The Long Night
Sept 25, 2018 17:34:59 GMT -8
Post by aabria on Sept 25, 2018 17:34:59 GMT -8
Faïza unsuccessfully stifled a yawn. The cold sheets shifted across her skin, sending a wave of goosebumps down her arms. She pulled her limbs in for warmth, fighting shivers of cold and dread. She recalled the previous hours’ activities with the surreal weightlessness of floating underwater. Unburdened by duty and reputation, she’d enjoyed time in the company of friends (friends?!) and taken Lance home. But laying here in the dark, spent and sober, Faïza felt as though she’d finally (if reluctantly) come up for air. A rising tide of guilt for a night spent ignoring her myriad responsibilities flowed up around her, but it was the realization that she still didn’t know if Lance was trustworthy that threatened to drown her.
She lay there, beside him, waiting for him to move. To act. To attack. The soft gray glow of her eyes pierced the darkness as she reached out with her power to “grab” all the metal bits and baubles in her bedroom. She was not the brand of paranoid that slept with a knife under her pillow; it was across the room on her vanity - a dagger-shaped sterling silver letter opener, though it could be in her hand just as fast. In this manner she continued, assessing her options while waiting for Lance to move against her. Every muscle in her body felt tensed and ready to spring into action. And yet, another long and incongruous yawn hit her. She blinked slowly…
The feeling of his arms suddenly wrapped around her jolted Faïza to consciousness. She was a flurry of movement in the darkness, first pulling herself from the bed towards the wrought iron windows, then arming herself with the little silver letter opener...and every other piece of metal in the house. Her heart raced, and through the deafening panic of it she felt every ounce of metal in a 20-meter radius, right down to the 64 half-inch upholstery staples set deep within the leather armchair in her study downstairs. She would pull it all - push it all to protect herself and her work, to end the threat. Her eyes flitted across the room trying to get ahead of Lance’s nigh-imperceptibly quick movements. She found him, still laying in bed, looking calmly up at her.
It didn’t make any sense. He should have attacked her by now. She would have never been more vulnerable than she’d been a minute earlier - naked and asleep less than a foot away from him. Every piece of evidence pointed towards Lance being the mole for whatever clandestine group was attempting to kill her. And yet, he’d had countless opportunities to do the job himself. Even if he was simply human, he could have poisoned her food, or switched her pain medication for something else, or smothered her with a goddamn pillow when she was post-op in the hospital. The realization of how much she actually entrusted her life into his hands made her stomach drop.
Confusion and embarrassment quickly gave way to anger, and she brandished the letter opener at him, nearly snarling. “Who are you? Really?”
He looked calm, if serious. Faïza waited for his expression to twitch towards rage or desperation or anything other than this unreadable calm. The adrenaline pumping through her system dragged the seconds out, but eventually he spoke. “I was born in the year 433 as the Christians recon it, in a place that poets can’t describe sufficiently.”
He might as well have spoken a foreign language. None of it answered her question; it barely made sense! She grew ever angrier, and from within the white-hot blur of her confusion and fury she felt Meena, the manifestation of her cool rationality, try to step forward. Faïza shoved her away with a growl.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” she shouted, her voice cracking. She couldn’t recall the last time she raised it. She never had to.
She raised her free hand to the side of her head, willing the fear-induced fogginess from her mind. That year was absurd. But then again, his name…
"Wait, are you saying you're...actually...Lancelot du Lac? From the legends?" She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her tone. Her eyes flitted over to the brooch he’d given to her. It sat on her vanity, somehow catching enough light to make the amber shine faintly.
For his part, Lance remained patiently sitting on the bed as she processed it all. He watched her carefully, trying to understand if not anticipate her precariously volatile state. He followed her eyes to the vanity. “Yes, I am. Not my finest hour, I’m afraid.”
Faïza’s brow furrowed slightly. She wasn’t entirely sure to what he was referring. Swords and the magical stones in which they resided were a very Western myth cycle. She grokked the basics: Arthur and Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table and Guinevere. Her mind stuck there, recalling something of the doomed affair of Sir Lancelot and his Queen. She felt a pang of something close to jealousy, but Lance’s words snapped her from her reverie.
“It belonged to her; Arthur gave it to her.”
