The masked man

by Tarator

Summary:

Danamir Corneille is the perfect man — charming, intelligent, and always on the move. His reputation of a traveling doctor has earned him both admiration and suspicion, he remains a mystery to everyone who crosses his path. But beneath his carefully crafted facade lies a secret, one so deeply hidden that few even dare to question his true identity.

You are a noble woman named Vermilyea Lament, known for her grace but shadowed by her cold, unpredictable nature. Her presence commands attention, but her actions leave many wondering whether she’s as immaculate as she appears or something darker.

Your paths collide in a dangerous game of power, secrets, and trust, as you navigate your growing obsession with one another. Will you unravel each other’s mysteries, or will the tangled web of your desires and betrayals destroy you both?

Chapter 1: New death, new beginning

Summary:

Ghosts from the past often like to dance among people during masquerades, because even they are part of the performance.

1897 - Veret, France.

The coffin lines up with the earth once the furious sun takes a central position in the endless, blue sky.

The weather is quite curious today. It has been raining all morning, not to mention night, so the air is thick with unpleasant moisture, while the soil under heavy boots is soft, wet and messy, forcing out a curse from numerous mouths as people dirty their shoes on it. However now, in the middle of the day, the rain is absent. In its place rays of sunshine pierce and twist the faces of the those who have left their homes. There is even a remarkably beautiful rainbow above their heads, which fades with every passing second, as if the many eyes observing it are making the bright colours shy and uncomfortable.

White clouds are dancing and forming a dome through the sky, almost acting childish, not paying attention to the sorrowful event just below them. If one thought about the landscape with a bit more artistic vision, it wouldn't be completely wrong to say heaven is opening its gates for yet another soul, who awaits peace after the many hard years of living. And if death is a saviour and life is a curse, then it's easy to see the difference between the above and below. Mass of people, gathered together to mourn over a dead body, which they selfishly shove into the ground, hoping the soul will make it to heaven. It's an absurdly ridiculous idea, but everyone follows it. Everyone stays still and will eyes locked into the coffin while the priest reads out loud from his sacred book.

You've never understood the purpose of funerals. As a child you believed it was a way to show how much grief can a person hold over someone else. Because you remember different faces, twisted from sadness, lowering down to kiss a corpse and then whisper sweet words, that meant nothing to the person who passed. One after one, in a straight line, men and women, sometimes children, offering endless love only for them to later on lock their beloved in a box, underground. In your position, which you share with nobody else, it's selfish - to limit someone from their freedom, to cage them, even in death and then let your bitter tears out for everyone to observe.

On the other hand, you understand that it is a tradition and it's important, yet you can't feel a thing while looking at that pale, non-living skin, or the lowered coffin, or the finished grave. And you acknowledge this is not because you barely knew the woman in it. The problem comes from somewhere deep inside you, it doesn't matter who you're going to see in that casket - a real reaction would ever come your way. There is faking it, of course, and you are a master in your craft. A mimicked twist of eyebrows, a forced tear or two....and calculated words, ready to glaze the ears, which need to hear them. That is why you bend your knees, allowing your expensive dress to touch the mud, and you get a handful of dirt, throwing it on top of the coffin, with a lowered head. Every single person around you does the same and by the time the last one is finished - the official funeral ends.

"Vermilyea!!"  - a voice rings through the air, soft and feminine, but loud enough to gather turned heads and curious eyes. You sigh, slowly smoothing the fabric of your dress as you stand up, supported by strong knees. It's really a pity, the nice green colour is now covered roughly with mud around the edges. You don't find it pleasant when your clothes get dirty, not because you can't get yourself another pair, but rather because of self image and the desire to look flawless all the time. You lift a hand to cover your colourful eyes from the shining rays of sunshine, while you try to locate the voice, which so eagerly called your name out.

You're not surprised to recognise your mother a few meters a head of you, standing elegantly and still, not too tall and not too short, just like your own height. She has decided to wear a black dress, convenient - after all she came to a funeral and she's smart enough to leisurely hide the spots from the stubborn, wet dirt with a dark fabric. Your mother - Miriam, who took the noble name Lament, wasn't always so well dressed and with such perfect, raven coloured curls, however her attitude and behaviour were always fitting the ones of an important figure in society. You can already understand as to why you're being called. "You're doing too much." rings inside your ears even without a real voice whispering it. You might not be too similar, or close to mother, but there is one thing you clearly share in common - the are of pretending, just for different reasons.

Every step reveals a bigger portion of her face, few wrinkles visible in between her eyebrows, under her eyes and around her red painted lips. She hates them, massaging her skin every night in hope to make them disappear. Yet the one who she's usually supposed to impress doesn't mind them in the slightest. You don't have an opinion on the topic, aging is natural and comes for us all. Your mother's fake smile looks bigger than usual as her eyes narrow down you and hate to find out your shoes are now ruined by the mug. How unfortunate.

"Are we leaving?" - you question, lifting up a hand to run through a few wavy strings of golden hair, that has gotten out of the proper order you spent half and hour adjusting them into this morning. The slight breeze is not your friend when it comes to the long, curvy river on top of your head, but you don't like it tied up, tamed...so you endure.

"Not yet, Vermilyea." - your mother's  tongue cuts like a sharp pair of scissors. She rolls her shoulders back, clearly frustrated, eyes searching for someone in the the crowd, but between so many faces she doesn't seem to find her desired one. So only you remain in her center of attention. - "Élise was a very good friend of our family, we should stay more and...mourn her properly." - despite her hard to find words you don't find a single track of grief on that pale face in front on you.

