Grave Burden

by P. Anastasia

  “I must show you my gift,” he said, lifting the lid. Light reflected upon the things, sending a glint of metal sparkling back at us. Inside the box were two pairs of solid gold cufflinks set upon a majestic backdrop of sapphire-colored velvet.

  “Are these not the most magnificent pieces you have ever seen?” he asked, raising the box toward me with shaky hands. “The Queen commissioned them for me from a smith in Essex.”

  “They are exquisite,” I replied.

  Queen Victoria loved Eddy, and often gave him extravagant, sometimes useless, gifts to show her affection, but the cufflinks exhibited masterful craftsmanship and thought. I leaned down to examine them more closely.

  “Here,” Eddy handed the box to me, smiling with such delight that I thought his heart might burst.

  I wrapped both hands gingerly around the box and brought it toward my face. The two pairs of cufflinks were different, but similar in design. Each of them had been engraved with a simple, elegant pattern reminiscent of the aiguillettes decorating the royal family’s attire. They were diamond-shaped—an unusual choice for such a piece of jewelry—but it also made them distinct and rare in appearance. Befitting of a future king.

  “Do you like them?” he asked, straining to smile. “Do you like them as much as I do?”

  I chuckled softly and handed the box back to him. “Yes. They are wonderful.”

  “Then let us share them.” His frail fingers began working them free from the velvet backing.

  I tipped my head, came around to the front of his chair, and then knelt. “My friend, there is no need for you to give such a gift to me. I am not deserving of it.”

  “Nonsense, Matthaya.” The pale duke leaned forward in his chair and looked me square in the eye. “You have changed me for the better, man. Because of you, I have a sharper sense of judgment and fairness than ever before. You are the reason I chose to not only accept the position as Viceroy of Ireland, but also to embrace that power in an effort to better the relationship between our two homelands. Giving you these would be the absolute least I could possibly do to repay you for the huge kindness and wisdom you have bestowed upon me.”

  He finally pried out two matching cufflinks. “Here,” he said, reaching for my hand. I raised it to his lap and he nestled the two gold pieces within my palm with his frigid fingers. I grasped them carefully.

  “Thank you,” I said softly, trying my best to smile gratefully at Eddy. “I will keep them with me always.”

  “No,” he added, clutching onto my hand with both of his. “Thank you.” Then he released me and polished the other pair of cufflinks with his fingertips, gazing upon them with great satisfaction and joy. “You have taught me that one man’s suffering is not wholly his own, and that we all share roles in this human experience. And you have given me reason to believe that my heart is right, and that love cannot be forced by the hand of another.”

  A peaceful few moments passed and then his smile began to fade and his face wrinkled with discomfort. He coughed and crumpled over in his seat, heaving for air.

  “Eddy?” I grasped his shoulder. He was having another fit. “Eddy, are you all right?”

  He cleared his throat and straightened back up in his seat, slowly. “Yes. I am fine.” He gasped and his lungs wheezed. “I despise this weather,” he said. “The cold, damp nature of this foul place will be the death of me.” He tried to laugh, but a coughing fit seized him again.

  “That place was the death of him,” I said to Kathera. “He died of pneumonia a few days later.” I reached down my sleeve to slide my thumb across one of the gold cufflinks Eddy had gifted me over a century ago.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied, reaching out to caress my hand.

  “On his deathbed, moments before I was escorted out of the room, he had turned to me and uttered, ‘Remember me, and we shall both live forever.’

  “His death shocked us all. He was so young, and—with my council—had finally begun to find courage and purpose in his life. Today, he is a forgotten prince, overshadowed by the legacy of his younger brother, King George V.”

  “That’s terrible,” Kathera said softly. “Britain’s lost king. What happened to the princess he wanted to marry?”

  “She had written him a letter several months prior, asking him to do his royal duty and forget her. He was engaged to another woman only four months after that. Then he died less than a month later. I believe his broken heart left him weak, allowing pneumonia to easily snatch him from the earth.”

