Chapter 18
XVIII
When daylight finally fades into dusk, I return to my room, wash myself, and change into my pyjamas. I coil my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, quickly slip my boots on, and close the door quietly behind me. Then I sneak through the hallway, trying to avoid Bayard’s detection.
When I turn the first corner, I bump straight into Aba?’ chest. I nearly fall over from the impact, but he catches me with one large hand. I let out an embarrassing sound, halfway between a hiccup and a gasp.
“Shhh,” he whispers, grabbing my hand and quietly pulling me through the castle.
When we reach the root cellar, I understand where he’s taking me.
Today, the fire is already lit, and the room is comfortably toasty.
Smoke drips thickly from the little cathedral.
A comforting and now familiar scent greets my senses.
Aba? pulls me toward the hearth. Between the piles of books, furs and pillows are placed in a heap, a fruit and cheese-laden tray in the centre.
“Oh,” I gasp.
Aba? shrugs and waves his hand like it’s nothing.
He sits on one of the pillows, stretching his long legs across the furs.
His feet are too close to the fire, and I wonder if it hurts.
When he beckons me to join him, I arrange myself close by.
He holds the tray up, his eyes filled with so much hope and fear, it makes my heart lurch.
“A-Aba?, I…” I stammer.
But before I can finish, Aba?’ face contorts as if he were struck and turns away. The tray nearly clatters to the floor, and the hope is sucked from the room quicker than it appeared.
“That is not my name,” he says through clenched teeth.
I can tell he’s trying not to shout at me. I observe, with quiet detachment, how my pulse swells and a faint wave of thrill and danger stirs deep inside.
“I didn’t know. Will you tell me?” I try to ask as gently as I can.
He’s staring into the fire again. Does it calm him—or is he hiding in the flames?
“I have never spoken my name aloud,” he says in a whisper.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
He rubs his hand over his face in frustration. “I do not know if I was named. As a boy, I mean. I have no memories,” he says quietly.
I put my hand right next to his on the floor, almost touching but not quite. He looks down at it.
“My…maker… he was known as Aba?,” he explains. “That is what mortals called him millennia before he found me. He was so proud of it, the way they feared him. When he took me, he was called Sire Aba?.”
“When was this?” I ask.
“I had no sense of time, no knowledge of any calendar. But I vividly remember shades of sand and, within, a golden glow. Sounds of joy and celebration, so loud—nearly too much. The air was thick with food and spices. Colours…such vivid colours,” he replies.
“I find it difficult to speak of what came before. The memories slip through my fingers. They wind into one another, a shadow…” he trails off.
I move my fingers over his thumb, caressing it slowly. “I think I understand.”
It’s a title, not a name. Proof of ownership. He nods slowly and then stays completely still, not saying a word. The pain and suffering are written on his face.
I want to ask him his true name. I want to know more than anything, but I see him struggling. So I do the only thing I can think of.
“Is that food for me?” I ask.
The moment I speak, his body animates again, like a secret button I pushed. Then the dots finally connect for me.
“The apple. The stew. It was you, wasn’t it?” I ask.
He shrugs almost imperceptibly.
“Wait, did you cook?” I blurt out.
He looks at me shyly. “Was it truly terrible?”
“What? No! I mean, maybe a bit more salt, but…” I pause. “That was, uhm…”
What am I even doing? Just shut up and say thank you.
“Thank you.”
The way he looks at me at those words breaks my heart, as if this simple thank you was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him.
“Truly?” he asks.
“Yes, I really needed it.”
“I don’t eat,” he confesses. “I know nothing of cookery. I found a book, but the instructions were…lacking.”
“It was the best thing I’ve eaten all month.” And funnily enough, that’s not even a lie.
I reach toward the tray. He picks up an apple and slices it too quickly for human eyes to follow.
When he’s done, he hands me a piece, two seeds sticking out of the core.
I take them out, put them on the tray, and eat it in one bite.
He grins as I try to chew the entire thing, puffing my cheeks out when I swallow.
He hands me slice after slice, watching me eat every piece.
When I’m done, he leans toward me. The hairs on my neck stand up when his cold breath touches my skin.
“I call myself Lazarus,” he whispers, like it’s the biggest secret he’s told me yet.
“Lazarus,” I quietly mouth. “It’s beautiful!”
He looks at me, incredulous. “You really think so?”
“Yeah! It’s unique. It suits you.”
“You do not think it too…pointed?” he asks.
“ I don’t understand,” I reply.