You've only seen Madame Élise twice. The first time she was trying to sell an old jewelry box to your mother, you remained close to them, watching silently as the other woman convinced your mother to buy not only the old box, but also tons of cheap necklaces she doesn't wear anymore, and she accepted. If you truly knew Miriam Lament you wouldn't be surprised, she's a masked aristocrat, always trying to fit into the role she accepted more than fifteen years ago. The second time you spotted the now dead woman was close to the woods, where you usually go to search for crows. Élise was lifting her skirt for another man back then, younger, handsome and... dirty. It wasn't so long ago, and of course there were rumours about her dying from a shameful infection, however only her husband could really tell the truth.

"Staying by her grave won't change anything." - you see how your mother's hand tremble with anticipation, her rings threatening to fall off. Instead of lifting her palm to smack your cheek, she just calms clears her throat.

"Then change yourself, Vermilyea." - she lifts her chin in direction of the ground of people, who are still staying by the grave, watering it with tears. - "Your opinion is not superior." - your reaction is limited to a quiet hm.

Soon, another figure arrives at the scene. Just the one Miriam was looking for. Her facial expression immediately changes to a soft one, with a more realistic smile and eyes, filled with care. Your father is a proud and handsome man, with heart so full of love towards your mother that  sometimes hurts him. You're often compared to him, despite having no biological connection with the man. It's certain you carry the last name of Richard Lament, but the kinship ends there, he has raised you as his child, with affection and love, but you could never return the same to him. You're indifferent, he's just a parent figure, just like your mother.

He puts a hand around his wife's waist, bringing her close for a kiss. If Miriam has something against his beard she makes sure to not show it. Not like there are any signs she doesn't like it. The man's beard is in dark, shiny colour, similar his hair, but the area around his chin, lips and overall mouth is in slight lighter colour, grey to almost  orange. People talk and laugh about it, some praise him for being such an obedient husband and spending most of his time between his wife's legs, which he never denies. He has had many lovers, paid and unpaid, but never a wife and Miriam was his wife. Richard whispers something in her ear and your mother's lips form an almost perfect 'O'. 

"Vera, if you're so disinterested in paying respect to the dead..." - she refers to you with the part of your name, which aims to represent your grandmother Vera. You've never met the woman, but your mother talks highly of her, as if she was someone important and not yet another maid for a rich salesman. Miriam lifts a gloved finger, pointing somewhere behind her husband, to the direction he came from. And sure enough there is another man there, waiting. - "Why don't you comfort the living? Monsieur Pierre must be suffering, he could use some company..."

You nod, perfectly understanding your mother's intentions. It's not about comfort, it's a sick game of the rich. Find yourself a younger wife in the middle of a funeral, dedicated for your last. You've been through few other candidates for your hand in marriage already, so naturally you've grown to accept that you have to talk with them, and God forbid... meet them again sometimes. You usually manage to make them become distant after one conversation. You plan to do the same. However, just as you swirl to the side, ready to fight the mud through your destination, you feel a hand to your shoulder and you turn back around.

"Don't forget..." - your mother murmurs, the back of her palm slowly tracing your cheek. Her touch is cold and ghostly, foreign and distant, yet it's still there. - "talk in french and smile more, yes?" - she pulls on your skin, forcing your lips to form a thin and fake symbol of affection and good will. - "Like a good girl should, hm?"

Once you get far away to not be able to hear clear, your father quickly turns to Miriam with a sorrowful expression.

"You're pushing her too much." - he shares his worries not loud enough to root out suspicion from nearby curious ears.

"I'm guiding her, there is a difference." - the man observes how a single vein pops out on his wife's forehead, possibly of irritation. The slight squeezing of her left eye confirms it, although it could be because of the sun. Just to be certain nothing  external is bothering her, Richard subtly moves in front of her, passing his body weight from leg to leg, while pretending to fix his bowtie.

"Blindly." - he underlines, earning himself a scoff, however it doesn't stop him from adding to his point. - "Into an old man's hands."

"A rich old man." - Miriam's painted lips go thin with dripping impatience, she squeezes her hands into fists, while breathing a bit more heavily through her nose. Her chest, strangely exposed for a funeral, raises up and down, as if the tight corset she's wearing is unexpectedly bothering her, which would normally never happen, because she's used to the pain she has to endure to stay beautiful. Her eyes narrow down at her husband. - "And why are you acting like you didn't just help us out by  making him stay a little longer?"

"I can never refuse my wife." - if it weren't for public image Richard would be already kissing down her neck and collarbone, finding it hard to stop himself as usual due to how appealing his wife looked. He's not a man to shy away from the fact that he lives under a woman's boot, he accepts his reality with warm and open arms. Miriam is an intelligent woman, so he listens and obeys. That's why when she asked him to talk with Monsieur Pierre and convince him to stay a bit more in the graveyard, rather than go home and grief alone - he did it with no questions. But of course, this precisely calculated manipulation was never about how that pitiful widower is feeling. - "But you know... Vermilyea is marvelous, don't waste her beauty and youth by marrying her off to someone who's having a chase with death."

"We are in no position to choose her husband freely." - perhaps six years ago they would have been in a better situation, with Vermilyea being younger and more desired. Hundreds of candidates for her pure self in line, hoping to get lucky. However both Miriam and Vermilyea were too proud back then, rejecting little boys with a strong hand, not expecting it to backfire at them. - "We're desperately offering to whoever decides to take."

"Still, it's not right." - Richard believes he can save and protect his daughter through her whole life, it's what he truly wants to happen, but he knows it's impossible.

