[COMPLETE] Postmortem

[Amandine Rossi]

Amandine did not show any signs of recognition as he spoke, but the memories which had been his own and that she had seen thrice now took on meaning. There had been a child, eyes as blue as the tropical shores, and a woman whom she’d not paid much mind to. The only reason she could remember the child was because of his eyes, they reminded her of her own, the same she had passed on to her child. Her fingers stopped their tapping as he revealed the cause of their death, and then she turned around as he questioned her about Ignazio and Claudio. Lowering her gaze to the floor, she took a deep breath, a habit that would surely take time to end for she continued to believe it made a difference.

In a fire

Sighing, the redhead stepped away from the mirror and ran a hand through her unruly locks. She climbed into an armchair, across from him so that she could face him at a distance. Drawing up her legs once more, she leaned back into the armchair, fiddling with her long nails as she held his gaze.

I don’t understand any of this, Tarquin... she admitted, knees bowing out against the high arm rests on either side, her ankles crossing. Forcing herself to stop fidgeting, she heaved a sigh and kept her eyes on him, Explain it to me from the beginning, so that I can understand. Please. What... what did you do to me?

[Quin Contiello]

Tarquin was not slow. They died in a fire, she said. And she said no more. The other night, when he’d met her for the second time, when she wasn’t quite herself—there’d been an attachment to the fire. The fire burned deep within her, and it was yet another thing he wanted to question her about. Did she know? Or was she completely oblivious? The fact that she did not continue, did not explain how the fire started or why they should have died in it, had Tarquin assuming that she might feel guilt. She might feel that it was her fault. And maybe it was. But she obviously was not going to tell him, not tonight. Perhaps some night in the future.

Tarquin could wait. He was patient.

And he couldn’t ask her questions when she had questions of her own. Tarquin refrained from sighing—wasn’t it completely obvious, what he had done to her? But he tried to put himself in her shoes. There had been doubt. Of course a doubtful mind had proper reason not to understand. A doubtful mind created reasons not to understand—it built walls to keep out the information that it didn’t want. So Tarquin would explain...slowly and clearly, he would try to explain.

He leant forward in his chair, that subconscious act that gave away his want to be closer to her.

From the beginning. You took gold from me at the station...if you had not, you would not be here, with me. I could not keep my eyes from you. I followed you. I did not... plan, any of it. I saw you with the fire, and I was curious. Your friends ran away, and I could not leave you alone. We went to the bar and I thought you understood, now I know you did not. I took your blood from you, but at the same time you took mine. It was not normal. It is why the change, for you, was so easy. They do not usually happen at the same time. Usually, the vampire takes the human blood and waits until they are nearly dead, before giving their blood back. You... you were different.

And then he stopped, gaze locked with Amandine’s, inquring—she had fed that night, and then they’d come back here. The rest she had to remember, surely. He had explained how it had happened. But was there something he was missing? Some vital explanation that she wanted and that he was failing to give? Maybe an explanation as to how...

How... I do not know. The blood, I think...maybe it is magic. He shrugged. That was all he had to offer... if she needed to know more, her questions would have to be more pointed.

[Amandine Rossi]

Amandine eventually leaned into one side of the armchair and remained still throughout the remainder of his account. Tarquin’s simple narrative helped her trace certain links between memories that had been lost to her prior, but it did nothing in regards to explaining what the blood exchange truly meant. There were many questions that came to mind, but she found no resolve to vocalize them tonight. His account made her realized how weary she was, for she had not had any proper sleep in three full days; insomnia had plagued her many nights prior to the makeshift exorcism he was referring to. Despite having gain energy through the consummation of his blood, the redhead was not entirely interested in pursuing this conversation tonight.

They had done sufficient progress considering her behaviour the previous morning. Additionally, even if he did tell her about things, she would surely forget them unless the approach was hands-on; and she had no energy to go running about learning to be a vampire.

After a rather lengthy moment of silence, Amandine inhaled and pushed herself out of the chair. There was surely a room that she could claim as her own, but to do so would result in the loss of Tarquin’s company. This was such a big house that despite its beauty, she found it eerie. Making her way over to the couch, she bent forward mere inches away from him. Their faces were centimetres apart, her lips parted as she held his gaze whilst her hand reached for the handle of her duffle bag. Once in her possession, she snatched the thing and straightened up, offering him a blank expression as though asking: what?

I need to think. I’m going to bed, she announced, hoisting the bag over her shoulder as she turned her back to him. There was only one place she knew he would have no choice but to be near her.

[Quin Contiello]

They remained in silence a minute or two after Tarquin had explained what he thought she wanted explained. She did not look confused or angry; he assumed she was processing the information, trying to make it fit in her own thoughts and memories. Or maybe he hadn’t told her anything that she wanted to hear. He really had no way of knowing. He waited for further questions, for anything that she might have to say... but there was nothing.

Instead, she pushed herself off the couch and stated that she was going to bed.

Tarquin remained perfectly still as Amandine reached over him to retrieve her bag. His eyes were hooded and he inhaled deeply, revelling in her scent and in the general warmth of her. And then she was gone, her backside swaying perfectly even though the clothes were not fitted to show it off.

Tarquin sighed, and glanced out the window. The night was still young—there were still a few hours until sunrise, and he was not tired. In fact, he was never tired. He slept during the day because he had to—it was like a dead weight that forced him into unconsciousness. Before then, however, he would not sleep.

He sat for half an hour or so just to gather his thoughts, or even just to drown in them. The memories of the past blended with those of the present. Guilt, loathing, regret, fear, fury, love—they were all accompaniments to the memories that Tarquin indulged in, but he never settled on a single memory or a single emotion. They all broiled in his gut, in his heart and in his mind. And he could have stayed that way, silent and still, for hours on end.

