  He put his tongue to his own lips and felt them dry. He had no words either, not even had his mouth been wet. There was nothing that was for him to say when the black Saint-Cyr eyes grew dim.

  For a moment he stared at the still face, watching as muscles slowly went slack. The colour had left it long ago and even hatred and fear could not keep the fire in the eyes. He stared into them without blinking, sickness along his teeth, making his mouth fill with water that tasted of iron.

  The sobbing behind them had not ceased, and James found himself wondering if the other daughter truly mourned, or only thought she should. He had no patience for either sentiment, and turned his head, bringing his gaze down to René.

  His breath caught at the mix of feeling displayed on the familiar face, the slash of his brows, the depths of his eyes, and the flash of his teeth, Ben’s teeth, as the knife had last gone in. He could not look at that, it was a dream to haunt him later, the remnants of bitterness that James had been unable to spare him. He made his eyes go back to the man he had failed to spare as well, the man he had thought to kill.

  His mind did not trip over that fact, and he did not flinch from the man’s eyes. He looked into his face and set his jaw. He felt cold, as cold as René would be soon, as cold as the lord breathing his last before him. There was only a long sigh, low with a
peace he did not deserve and his children had not meant to give him. It left no echo behind it, only a memory, and soon even that would fade, if Heaven were indeed merciful.

  James felt the sickness in his mouth just as he had before and swallowed. He wished for wine, and had he been René, he would have demanded it and washed his hands in the purple liquid before letting it fall down his throat.

  He curled his hands into René’s loose shirt, felt the bare warmth of his skin, far too cool. It took much of his strength to pull his hands away, to place them at René’s shoulders, mindful of the wound, and even more effort not to wipe the smears of René’s own blood from his cheeks, or to look at the stains on his fingers.

  “A mound of flesh.” René spoke quietly, just for him, and without wine James swallowed. The noise brought René’s eyes to him, and he found them round and bright. His lips formed a soft circle until he thinned them and dropped his eyebrows into a frown.

  “Yes,” James agreed, more cautiously than needed, his voice just as low. René only continued to stare, his chin slightly raised as he waited. For what James was not certain he knew. He knew it was strange, when he had felt himself guided to this place, his hand strong and firm on such an instrument of death. Now there was nothing, his mind and empty of any overwhelming force. No words fought to break to the surface and it was only his own breath, making him gasp in unsteady beats.

  He spoke with his mouth dry, and felt the eyes of a killer watching him, in the face of an angel. He no longer cared to suffer the distinctions, not with his soul weary and others waiting for his return. There would be much to do, and there were other men to worry about their sins.

  “It is no honour to remember him.” If James could hold the fearful and needy promises those touched by him had asked of him in one hand, it would not make them any lighter. He was crushed with it, sinking into depths so clear they seemed to reflect the sky now that he had opened his eyes. For a moment he permitted himself to wonder if the sky outside had kept its promise, and rain would fall for the second time. He thought it likely. He had to turn then, and stared until his face burned. A corpse and blood and all, and no sins washed away, but none for René. None for René. His had drowned, burned, seared from the flesh like cooking meat.

  And that. The pile of flesh on the ground now, cold on marble bare even of the thinnest rugs. At least he had known the use of the light, even if he had not also seen its beauty.

  Gone, and he had not disturbed one candle.

  Gone, and René sighed. James felt the trembling breeze against his lips. If he looked he would see the thin, pale face, as white as wax now, full lips dull with sickness and the emotion of the day, all at odds with the spots of colour at the high cheekbones. He would see short, poorly shorn hair, and a stolen bit of shine at one ear. He would see dark eyes bright with hope to gaze back at him. His own cheeks felt the same flames to recognize that.

  He licked his lips and looked. The breath left him, like the unexpected boon of wind in the right direction, and René lifted his chin, and the gentle pallor of his mouth did not matter when he smiled. Still weak he pressed his hands back, placing a promise over his chest, displaying what should have made him frown.

  Just that, and James thought perhaps he was a fool, as he often had when fixed with such a look from René Villon. His own mouth he turned upward without regard to that, or perhaps because of it.

  “I wish to leave this place,” René confessed to him, not at all sorrowful and not at all furious. He thought this was René Villon calm, René as he only was with his head back, watching with cat-like eyes as James wiped the seed from his mouth, stretching warm legs out to trap him.

  “As do I,” James answered, blinking a frown to hear himself, his voice far too loud. He deepened his frown, raising his head to search the room. The other sister had finally ceased her sobbing, her grief as still as the dead man’s chest, as the river of life grew hard at their feet. He tracked the marks of well-made slippers, the dragging ends of skirts to where the other lady still stood, and no marks at all for the careful brother. He found their faces and shook his head, dizzy at how familiar they seemed.

  James pulled René nearer to him, and let his vision slide and narrow to just Etienne. It was like pinching his spectacles into place to suddenly see the bottomless Saint-Cyr gaze sweep over him. But no shy, maidenly shame dusted his cheeks and Etienne only lifted one slender brow, his manner too familiar.

  His empty hands came up in a gesture that did not reach or call back, something he had learned before Jamaica. Something that brought a noise from René’s throat, rough and low and amused. As though agreements still held over corpses. As though even a Saint-Cyr could learn honour.

  René turned within the circle of James’ arms, the jutting angles at his shoulders out like crossed swords. He leaned in the same motion, fierce and painful and smelling of iron mixed with oranges.

  They would seek a bed soon, and if not one in France than one on a ship bound for some other place. The destination did not matter, not when the bed would be warm.

  James inhaled and though his thoughts spun at the scent, his way seemed clear. Had he not been brought here and given the choice? “You are one of God’s creatures René,” he spoke with his words to René’s ear, and he traded their poses, let one hand remain steady and firm against René’s back. The other he brought to rest against the strong, quick beat of René’s heart. He learned in further, for their audience would have been damned for witnessing less, and reveled in the minute trembling of René’s body for him. “I think it no small mercy that he sent me to find you.”

  Such a remark earned him a whispered version of his name and a scowl, and then a flare of heat from eyes that some other might have once thought too weak. No sneers answered him, and no mocking met his words. René only breathed, and waited.

  For a moment it was as though he was another man, in another place, as though the ground swelled and rocked beneath them, as though he wore the wrong shoes, or no shoes at all in the sand. As though he were weighed down, or lifted up, and it was impossible to look to anything but what might be ahead.

  He felt it then, the light of a candle captured inside of a bell, the sun beyond shutters, wind against canvas, all inside of him, striving to burst out as though if it would not, it would rend him in two.

  James opened his mouth and left his eyes wide as they stepped away, pulling in a breath only to let it fly from him, no longer amazed to hear himself wonder so openly.

  He called the name, and felt it glorious. “René.”

  The End