"It's easy for you, the moment you're short in money you run to your brother for help, but I... know how hard it is to earn." - Miriam's piercing gaze is inescapable, additionally with her strong voice she succeeds in making her husband shift in his place. Her background is of no rich family, she's not a real noble, no matter how much she pretends. Miriam was but a maid, which so happen to catch the attention of Richard while he was visiting his brother, for whom the woman was working for in those distant, but never forgotten times.

"My darling, you're talking like we're poor." - Richard decides to play it safe with a low laugh, a weak attempt for a joke. It's true, 'poor' is not exactly their financial situation, but they are definitely spending more than they are getting. Richard is a skillful salesman here in France, similar to his brother back in Romania, however he could never get on the same  level as the grand Apolon Lament.

"We're close to hitting that rock bottom, especially if you continue with your weekly gamble." - those words force the man to lift a hand and scratch the back of his neck with a shaky hand. He's a good person, attending church, devoted to his work and family, yet everyone has a weak spot and his is the thrill of winning more money through gambling games. Even though, Richard is rarely the winner. Miriam tilts a strong and confident chin towards her daughter's direction, her back straight as a ruler. - "The solution is to marry Vermilyea off, so both she and us can spend money without worrying it's not going to be enough." - after all two expensive looking woman are too much for one household, therefore it would be easier if Richard was only occupied with spoiling his wife, while Vermilyea found a nice husband to take care of her.

"Is that man truly your solution, then, Miriam?" - after a short pause, Richard asks softly, but no answer follows.

In the meantime you finally manage to safety arrive at your destination. The man in front of you doesn't move or even try to greet you. You find that rude, however you don't seem to care enough to make a comment. You just remain in a place close to him, holding your already ruined dress in one hand, already imagining how you're going to throw it away in the fireplace this very same night and watch it burn, the unpleasant mud finally leaving your life. You take a deep breath, before opening full lips and letting out words, for which you believe will surely root out attention.

"My mother says grief is a temporary feeling—unpleasant and deep, but short in time." - as expected, Monsieur Pierre turns his head towards you, finally. He's not a beautiful man, if you had no manners you would immediately say ugly. Half of his hair is no longer occupying his scalp, though he has a long and thick mustache. It doesn't suit him, it's unkept and gives a poor look. Nothing like your father's beard, for which he takes
care and attention. You don't meet his eyes as you continue. - "It could only ruin you if you allow it."

"Your mother...doesn't really strike me as the one to say that, mademoiselle." - you lift an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting such a man to discover your truth so early one. You're honest with yourself and you understand that you have no idea how to experience grief or empathy for all it matters. But you have observations, about others, about normal people with normal emotions and you write down the right way to express the things you can't feel yourself. You were still a child when you discovered the phrase 'My mother says.." and then adding your own ideas and  interpretations. Noone judges a child who repeats what it has heard, if anything people would blame the mother, but never out loud, never in public. So it worked perfectly for you. Until now, of course.

"You'd be surprised by the things my mother says, Monsieur." - you handle the situation calmly, it doesn't matter if you had been discovered in a lie,there is always covering it. The man observes you in a bizarre way and judging by how he talks about Miriam, you can note her and Élise weren't as close as she says. The fact only makes your vision over how funerals are selfish acts even more clear. - "Especially when she thinks no one's really listening."

"And do you listen?" - a direct strike.

"Only when it serves me right." - you shift in your place, fixing your sleeve in the meantime, acting unbothered and cold, indifferent. You don't like how Monsieur Pierre has taken a closer observation towards your eyes. No one can blame him, there are surely an attraction. You were unfortunate enough to be born with one ocean colored and one as green as the grass eye. Your mother says it's a curse from the devil. You're no believer, but you hate how much unwanted attention your eyes are capable of summoning. After a second or two—the man laughs.

"Vermilyea was it?" - his whole facial expression is now changed, lips turned upside in a smile, while he moves a little closer. - "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady, but tell me, dear, why are you approaching me in such language?" - that's right, you were supposed to communicate in French, not English. Most people in France are pretty distant with foreigners, yet your family has always been an exception, possibly because of your father's position. - "Can't you speak proper French?" - a short mocking pause. - "Don't disappoint me by saying you're one those people...who sound like spanish cows with bad accents?"

"I take lessons, Monsieur Pierre, however I should excuse myself — my French isn't truly the best." - a lie. Well, not entirely. Your pronunciation is not too bad and you understand when others talk to you, in audition you're very  good in grammar and vocabulary, but your problem comes from having absolutely no respect for the language. You despite it. While on the topic — you also hate English, however you were forced to talk in it your whole life, especially while growing up because you were simply in an English home, where Romanian, your mother's tongue, was forbidden. Of course, when you moved to France and you were forced to study another foreign language, you tried your best to fail on purpose, however your mother continued to send you to those expensive lessons. You've come to a decent level, in theory, but in reality you can't form a proper sentence if you don't memories if first. Faking and more faking, always and forever.

The man doesn't say much after that. He goes silent, looking in the distance, eyes locked onto his wife's grave. You find it strange to why he's not right next to it, however it's not interesting enough for you to ask. You don't even know why you decide to continue the conversation, knowing very well you can come back to your mother at the very second and say that Monsieur Pierre wasn't really interested in another woman. But for the sake of trying.

"How old was she?"

"Forty-seven..." - he answers, his lower lip slightly bending in a sorrowful arch, yet he's quick to cover it with a smile. - "after twelve years of marriage she left me alone at my own very age of fragile fifty-nine."

Old pig. Does your mother even know? You're not going to  try and romance someone as old as a dying tree in the woods. You're not against your future partner being older, in fact the one you carnally desire is indeed not close to your own age, by how much you're not certain, however, it's definitely not more than thirty years, certainly not a lifetime.