He spoke softly and carefully, but it did not stop Faïza from becoming unmoored. The room swam around her, and she did not feel herself slide down the bedroom wall to the chill hardwood floor. Her eyes remained stuck on the letter opener, her weapon of choice when facing off against a literal Knight of the Round Table. She could have laughed. She did not.
“So you’re actually a kni-” she bit off the question. She pivoted to the only one that she needed answered right now. “But you’re not trying to kill me?”
“Yes, I am technically a knight I guess,” a rueful smile touched his lips as he exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. As quickly as it came, the smile disappeared into a frown. “No, I’m not trying not to kill you.”
Whether it was his preternatural speed or her daze, Faïza never saw him move from the bed before he was suddenly at her side, scooping her up from the floor. “There is no power that could make me do you any harm.”
There was nothing left but to believe him. All of the fear, panic, and anger dissipated, leaving only relieved exhaustion. Something still didn’t quite add up, though. If she seemed distant in the moment, it was only because she finally felt safe enough to string a cogent thought together. She turned her head, blinking with mild surprise at being held. Not unkindly, she extricated herself from him and began pacing across the room.
“It had to be you. You’re the only one with access to my schedule and whereabouts, not to mention knowledge of my powers. As my assis-”
She froze. Yes, only her executive assistants had enough access and information to pull off those two attacks. But then, Lance hadn’t always been her assistant. While she’d had many in her tenure at Hahn, only one was around when all of this started. Thank god that bitch was already in a body bag, or Faïza would already be out the door.
“Penelope.”
It surprised her when Lance nodded. He’d been incredibly surprising throughout this long, strange night. For the first time, her mind slipped back towards the earlier activities of the evening. She smiled at him as he joined her in standing. She felt unburdened in a way she had no memory of ever feeling in her adult life. This was someone who saw her scars without flinching, and knew the cold ruthlessness in her heart and did not fear it. He was, quite possibly, as strong as she. She would need strength to handle everything to come. Only one last question remained.
“So, why are you here?”
He was thoughtful for a time, his eyes far away. When he finally began to answer, it was Faïza that closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. His voice was low, filled with a deep sorrow she’d never heard in his normally professionally neutral tone.
"I failed someone once, and a great thing fell to ruin. There are times when the events of centuries focus on a handful of years. This is one of those times, and I'm sorry to say, that it all hinges on you and your friends. I'm here to make sure that no matter what happens you will not be alone."
Faïza stared fixedly at him for so long that blinking sent a pair of stinging tears down her cheeks. She ignored them, and kissed Lance forcefully enough to cause him to stagger back a step. She had a thousand thousand new and interesting and terrible questions unfolding before her, but they could wait. All of it could wait. This night, this knight, was hers.
She lay there, beside him, waiting for him to move. To act. To attack. The soft gray glow of her eyes pierced the darkness as she reached out with her power to “grab” all the metal bits and baubles in her bedroom. She was not the brand of paranoid that slept with a knife under her pillow; it was across the room on her vanity - a dagger-shaped sterling silver letter opener, though it could be in her hand just as fast. In this manner she continued, assessing her options while waiting for Lance to move against her. Every muscle in her body felt tensed and ready to spring into action. And yet, another long and incongruous yawn hit her. She blinked slowly…
The feeling of his arms suddenly wrapped around her jolted Faïza to consciousness. She was a flurry of movement in the darkness, first pulling herself from the bed towards the wrought iron windows, then arming herself with the little silver letter opener...and every other piece of metal in the house. Her heart raced, and through the deafening panic of it she felt every ounce of metal in a 20-meter radius, right down to the 64 half-inch upholstery staples set deep within the leather armchair in her study downstairs. She would pull it all - push it all to protect herself and her work, to end the threat. Her eyes flitted across the room trying to get ahead of Lance’s nigh-imperceptibly quick movements. She found him, still laying in bed, looking calmly up at her.
It didn’t make any sense. He should have attacked her by now. She would have never been more vulnerable than she’d been a minute earlier - naked and asleep less than a foot away from him. Every piece of evidence pointed towards Lance being the mole for whatever clandestine group was attempting to kill her. And yet, he’d had countless opportunities to do the job himself. Even if he was simply human, he could have poisoned her food, or switched her pain medication for something else, or smothered her with a goddamn pillow when she was post-op in the hospital. The realization of how much she actually entrusted her life into his hands made her stomach drop.
Confusion and embarrassment quickly gave way to anger, and she brandished the letter opener at him, nearly snarling. “Who are you? Really?”