  “It was hard on you, wasn’t it?” Kathera asked.

  “Very.” I looked into her azure eyes. “The loss weighed heavily on my heart then, and continues to now. I had not befriended another, until you entered my life.”

  “I hope you can still pay your respects,” she said. “Where was he buried?”

  “Eddy’s mother kept his room and turned it into a shrine, and then commissioned an extravagant tomb for his final resting place in St. George’s Chapel in Windsor, tucked away down a corridor most will never visit. It’s one of the most profound dedications I’ve ever seen. A grand angel kneels weeping at the head of it, a crown held aloft in her hands, and a beautiful but tragic sculpture of Eddy in his full dress uniform, recumbent, as if he’d fallen asleep right atop the tomb and been turned to stone. It broke my heart to view it in all its glory. The details and craftsmanship were clearly meant to honor him, but looking upon it reminded me of the frailty of us all. It reminded me, yet again, that I could never have friends.”

  My jaw tightened and I growled beneath my breath.

  “What is it?” Kathera leaned closer, pressing her fingertips against my arm.

  “Bad memories,” I replied, glancing at her again. “I’m sorry to bore you with details, but I have never told another about these things, and thus they have eaten at me for years.”

  “I am happy to hear the story, and I’m grateful to learn more about you,” she added. “Please, go on. I’m here to listen.”

  “Eddy couldn’t rest, not even in death. The media planted and fueled a theory that he had been the one responsible for the gruesome murders made by Jack the Ripper. Pure ridiculousness, but the public hungered for a good story, especially when there was no one around to deny it.” I shook my head angrily. “Eddy was nowhere near London at the times of those murders, and I would know because I was with him then. But the accusations took wing years after his death, and I was forced to turn a blind eye until historians finally cleared his name. It infuriated me, though, to be unable to defend my friend’s honor. At least he can rest in peace now.”

  I reached into a flap of my jacket, tucking my fingers into the small breast pocket hidden inside. “I never showed you this,” I said, withdrawing a carte de visite—a small black and white albumin photograph taken in 1890. It had turned a shade of beige and taken on an unpleasant bit of foxing near the edges of the mounting frame, but it was in generally good condition.

  “Eddy once asked me to take a photograph with him. He told me he’d wanted it as a reminder that all men exist with reason, and to give him courage and strength in times of uncertainty.

  “I had declined at the time, but my rejection brought a great deal of sorrow to him, so I changed my mind and honored his request, under the condition that only two copies be made. One—to be buried with him. The other—to be buried with me.”

  “Did Eddy ever ask you to explain exactly what you are? He obviously knew something was different, especially when he found you with the bottle of blood.”

  “He knew I had been alive for many years beyond a normal human lifespan, and that I was not like other men. He accepted me as that.”

  Kathera rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s strange seeing such an old photo of you. You look nearly the same, just a little younger.” She traced a finger across the bottom of the photograph. It showed Eddy in a dress uniform sitting on a carved throne with me standing beside him. They did not tell you, or
wish for you, to smile back then, and it made the shadows of grief on both our faces more apparent.

  “I’d been wondering why your cufflinks didn’t match,” Kathera said. She squinted and leaned closer to the photograph. Then she brought a hand up to her collarbone and clasped the golden cross pendant hanging there.

  I had been wearing the cross in the photo, though it was hardly noticeable, and it could be seen peeking out just below my collar, from the edge of my necktie.

  “Thank you for sharing that story with me,” Kathera added, looking over at me. “I understand you’re trying to help me cope with my feelings about Derek, but Prince Eddy’s death wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause his illness, nor could you have saved him from it.”

  But the thought kept rising in my mind: had I known I was a Sire back then, then perhaps I—

  “Would you have wanted that responsibility?” Kathera asked, gazing at me after having read my mind.