But he was always subconsciously aware of the extra presence in the house, and soon stirred in order to satisfy his need to be close to it.

Before climbing the stairs to find Amandine, he went to the small library and retrieved the book he’d been reading. Dante’s Inferno—on the even pages the verse was written in Italian, and on the odd pages it was written in English. He liked to compare the two. He liked how the modern Italian sounded, and he was teaching it to himself, if not for the purpose of a good disguise than to amuse himself, or keep his brain occupied.

He climbed the stairs slowly, focusing on that extra presence and steering his direction toward it. He ended up at his own bedroom, peering inside to find Amandine curled in his own bed. He smiled, then, triumphant. Unless this was some complex plan of hers to rid him of his life... but Tarquin was never such a pessimist, and nor did he believe she would try.

He placed the book on the dresser while he went to the closet to remove his clothing; he contemplated going to bed wearing nothing, like he usually did. But, seeing as he had company this time, he decided against it. He retrieved a plain white pair of boxers from one of the drawers. He’d never worn them, but he would now. He was surprised at just how comfortable they were.

Then, retrieving the book from the dresser he sauntered toward the bed—he was forced to take the side he was not used to, but it didn’t bother him as much as it could have. He slipped beneath the sheet and leant heavily against the headboard; the overhead light was off, but he switched on the lamp beside him, clearing his throat as he settled more comfortably into place and flicked the book open to the page he’d left it on.

[Amandine Rossi]

Amandine took her time as she made her way up the stairs, familiarizing herself with the surroundings for she did not remember the previous time she had been up them. Despite recalling moments from the precedent night, there were a few blanks she had yet to fill. She did not feel much other than relief and confusion right now, but surely she would come to terms with the simplistic explanation he had given her. At least now she had an outline which she use to organize her thoughts.

Glancing over her shoulder, the fledging was not bothered by his absence. For now, she was quite content with spending some time in solitude whist she pursued her usual evening routines. Setting her bag upon an empty armchair, she searched for something more suitable to wear in bed. Earlier she had been feeling cold and hence clad herself in comfortable attire, but now her body temperature proved to be warm enough for something less bulky and warming. Pulling out a black, cotton nightdress, the female made her way to the bathroom, where the would gather her hair into a side braid before brushing her teeth and washing her face.

Soon enough she found her way between the sheets, body moulding into the mattress as she settled on her side, back turned to the door. Closing her eyes, she plumped the pillow beneath her neck and pulled the covers over her bare shoulders, releasing a long sigh. Despite her weary state, sleep did not seem to come easily. And so she remained, still, caught up in between the realm of unconsciousness and consciousness; aware of Tarquin’s presence growing stronger.

It was only when he settled in the bed that Amandine rolled onto her back, glancing up at him. He was reading, and though she surely could see the title if she wished to, there was little interest in finding out. Reaching across his bare stomach, she moved lethargically, eventually finding herself pressed against his torso with her head on his shoulder. Glancing at the pages, she raised an eyebrow before gazing up at him. All the while her fingers gingerly caressed over a scar upon his chest.

Read... she beckoned him, raising her hand to her hair and pushing the braid backwards. Reaching for the book, she lightly pressed on its pages to see the left pages, only to find familiar words.

No... read the Italian

[Quin Contiello]

He hadn’t got very far when he felt the movement beside him. Amandine shifted so that she could see what he was reading, and Tarquin revelled in the proximity. It had been so long, and though he’d always had a sense of something being missing from his bed at night, he never realised what it was until now. For over a century he’d slept side by side with Antonia. Of course, he’d spent more than twenty centuries alone in a coffin. But for most of that time he’d been comatose, completely unaware of his surroundings or his loneliness.

Now, he had Amandine. Red. His fiery addiction. The woman, the vampiress, that he would never regret. At least, he hoped he would never regret her.

She asked for him to read. Because she spoke English, the majority of the time, he immediately went for the words written in English—besides, it was the language he had less trouble with. But she demanded that he read the Italian.

Tarquin sighed, glancing at Amandine with a blank expression on his face. There was no reason why he shouldn’t indulge her, so he grudgingly gave in. He started at Canto fourteen;

Poi che la carita del nation loco
Mi strinse, raunai le fronde sparte
E rende’le a colui, che’era gia fioco.
Indi venimmo al fine ove si parte
Lo secondo giron dal terzo, e dove
Se vede di giustizia orribil arte...

The words were halting, however, and interrupted often my Amandine who thought it best to correct Tarquin’s pronunciation. This went on for a while, until finally Amandine’s attempts became less loud, and she didn’t protest when Tarquin refused to repeat himself. Finally, he was allowed to read on his own, without any interruptions. And by the end of Canto fifteen he realised Amandine had fallen asleep.

He stopped reading aloud, then, and continued to examine the passages on his own in silence. When he felt his own limbs begin to feel heavy and his own eyes to droop, he dropped the book beside the bed and reached over to turn the lamp off. As carefully as he could he rearranged himself comfortably, shifting Amandine gently so that she wouldn’t be disturbed.

Her head still rested upon his shoulder, hands curled by his chest. Tarquin’s arm reached around so that his hand rested upon her hip, his head tilted toward hers so that he could inhale the scent of her hair. His own body twisted slightly to accommodate hers, his free hand curling between them, settling close to hers. And then he was asleep as the sun rose into the sky, oblivious to the world around him.


[Translation:
Seized, in pure charity, by love of home,
I gathered up those scattered leaves, then bore them
To my countryman, his voice grown dim.
And then, from there, we reached the boundary
Of circuits two and three and witnessed now,
In awe and horror, how skilful justice is...]