"Do you miss her?" - you ask, softly, tilting your head like a curious child. But the question drips with something less innocent. Your strong perfume seems to have reached his nose because he wrinkles it. Good, you've spent a great amount of time of rubbing that perfumed water around your collarbone and chest this morning.

"Of course I do." - Monsieur Pierre sounds certain, as if your question is somewhere between being useless, confusing or simply — stupid.

"That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?" - you're not exactly sure where you're going with your point, but you need to make it clear you're not the easy and obedient woman he's searching for, you will not be a replacement for his wife. - "To miss someone. To ache like that. I wonder..." - you pause, lips parting slightly, as if uncertain whether you should continue, however that line is already crossed. - "I wonder if she would’ve missed you, had it been the other way around?" - with Madame Élise, covered IN black from head to toe, crying over her late husband's grave. The poor widow, all alone in the world now, with no freedom to marry again, because she's no man.

"Why wouldn't she?" - he turns to look at you sharply, the air stiffening around him. Monsieur Pierre is looking uneasy. He knows you're onto something, he senses it, yet he's uncertain where the conversation will take him.

You smile faintly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting before you drop it, light as a feather, cruel as a blade. - "Only because... I once saw her. With another man. It was quite late. They seemed... familiar. Too familiar for grief." - you purposely lift a hand to cover your face, as if you're embarrassed to even mention such thing.

Monsieur Pierre changes in a matter of seconds. His expression drops down, possibly along with his heart. His lips switch in a grimace while he furrows his eyebrows and squeezes his hands into fists. You wonder if Élise was alive, would he hit here now? Knowing the truth of how she ran after pleasure and not love? You can't help but crack a hidden smile, the reaction thrilling you more than you would admit. The little huff he lets out is a beautiful note of violin for your ears.

"That—whore!" - he screams, earning himself a few surprised looks, however noone comes closer to acknowledge what exactly is going on. He taps him leg strong on the ground, ruining his boot and splashing more mud over your dress. You suppress the 'tch' sound, urging to come out of your throat. - "I've given her everything! Money, clothes, jewellery, whatever she asked for!" - he angrily splashes more mud, his eyes full of fury. - "She doesn't even deserve this funeral!"

"Please, Monsieur Pierre, we shouldn't judge the dead for their sins." - if you actually felt someone towards the man, you would have tried to comfort him with a hand over his trembling back. But you're not the person to do it. If anything, you move aside, not wanting more mess on your already ruined dress. - "You've punished her enough." - by shoving her deep into the earth, you desire to add, yet you stop yourself. The man doesn't add anything else either.

You think of saying something more, just to see how it would feel. But the thought dies, smothered by your own boredom. Soon you leave the scene in silence, not looking back.

*****

You don't exactly expect to find yourself returning in that unpleasant graveyard the very same night. But a decision was taken on the spot and unfortunately time cannot be reversed. It's not like you're regretting anything, except maybe ruining yet another dress. This time a lighter fabric, an invitingly good looking caramel colour, hugging your body with care, under a rough coat you grabbed without thinking much before leaving your room. It was supposed to be a quick trip to the woods, just to check if the bird trap you had placed a few days ago has been of any use. The results were... disappointing, but to cover that you spotted an owl  on a closely branch, being too curious for its own good. It was still young, you observed by lifting up the gas lamp you had in hand. You've never killed an owl before. Your main victims are always small singing birds or the dark crows that love to fly around the houses in Veret. You weren't exactly sure if the simple slingshot you had in your pocket would be of any real use, as your arms were strong, but not enough to kill, just hope for an injury. And you made it, you twisted the owl's wing, slowing it down. Bleeding, and wheezing, the animal led you here, back to the rot and stone, as if something was waiting.

You're no stranger to the exhausting game of hide and seek different birds can put up, while trying their best to escape death. That's why you usually aim for the wings, because once fallen down they can't do anything but crawl helplessly through dirt. You like watching them as they form a line of blood on the ground, it truly shows the reality you live in. You've always hated the feathered creatures and their ability to fly over the world as if all the suffering beneath them doesn't exist. You are no God, but it feels like you're playing one when your blade finally releases them from misery. But of course no God, even a hateful one, would keep the corpse after the kill.

Your eyes are tracing down every small movement between the hanging over graves branches, in search for the pathetic bird, still pretty young as it's not too big in size. Your ears are sharp and ready to catch every different sound from the usual cricket and slight breeze, compensating for your bad night vision. The lamp is placed close to your legs, but the flame is smaller now, less intimidating. You're completely still, waiting in silence. Yet...after a few minutes you begin to realise you might have miscalculated the direction of the owl. For the sake of the hunt, you stay a little longer, moving long and steady legs through different in size and shape stones, with carved names on them, the names of the dead.

You stop in front of a rather unkept grave, covered in dried grass, the left for honour food on the side is barely recognisable, rotten and full of maggots. Upon looking at the date written on it you acknowledge that this miserable attempt for eternal peace belongs to a child, who didn't make it past the age of ten. Your eyes are unblinking as you read the name a few times in your mind, your tongue silently pronouncing it, savouring the taste. Just staring at it is quite boring. So you decide to do something you usually practice in front of a mirror, and have never done over a grave, but you find no-one around, including yourself, who dares stop you.