“You know. Obvious. The Resurrection and so forth,” he says as if I know exactly what he means.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if it’s from a book or something, I don’t really read, so, uhm, how about some cheese?” I nudge my chin at him, and he hands me a wedge that looks way too large for my mouth. “Can I call you Lazarus?”
“I wish it,” he says quietly. He takes the cheese from my hand, splits it in two, and hands one piece back.
“You must think I’m so ignorant and inexperienced.”
“Why do you think that?” he asks, with concern in his voice.
I shrug. “I mean, I’m 34, and what do I know? I’ve seen nothing, lived nothing.” I grab the second piece of cheese out of his hand and swallow it quickly. “You, though…I mean, I can’t imagine what you’ve seen.”
“I know only what I find between the pages of books,” he says sadly. “I would not call this living. I am merely here. Nothing more.”
“Really?”
He nods and shrugs again. I want to ask him more, I really do. But each time certain subjects come up, his whole self just shrinks. I never know which ones, either. I wish I could make his anger come back; that was easier to take. But this…it’s too vulnerable and raw.
“How about that cherry?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
He hands me a particularly plump and juicy-looking piece.
I throw it in the air and catch it with my mouth, but it falls too fast and too deep, making me cough it up.
Lazarus looks dismayed, but I recover quickly and drop one moist pit into the palm of my hand.
His eyebrows rise, then he grabs the pit and holds it up to the light.
“How peculiar,” he mumbles, studying the object between his fingers like it’s the strangest object. Has he never seen a cherry before?
Lazarus takes another from the tray and, with the tips of his fingers, splits it in two.
The ruby liquid drips down his hand. I want to lick it off so badly that I can’t help but gulp.
He tilts his head in curiosity, following my gaze with his own.
He holds his fingers closer, cherry juice dripping further down his palm all the way to his wrist.
I lean in, slowly licking the sticky-sweet trail. Lazarus’ quiet gasp motivates me to suck harder at the cherry’s flesh still held between his fingers, then nip the tip before I lean back again. He stares at his hand like he has never seen it before.
I watch him intently as he sits there surrounded by the red glow of the fire.
The smooth waves of his hair shimmer unnaturally as he stares, eyes wild, breath caught, until my gaze catches on his wide mouth.
I swallow and suddenly feel impossibly hot.
All I can think of is what it would be like to kiss a mouth like that, the mouth of a murderer.
I move closer, until I’m leaning against Lazarus’ side.
He lifts his hand to caress my cheek, cupping my head while he strokes my face with his thumb.
I close my eyes, leaning further into the touch.
My limbs feel strangely frozen in place.
I want to touch him, too, to feel the silkiness of his hair.
I hesitate for a moment, worried that this might be too much, too intimate.
But he moves closer too, enveloping my body with his own, inviting me to touch him, to feel him around me.
I wrap strands of his hair around my fingers as if he would disappear if I let go even for a second.
My body tenses and relaxes in his arms, trying to find a way to diminish the space between us until there’s not even air left.
Lazarus’ breath tickles my skin, cold and ragged.
His eyes are a shade of red as deep as pomegranate flesh.
I’ve never felt an urge as intense as this.
The need to kiss him takes up every single atom left in this body.
I look at his mouth, leaning closer and closer still.
I feel the cold seeping from him, and it makes me shiver.
We’re so close to each other now, so entangled, I can almost feel the softness of his—
Lazarus shoots up. I sit back startled and confused.
He strides across the room, stopping in the shadows near his bed.
I don’t know what to do. I want to stand up and follow him.
But before I can make any decisions, he starts to pace restlessly in front of the fireplace with fists tightly balled up.
He’s bathed in the hearth’s glow, a dark silhouette with an outline of fire.
I try to make sense of this reaction, try to remember everything he told me about himself. But none of it seems to fit.
I stand up, moving toward him slowly, as if he was a skittish animal.
When I’m near, he stops pacing and leans against the hearth.
I gently put my hand on his shoulder, which rises quickly, as if he’s out of breath and desperately trying to calm himself.
Running a hand over his face, he lets out a quiet sigh of frustration.
I stand on my toes, wrapping my arms around him as best I can, and draw Lazarus down into a hug. With my head on his chest, I feel the rhythm of his breath: fast, erratic, and dragging.
Lazarus’ arms shift around me, pulling me tighter with a kind of desperation. We stay like this, eyes closed, pressing into each other with a quiet yearning until his breathing calms and his hands relax.