Chapter Text
He was slumped against the wall, hands trembling, truly afraid for the first time in two centuries. The pinstripe suit that had fit him perfectly less than two days ago hung from his frame like a cloak.
When Miriam finally revealed the cruelest truth of all, the one she had hidden from him from the very beginning, John realized his fate: his body decaying before his fading sight, he would be entombed in a coffin in the attic, helpless, immobile, forgotten--but alive and still cognizant for all eternity.
He had begged her to kill him, and the blood tears she had shed in confessing the truth that she could not, that there was no escape for him, wrung his heart, the heart that, despite her lies, still clove to Miriam. She moved towards him, intent on carrying him to his fate.
Somehow, he rose, his breath short, his body in torment.
"Miriam," he rasped.
Her hand touched his cheek, her surprising gentleness stirring his heart.
"So brave, my darling," she shook her head in sympathy, but with resolution. She moved toward him.
"I read Sarah's report, Miriam."
"Did you? I haven't yet."
"She writes that your blood dominates and destroys normal blood--in a chimp or in a human, at least theoretically."
"I don't understand, John, how does that matter?"
"You never did have time for science, did you, Miriam? It means that the reason I am being devoured from within is that your blood in my system has faded; it's run its course and is no longer motile." A flash of his old grin shone through the cracked lips, the bleak eyes.
She shook her head, perturbed, but not seeing the point he was laboring toward.
"It means that if we exchanged blood again, I might have a second chance, Miriam."
"No," she flinched. John caught her meaning immediately; if he was right, then all of her previous companions had gone into their boxes for naught.
"You weren't to know, my love," he comforted her, taking her hand in his feeble, desiccated one. "But if you act now, you will know!"
"But John, it's a guess--clever, possibly even right--but if you are wrong--who knows what could happen to you?"
"Could it be worse than eternal life without eternal youth? The unending nightmare of the struldbrugs in Swift? True death would be far better, Miriam!"
She mused, even as his heart lurched, and his balance grew more precarious. Finally, she reached a decision.
"Very well, John. We will try."
She helped him resume his seat, and knelt down beside him. She pulled the ankh from between her breasts, removed the jeweled capstone, and cut him, just enough to allow her to press her lips to the wound, and taste the spoiled blood in his veins.
Miriam drew the blade across her left breast, and pulled the ruined man's lips to feed. She cradled him gently, unsure of his fate, but holding him as he drank. When he could drink no more from her, he slumped beside her, and she guided his head to her lap to wait.
Her hands caressed his weathered, barely human-seeming face, as he wept. He murmured his thanks to her, kissed the hands that stroked him, until he suddenly spasmed in obvious agony. As he contorted in her arms, she held him tightly--a fall to the stone floor could shatter his bones--and so Miriam stood vigil over her broken consort, as he twitched, and cried in pain.
The night dragged on, with Miriam preventing him from damaging his already weakened and desiccating frame. She kept vigil over him, waiting for either true death, or the further shattering of his body. Her mind was tormented by the knowledge that Sarah Roberts, whom she had chosen to succeed John, might flee from her, and might be lost to her forever. As the dawn came, John quieted, hiding his face against her skirt, and the white pale flesh beneath. His breathing was stertorous, but consistent. By full daylight, the cries and shuddering had ceased. Unable to know what John's silence meant, Miriam stayed with him, expecting the worst even as the noonday came and went.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Miriam felt her thighs held tightly by a pair of arms that had, just last night, seemed fragile as glass. This grip, while not painful to Miriam (as if any of her companions could harm her) alarmed her. Some kind of crisis was clearly at hand.
A sound like a death-rattle echoed from the lips of her consort, and then she felt a familiar sensation, his lips kissing her thigh.
"John?" In all their years together, she had never spoken with such anxiety. In her astonishment, she saw that the hair that had deserted him in his fall had returned, thick and wavy, but the gold was now dulled, mixed with plentiful gray.
The body in her lap turned back to her, and carefully reared up.
The face that met her was one she had never seen. It was clearly John, but older, more fleshy, no longer the chiseled, slim perfection she had loved all these years. But the glint in his eye, the delighted smile, reconciled her to the man he had become.
"It worked," he breathed, "you saved me, Miriam."
"What are you feeling?" She asked.
"Almost normal," he grinned. "Do I--do I have my hair back?"
"You do," she could not help but match his bantering tone. "You look rather like your father," she clarified.
"Gray, paunchy, arrogant?"
"A fair amount of gray, dear," she acknowledged, "and a bit heavier, but alive and well."
He took her in his arms--or she took him--and they kissed.
When the kiss broke, Miriam met his eyes with her firmest gaze.
"Sarah Roberts is more vital to us than ever, John."
"Aye," he replied, a touch of his old accent asserting itself, "We've no idea how long this--grace period--will last. We need her, Miriam."
"And we shall have her John--and soon."