An image of a woman appears in your head, unknown to you, without a name to roll on your tongue. But she's not made up from imagination, you saw her today at the funeral, you just never bothered to get to know her. However you did observe her face, carefully, with precision and the desire to mold her twisted visage in your memory so you can use it when the time comes. Until then you decide to practice. You rub the inner corner of your eyes, getting red and slightly puffy. You hope for fake tears to come out, yet your cheeks remain dry, skin exposed to the night air. With now furrowed from pretended sadness brows and curved, thin lips you allow yourself to let out a throaty whimper — something close to a cough, with the intention of resembling a weak cry. That sound doesn't suit you, way too untrue for your own judgment, let alone the people you always try to convince about how natural you are with your emotions. They don't know about your secret practices in order to fit in, they don't know how many different masks you wear everyday so you're not pointed out as weird or unfeeling, a menace to society that is so very keen on empathy and the usage of it.

You change a grimace after grimace, closing your eyes to more clearly see the faces from today, but still that deep well of emptiness remains open in your chest. You know it's never going to fill and to be honest with yourself you don't want it to fill. It's crystal clear to you, while you bend down to imitate unbearable sorrow you can only think of that wounded owl, which wings you want to twist with bare hands just because it had the nerve to escape you. At some point your visage takes a natural emotional state for your persona— anger.

You've been empty for years. And the only person who can fill up the void has been reported dead before you could even begin to understand yourself and how much you needed her.

Just then, in the cold unmoving distance you manage to see a flickery light, levitating through darkness, as it has wings. But it's not angelic feathers guiding the lamp you soon acknowledge to be presenting itself upon you. Rather it's another dark shadow in the night, lurking in lonely hours, unbothered. And slowly making its way to the that very same graveyard you stand in, however not from the usual way, through the city. The person approaching is coming out slowly from the thick forest right behind the old, rusty metal fence on the back. A foreigner. You quickly kick the gas lamp besides you so the flame can disappear, before this stranger manage to see you. A safe place behind the grave is taken and you wait, curious to see who's coming here in the middle of the night as well.

The figure limpers. This is the first thing you notice. The second is the weird, dark clothing, almost resembling that of a priest, but much larger, layered and from what the light illuminates — dirty. The head of the person is also covered, limiting you the freedom of seeing a face, let alone remembering it. The lamp is placed next to a grave and then you see the outline of a shovel, gripped firmly in the stranger's right hand. Digging for fresh corpses is not something uncommon, a lot of doctors pay to poor people to do this dirty work for them so they can understand anatomy better. So that's why you're not exactly surprised to comprehend the chosen grave is the one that was the center of attention in today's funeral. Élise is to be a victim, even in her death, just how poetic. As the metal part of the instrument hits the still wet dirt for the first time, you move slightly to a side to get a better view, your breath stuck in your throat. But the figure turns towards you almost immediately.

"Is someone there?" - a sweet voice. Hoarse and giving the expression that the person is struggling to let out a cough, but still sweet. And definitely feminine. You stay low, hiding yourself, too interested to flew now. The scene too consuming, especially after the strange woman snaps her head to a side, tone changing.

"I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone." - your lips part. Is there another person helping her? You lift yourself just enough to be able to observe better, yet you don't find an indicator for a partner. The unknown woman presses her forehead to the handle of the shovel. - "I told you I didn't want to do this today."

Oh. She's talking to herself. Intriguing.

"She's not even fresh, not like I want her." - a pile of dirt begins to form next to Elise's grave, due to the heavy and constant digging the woman is continuing to do, heavy gardening instrument in her hands, almost panting, and a voice that continues to talk, noone else listening except you. Suddenly metal hits metal and you become a witness of how the shovel has finally reached its destination, the coffin. The amount of time it took her to dig out the dirt is incredible. Minutes. She must be devoted, or desperate. The casket is soon opened and the woman sighs. - "The lipstick corpse, the faithful liar. She's bathed in perfume and covered in colours like a jester." - the shovel is kicked to a side, making you shift in your place. - "She's not... she's not perfect, I won't —" - a pause, the woman is unmoving and silent, as if listening. - "Fine. Just the legs."

You watching with unblinking eyes as the stranger before you grabs the dead body of Élise from the comfort of her coffin and slowly, almost struggling, pulls her out until she hits the ground. Your breath hitches, knees pressing together. It's thrilling to observe and try to guess the moral comprehension of this person. Devil to society for digging out what has already been blessed by the followers of God. A saviour for those who think being buried in the ground is a selfish act.  The woman lifts Elise's dress and rips out her stockings without a care in the world. You narrow your head, heart beating faster. You know about men taking advantage of cadavers, but a woman doing it has never crossed your path...or imagination. But then she stops, her hands trembling. From anger, you soon understand.

"She's bruised." - an interesting observation, you almost begin to wonder why. It could be many things, but you need to see the said bruises to take judgment, if they are on her knees then the reason is more than clear, but over her entire length of legs it could be a difficult case, from a sickness to abuse. Monsieur  Pierre didn't strike you as the one to hit his wife, yet given how he reacted when you told him the truth it's not completely unimaginable. After all he's an aristocrat, if he's going to let out his anger on Élise it's going to be on a place no-one else will see. - "It was all for nothing, she won't do..." - she woman lifts a hand, fingers trembling, and you guess she's biting on her nails. A lot of people do when stressed. - "It's ruined, it's dead and ruined and—"

Out of nowhere, she screams.

"Shut up already!" - she gets down on her knees, trembling, definitely not because of the cold air. - "I'm not loosing control, I never loose control. I won't fail, stop! Just—" - her voice is completely different now, rough and angry, but also trembling from something with the taste of fear. Perhaps she's talking to someone else inside her head? - "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." - she repeats like a mantra.