  “No.” The answer came to me without hesitation. “But, at the time, I may have thought differently. Unfortunately, regret, too, is immortal. It was only a fleeting few years of friendship, but his death took a piece of my own soul to the grave. I had not felt so empty since losing Kathryn.”

  “Be at peace with the time that you had with him,” she said. “Know that you gave him friendship and courage. You believed in him when others didn’t.”

  “Do you regret it?” I asked, reaching for her hand. “Do you regret what I did to you?”

  “No.” She shook her head, and I could feel in my blood that she spoke truth. “The life I was trapped in before you came, was no life at all. And while I know this one has its challenges, I have you. Even if I am to continue battling nightmares, you will be here when I wake.” She scooted closer, forked her fingers through my hair, and then kissed me. “I will never regret being with you,” she whispered.

  The scent of mustiness and decay made my nose wrinkle. I opened my eyes to find myself sitting in a dirty, decrepit room with ugly, off-white drywall riddled with holes. Broken picture frames and torn canvases lay on the ground, and remnants of plaster dust and strips of shredded wallpaper littered the floor.

  My shoulders were bare; shreds of clothing scarcely covered me: a sleeveless torn crop top, cut embarrassingly high, and a grungy, meager denim skirt with threads spiraling down from all sides of the hem—hardly covering my thighs.

  Vintage erotic art cluttered the wall opposite me, roughly-colored, distasteful, and some, even gruesome. Glancing over them nauseated me—women who’d been gagged, chained, or tied to furniture… like prisoners.

  Derek had better taste than this.

  I’d seen some bad art in the tattoo industry, and had been asked to do some offensive designs, but I had no tolerance for people who took pleasure in images with gross violent natures.

  Dingy window curtains fluttered nearby and I turned toward them as a faint breeze squeezed in through a crack in the clouded window. It appeared to be daytime, but such a thick layer of greasy haze covered the window that very little light shone through.

  Filthy place.

  I looked around the uncomfortably small room. A battered writing desk with only three legs had been shoved into one of the corners with no chair in sight. No door, either.

  Where was I? I came to my feet and began searching for a way out. There were no vents, no ceiling tiles, nothing, only a sad excuse for a window and no mechanism by which it could be opened. I shoved my hands against the warm glass, and pried my fingers into the frame, but it didn’t budge. It must have been two inches thick, as it didn’t make a sound when I slammed my shoulder against it.

  A heavy thud vibrated through the floor and I veered around.

  There was the missing chair, with Derek upon it. He sat on it the wrong way—his characteristic preference—legs straddled over the seat and his forearms resting across the craggy wooden back.

  “Hi again,” he said, an intense glare centered on me and anticipation in his smile.

  My knees felt heavy, as if my blood had pooled in the lower half of my body, and I could no longer feel my fingers beyond a strange tingling.

  “What do you want?” I tried to cross my arms in an effort to cover my bare midriff, but my body wouldn’t comply. All I could do was turn my head slightly to the side and avoid eye contact with him.

  “Just you,” he replied, his toothy grin revealing no vampire fangs this time. “Come here,” he said, curling a finger inward as he leaned over the back of the chair.

  “No.” I imagined my hands curling into fists, and my knees locking, but they wouldn’t. An invisible force made me take a step toward him, my legs moving without my consent.

  Fear crushed me.

  I had lost control over my body, even as my mind fought to regain it. “Don’t do this to me,” I managed to speak. “Please.”

  At least I could still talk.

  “Oh, I’m not gonna make you do anything,” he said. His callous laugh made the hairs on the back of my neck stand and my heart thump against my ribcage.

  He gestured for me to come closer, and I did, even though I strained to try to stop my feet from moving. I wanted to turn and run, anywhere, as long as it was away from him and that repulsive place.

  But my body continued to act against my will. I wanted to fight it—I tried to stop myself from approaching him, but my consciousness began slipping from my grasp, my ability to control my own movements driven back, trapping me inside a body that would no longer obey.