He looked calm, if serious. Faïza waited for his expression to twitch towards rage or desperation or anything other than this unreadable calm. The adrenaline pumping through her system dragged the seconds out, but eventually he spoke. “I was born in the year 433 as the Christians recon it, in a place that poets can’t describe sufficiently.”
He might as well have spoken a foreign language. None of it answered her question; it barely made sense! She grew ever angrier, and from within the white-hot blur of her confusion and fury she felt Meena, the manifestation of her cool rationality, try to step forward. Faïza shoved her away with a growl.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” she shouted, her voice cracking. She couldn’t recall the last time she raised it. She never had to.
She raised her free hand to the side of her head, willing the fear-induced fogginess from her mind. That year was absurd. But then again, his name…
"Wait, are you saying you're...actually...Lancelot du Lac? From the legends?" She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her tone. Her eyes flitted over to the brooch he’d given to her. It sat on her vanity, somehow catching enough light to make the amber shine faintly.
For his part, Lance remained patiently sitting on the bed as she processed it all. He watched her carefully, trying to understand if not anticipate her precariously volatile state. He followed her eyes to the vanity. “Yes, I am. Not my finest hour, I’m afraid.”
Faïza’s brow furrowed slightly. She wasn’t entirely sure to what he was referring. Swords and the magical stones in which they resided were a very Western myth cycle. She grokked the basics: Arthur and Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table and Guinevere. Her mind stuck there, recalling something of the doomed affair of Sir Lancelot and his Queen. She felt a pang of something close to jealousy, but Lance’s words snapped her from her reverie.
“It belonged to her; Arthur gave it to her.”
He spoke softly and carefully, but it did not stop Faïza from becoming unmoored. The room swam around her, and she did not feel herself slide down the bedroom wall to the chill hardwood floor. Her eyes remained stuck on the letter opener, her weapon of choice when facing off against a literal Knight of the Round Table. She could have laughed. She did not.
“So you’re actually a kni-” she bit off the question. She pivoted to the only one that she needed answered right now. “But you’re not trying to kill me?”
“Yes, I am technically a knight I guess,” a rueful smile touched his lips as he exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. As quickly as it came, the smile disappeared into a frown. “No, I’m not trying not to kill you.”
Whether it was his preternatural speed or her daze, Faïza never saw him move from the bed before he was suddenly at her side, scooping her up from the floor. “There is no power that could make me do you any harm.”
There was nothing left but to believe him. All of the fear, panic, and anger dissipated, leaving only relieved exhaustion. Something still didn’t quite add up, though. If she seemed distant in the moment, it was only because she finally felt safe enough to string a cogent thought together. She turned her head, blinking with mild surprise at being held. Not unkindly, she extricated herself from him and began pacing across the room.
“It had to be you. You’re the only one with access to my schedule and whereabouts, not to mention knowledge of my powers. As my assis-”
She froze. Yes, only her executive assistants had enough access and information to pull off those two attacks. But then, Lance hadn’t always been her assistant. While she’d had many in her tenure at Hahn, only one was around when all of this started. Thank god that bitch was already in a body bag, or Faïza would already be out the door.
“Penelope.”
It surprised her when Lance nodded. He’d been incredibly surprising throughout this long, strange night. For the first time, her mind slipped back towards the earlier activities of the evening. She smiled at him as he joined her in standing. She felt unburdened in a way she had no memory of ever feeling in her adult life. This was someone who saw her scars without flinching, and knew the cold ruthlessness in her heart and did not fear it. He was, quite possibly, as strong as she. She would need strength to handle everything to come. Only one last question remained.
“So, why are you here?”
He was thoughtful for a time, his eyes far away. When he finally began to answer, it was Faïza that closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. His voice was low, filled with a deep sorrow she’d never heard in his normally professionally neutral tone.
"I failed someone once, and a great thing fell to ruin. There are times when the events of centuries focus on a handful of years. This is one of those times, and I'm sorry to say, that it all hinges on you and your friends. I'm here to make sure that no matter what happens you will not be alone."
Faïza stared fixedly at him for so long that blinking sent a pair of stinging tears down her cheeks. She ignored them, and kissed Lance forcefully enough to cause him to stagger back a step. She had a thousand thousand new and interesting and terrible questions unfolding before her, but they could wait. All of it could wait. This night, this knight, was hers.