What a pathetic human being. You can't lie that you're not excited, however. If  that's even the word you'd like to choose for describing your fast beating hard and heavy breathing. Unfortunately, this state of yours turns out to not be in your favour. The woman suddenly turns to your direction, the light from the lamp is finally revealing her face, but only partly. Her eyes are still covered from the hood she wears, but you can see the lower part of her visage, the end of her nose, her lips...forming out a smirk. And then...

"I can hear you breathing." - you freeze, jaw tightening. Her voice has switched sonority again. It's not angry, sad or even mad, but rather tired. At least that's how you hear it. You don't wait for explanation. Instead you take a step back, as quietly as you can. You understand you're not supposed to be here, no matter how thrilled you feel at the moment. The woman doesn't move, doesn't get closer. She just continues to stare towards your direction. Observing the darkness as if it's going to talk back to her.

"I didn't come here for company." - she says, her shoulders dropping low. - "Unless you're just another voice as well." - a pause, enough for a skip of the heart. - "And if you are... don't start talking, please." 

With that you finally take your leave, not turning back to check if she has saw you or not. On your way home you walk past the unsuccessful bird trap from today, now finding it actually doing it's purpose. There is a black as the night sky crow inside, trying to bite through the prison it filed into on its own. You don't kill it, you don't free it. As if influenced by tonight events - you just leave the already doomed animal alone and caged.

*****

"Monsieur Pierre has informed me about being interested in meeting you again, Vera." - the small usage of your name has long been transformed into a manipulative weapon. If it was a symbol of affection during your early childhood days, then now it's just a method of your mother trying to intertwine in your personal life. You have choice, most of the time, but it's rarely considered reasonable. Unless you're talking with your father, that is. He has always been soft towards you.

"Is that so?" - you raise your voice, along with your head and soon you meet your mother's eyes just for a second, before they return to the papers in her hands. Miriam is the one who deals with money within the house, ever since you moved in Veret. Everything that is earned or spent must pass through her observation and clever hands. Yet, despite her planning and organisations, money has been not enough for a year or two now. Your parents often argue if it's because Richard's addiction to cards or Miriam's desire for more, it doesn't matter what, just more - clothes, jewellery, food, furniture...even the long cigarette, casually placed between her fingers, which fills up the air with that awful smell you can't normally stand, but always endure. It's your mother preferred poison, even if doctors have told her it's slowly killing her, even if she herself has noticed the way she always coughs after smoking. Nothing, however, stops the woman from still consuming it while worried over her money slowly fading away from her iron grip. 

"Indeed, he has sent a letter, telling me about your small conversation during Elise's funeral and how you managed to...win his interest." - your mother talks a lot. It's a strategy, of course. She could have stopped at the letter, it would have been considered enough of an information, but she likes to extend and just had to mention the funeral and how you supposedly fascinated the old man. - "I can't help  but wonder what you told him." - Miriam is not asking, rather she's demanding. You notice it too quickly for own taste.

"The truth." - your answer is simple, almost forced out of you, yet incredibly correct.

Silence falls between the two of you, mother and daughter that successfully managed to grow apart during the years. Every dialogue between you now feels like a forced monologue from Miriam's part. But you don't mind it, knowing well your mother would never understand you, let alone try. And you don't expect her to, after all you sometimes don't even understand yourself. Your mother's heavy with golden rings hand makes and attempt to slide on the table you're both sitting on, in order to reach yours. However, halfway there she stops, then curls her fingers towards herself, in decision not to touch you. Her eyes nervously look up to you, searching for a reaction, which they don't find. At last, you both ignore the gesture, in silent agreement.

"The truth..." - she repeats dryly. - "is not something a lot of people are  ready to hear, especially men." - you cross your legs, a new dress - this time beige, wrinkles because of the movement. Your eyes lift up with a dangerous glare, piercing through the table. On it there are various dishes placed for feasting, way too many for a family of three. And it's only morning. You find it amusing how your mother desires to marry you off in order to save money, yet still gives them freely everyday. Waste. Is that what you are in her head? A few quiet steps echo through the air - a familiar figure entering the room. You treat your father's appearance as a good sign not to open your mouth about this topic yet. - "So remember my advice and do not share it with the man, you're trying to win the love of."

Richard sighs with irritation before he could even be wished good morning.

"Always marriage and love with you women, nothing else."  - his voice is rough from sleep, beard ready for shaping as it's getting too big, so Miriam makes a grimace when he leans in to steal a kiss, the outgrown hairs annoying her soft skin. Yet she smiles, she welcomes him like a good wife, almost as if she's giving out examples to you. But it's very doubtful if you're ever going to be this welcoming towards a man, any man. As your father takes a seat next to you, on a slightly larger chair than the rest around the table, another plate of piled up eatables is placed in front of him, by the only working maid inside your home, the last of six more, which Miriam had to dismiss out of lacking coin for their monthly payments. Your mother often feels guilty about those poor women who practically begging her to let them stay, as they don't see where else they can work, but you don't even remember their faces, let alone names.

"Well, it's only natural for Vermilyea to enter this phase of her life." - your mother's hand roams through the table, successfully grabbing a glass of clear, french win - perfect for her nerves, and guides it to her lips, tasting it with precision. - "If anything, she's rather late." - the woman can't seem to stop herself from giving out a commentary. Your father gives you a quick look, his gentle eyes proposing safety and softness per usual. You don't blink in response, instead you look down at your own plate, which is empty, because you already ate your breakfast and can say you're full. Still, you reach out for another piece of tarte, trying to taste their hypocrisy.

"And who's her candidate?" - Richard questions, adjusting his tight collar so the food he consumed can go easily down his throat, as he's a quick eater and doesn't always chew like he should be.