  Within moments, I was inches from where he sat, poised in a strange, suggestive stance, with a hand set upon my hip and my back curved into an uncomfortable pose.

  “I’d never force myself on you,” he said. “What the hell kind of man would I be if I did that? Not yours, right?” A broad, cruel smirk twisted on his lips. “I’m just gonna let you be you.”

  The man sitting before me was not the Derek that I once knew.

  I took another step closer.

  Stop!

  I was detached, a host watching through the eyes of a vessel she could no longer control.

  My hands lifted up over my head and my head fell back, my torso contorting as my hips began to sashay to a rhythm I couldn’t hear—some hypnotic beat pounding through my bones and making me twist and move in ways I’d never moved. I stroked my hands down my sides, sliding up and down my hips and chest, bending and moving with graceful serpent-like form. I was a zombie partaking in a provocative dance, unable to stop my limbs and hands from moving and touching my body sensually.

  That’s when Derek stood from the chair and came up beside me, devouring me with black eyes.

  A cry for help erupted in my mind but never escaped my lips, nor shaped my face. The next thing I knew, I was writhing down his side, my hair catching on the wrinkles of his clothing as I moved in ways that made my stomach churn. He clasped onto my hips, tugging me in close to his chest so the curves of my body were unnervingly flush against his.

  The friction of our bodies rubbing together incited a deep, visceral sense of violation and vulnerability; I shuddered and flinched. Still, nothing manifested on the outside, and the skittering thoughts were trapped in the prison behind my eyes.

  Derek’s fingertips slid past my waist, to my thighs, then just beneath the hem of my skirt, where they bunched the fabric up toward my hips and pressed against my naked leg.

  Our bodies swayed in rhythm to a beat only he could hear, as his desires controlled me like a puppet.

  He took a deep breath, the airy sound close to my ear, and then exhaled against the back of my neck. “I want you,” he whispered. Our bodies nearly tangled together already, his lust raged. His hands glided up and down my sides, traversing parts of my flesh no one should touch without permission.

  His need for me spun out of control and those cravings pushed my personal choices to take a backseat to his own corrupt desires, my shell of a body doing only what he willed, while I watched i
n terror through a two-way mirror.

  He latched on to my hand and spun me to face him, forcing me to lock eyes with him again. A hand crept down to the bare skin at the small of my back, and when he pulled me in close, our bodies touched in places only lovers should.

  Let me go. Please!

  My arms wouldn’t force him back. My legs wouldn’t take me away. I didn’t want to be this close, but I couldn’t stop enticing him to carry on with his vile desires. My body consented to the madness against my will.

  This isn’t you, Derek.

  The words never made it past my lips.

  I’d have trembled and cried out if I could have. My eyes would have welled with tears and my lungs would have quaked with each unwanted stroke of his fingers down my ribs. A muffled moan of displeasure vibrated in my throat—a single, audible blip I’d been able to force through the barrier of his control, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.

  I imagined letting out a scream, forcing him back, and then scrambling to escape.

  When he kissed the side of my neck and grazed my throat with his tongue, I imagined myself holding my breath and clenching my teeth in rebellion, but instead I dropped my head back. I wanted to fight back, but my body only encouraged him to continue, responding to the uninvited advances with subtle sighs of pleasure and flitting, eager breaths. His teeth made shallow marks along my neck and the heat of his exhalations made me lightheaded.

  Please... No.

  I wanted to wake up. I wanted it all to go away.

  Long ago, I’d wanted him once. I’d thought about it, at least.

  But…

  I was married now, and…

  I didn’t want him to…

  Stop! Stop touching me!

  But he wouldn’t.

  He pulled the shoulder of my ragged shirt down, exposing my collar bone and cleavage, and then he leaned down to kiss me there. The fabric stretched until it tore, splitting across my chest and sliding away until it left me raw and exposed. I wanted to cover myself. At least, I tried.