"Monsieur Pierre Bernard" - your father doesn't seem twice surprised to hear the name of the man, which wife's funeral he attended just the day before. His eyes narrow at Miriam, who gentle twists her head, almost provocatively and flashes him a smirk, already tasting his disappointment. - "He's a banker, my darling - filthy rich."

"I don't like him." - an argument Richard has to desire to defend, simply because it's final. Besides, Vermilyea Bernard doesn't sound right.

"You don't like any man for Vermilyea." - a white handkerchief is lifted to the woman's lips, gathering the remains of the wine, which is now gone and the cup stays empty on the table. Right next to it, Miriam slams the dirtied fabric. - "We could've married her almost ten years ago."

Another truth, spoken from such a fake woman, forces the room to go silent. When you were fifteen, nine years apart from your current twenty-four, a young boy came to ask your hand in marriage. After a few days in forced dates you understood that he had been your neighbour all along, you just weren't very interested in socialising. To be fair, the boy was nice, he was clearly educated and had looks, under all that he wasn't much older than you, barely a year or two, and had a decent family name, to which you could have been tied up and die, covered in gold after a while. Of course there were many problems with the situation - your father didn't want to give you up so soon, despite you being in the legal age for marriage, your own disinterested, and the final factor, which was that you weren't bleeding yet, therefore any desires for children were impossible. In the end, said boy found himself another girl for a wife and you stayed with a pleased father, who has only been your legal step father for barely five years and wanted to live out his dream of having a child, and an angry mother, who believed a great opportunity was ruined. That day you began to wonder if the story behind your biological father dying right before marrying Miriam was real, and not the possibility of you being an unwanted daughter, made with consent or not.

After that many men tried to win you over, but it never worked. In current days you were either considered too old, too mean or - the new one - too broke to marry. Slowly the variety of choice Miriam was clinging to disappeared and now she had no other choice, but to offer to whoever is ready to take you.

"Vermilyea is not meant to be a wife, nevertheless." - Richard announces after the brief, awkward pause, forcing Miriam to grab her forehead in a slightly trembling palm. This is your father finest argument against your mother. Your simple inability to bear children. The absence of a normal menses cycle in your womanhood.

At age sixteen, right after the marriage disappointment, Miriam Lament began to worry for her daughter. Not because you were ill or anything close to it, but because you were broken, at least in her eyes. You hadn't bled yet. Your nightgowns were still white as snow and your mattress was clean. But your mother knew it wasn't normal at your age, given the fact that she had bled for the first time at thirteen. Upon calling a doctor, who touched you with more interest than usual in his eyes, it was confirmed that you weren't going to be able to carry children, or get pregnant at all. You didn't know where that information came from, but facts are facts and no blood came your way since that day. When you were little your mother told you that the feminine cycle was a curse from God for the original sin, which she refused to talk about, as it has nothing to do with just an apple. Yet years after she spoke the Devil's name when they told her about your condition. It didn't make sense to be cursed by both of them.

In some regards you were thankful for not having to beat the unnecessary pain in audition to it and also - never go into labour. Not like you have anything against pain, you welcome it, because you don't normally feel it. Your tolerance built too high. You remember breaking your smallest finger of the left hand when you were still small and careless. There was no crying or screaming from your part, as the pain wasn't much of a trigger. You didn't tell Miriam, or Richard, or anyone at all. You just wrapped the finger to the one next to it with a bandage and hid it for months under gloves, which you said were a fashionable choice when your mother asked about them. Eventually your finger healed, but in a wrong way - crooked like the metal hooks for fishing your father owns, yet never uses. Nowadays it stands out, however noone asks about it.

Besides your unnatural looking finger, curious different in colour eyes, your strange inability to pronounce 'r' and maybe too sharp attitude, you try to stay presentable all the time. You take care of your skin so it's softer than silk and you feel good when denying people, especially men, from touching it. Your hair is always neatly done, matching the clothes you've chosen for the day. And you smell of delicious perfumes, the best from the market. As a noble lady you're expected to be this perfect all day, everyday. You, of course, have another selfish reason for doing it. In fact, you're to say it out loud the moment the small argument between your parents dies and you hear Richard's voice asking you something with irradiation.

"Tell her, Vermilyea, tell her you don't want to marry that old man, convince her you can do better with your future husband." - he's almost begging you. It's not often that your father has an opinion, different from that of Miriam. However he's the only person, who dares to consider your  own opinion for reasonable. You don't express gratitude, if anything you look up to the man with narrow, unblinking eyes, almost making him regret what he has spoke, because he quickly realises what's coming.

"The only one I want..." - you make a pause, in which your mother sighs and your father swallows dryly. - "...is Mirdin."

"For God's sake, Vermilyea, your Mirdin doesn't exist!" - Miriam is angry now, her hands falling on the table with no mercy, expression her natural reaction. It's not the first time you've mentioned that name, this topic is almost as old as you, yet both of your parents don't really know who  exactly you're talking about. They think, key word think, that Mirdin is the perfect man in your eyes. You give them credit for being almost correct. However they get the gender wrong and on top of that, they believe that Mirdin is a fiction, a character you created in your head, but that is far away from the truth your mother is so keen on not sharing. - "You made him up when you were little, it's time to forget him."

"I don't mean to sound rude, Vermilyea, but didn't you say Mirdin was dead?" - you hum, finally blinking after what feels like all morning. The topic makes you so soft, too vulnerable for your own taste. Your father's comment makes you rethink your answer. Mirdin is dead, or at least that is what they told you when you were around ten years old. But a body was never found and you were determined to meet your woman saviour again. No matter what, even if it means not correcting your parents when they call her a man, when you know she wouldn't go this low. Mirdin is gentle, Mirdin is not a protector, Mirdin is yours. And Mirdin was never a man. - "Why still think about him—"

"Because I will be with my Mirdin and noone else. I wouldn't be happy with another." - you cut him off, the obsession finally leaving your body. One might say it's love, but you know better - such an emotion has ever crossed your path, not even for Mirdin. - "Even if it means waiting for him to be reborn again... until the day I die."

Silence. Utterly disgusting silence. And then Miriam shifts in her seat.

"I will send a letter to Monsieur Pierre to tell him you're also interested in meeting him again." - your mother quickly calls the maid and shakes her fingers to the table - a silent request for her to clean it. The middle aged woman bods and begins to gather empty plates with precision. Miriam continues to talk, now standing. - "Despite your... everything, you're still pure, Vermilyea, and that has come kind of prize to your name." - you feel a strong squeeze on your shoulder and you're probably expected to let out a yelp of pain, but that never happens. Your mother's grip is way too weak. You don't even look her in the eyes when her final words strike down. - "You have enough time to fix yourself, or at least what good is left in you." - she's relentless, you're unbothered, your father is silent.

At that moment you decide to take the last thing that Miriam believes is 'good' in you. She says you're pure, you don't exactly agree. Naturally if it's the kind of pureness a doctor checks you from time to time, then yes - you've never had a man, or anyone in your bed, let alone touching you. But you've spent countless nights with your own hands between your legs, the image of your Mirdin guiding your fingers and mind. And if the only way to push that old pig - Monsieur Pierre - away is to ruin yourself, then you shall do exactly that.

*****

There are many different brothels in Veret, all filled to the brim with cheap women, who sell themselves to starved for sex men. Perhaps the most famous and preferred pleasure house in the town is a place, called The gilded veil. Despite its name there is nothing golden in it, except the dirtied yellow metal on the sign outside and the heavy from coins pockets of the lady, whoever she is, running the business. But you know well where the name comes from. In such brothels privacy is an expensive pleasure, yet in The gilded veil every serving woman wears a mask, from fake gold of course, but it's convenient enough to fool a man, or a whole group of them. It's also appealing.

Upon entering the front chamber of the building, you find yourself in a place, trying its best to resemble a small parlor. Here people still believe they are entering a proper environment. Although the chairs are old and there is an unpleasant scent in the air, it's welcoming enough to trick the mind. You, of course, come prepared. A woman doesn't find herself in such places unless she's seeking an unwell paid, yet some kind of job, attending sick fantasies and cruel intentions, or simply - walking in by mistake. A man sat on a green, slightly ripped canapé immediately spots you, but any word dies deep in his throat once you toss him a small bag of coins and he points to a closed door on the left, while nodding his head.

Stepping inside you're immediately greeted by a symphony of lustful sounds. Most of the moans are fake, rooted out from sore throats of women, who don't even enjoy whatever it happening to them, but do it for the money they are going to receive. Your eyes move around the room, taking in the reddish decor, the many chaise lounges, carved details on all of them. Between all the furniture you spot stretched and hooked to the ceiling large fabrics, which aim to separate the different areas for pleasure within the grand room. According to your private studies with a personally found for you teacher, sex is considered something sacred, so the small amount of lighting - consisting of oil lamps and heavy candelabras, is reasonable. Although it's in complete contrast with the performed acts under that warm, amber light. The working women, or as many would call them ladies of the night or more likely whores, are barely clothed. A loose corset here and an open shirt there. You've never seen such various amount of genitals - both male and female. Some of the women even get you questioning how they can stay almost perfectly shaved and smooth without giving themselves a rash. Everything for looking clean for men, who probably carry more diseases than a sick goat.

You're not given much attention, since the people are busy with their own matters of consumption, but step after step you begin to notice tension in eyes, which happen to flick at you for more than just a second. It's only normal for you to stand out, after all people know eachother in places like this. And so, while passing a circled by a soft sofa table, you quickly snatch a fake golden maks from it, as the woman owner seems too busy bobbing her head up and down on a customer's twitching cock, her eyelashes wet from tears.

After another quick look around the room, with now secured mask on your face, you make a mental note to yourself that you do not wish to share your body with more men than needed. You only need a singular bastard to call lucky enough to pierce through you and ruin you once and for all, so you can escape the claws of another one. So naturally, you take a turn to where you believe the private rooms should be, as every good brothel has them for richly paying customers. And since you're currently pretending to be a lady on the job,  you needn't spend more coin on unnecessary things. The place you're headed to is not hard to find - a long corridor behind the main room, devoid of any doors and the only sense of privacy you can feel around here are the thin fabrics in front of each entrance.

The moans are more desperate here. The shift is instant,  even the men are vocal with their needs and pleasure. A few naked women, your false colleagues, walk right past through you, whispering you luck as the gentleman in room four is rather passionate in his work. By the time you reach that point of the corridor, the sounds you begin to hear change as well. Whimpers. You've always found them alluring, because you can never tell, even now, if the person making them is genuinely in insane level of pleasure or just pain. As if withdrawn by the sonority, you find yourself peeking inside that very fourth chamber. Inside you spot a shaking female body, rutting on top of the lap of the mentioned gentleman, a small bed rocking beneath them. He spots you immediately, almost like he was expecting you.

"Viens ici, chérie." - he commands in a low, fluent French and you're reminded again of why you despite the language. Come here, darling. He says it with hunger in his eyes, grabbing the hips of the fragile woman on top of him, to the point of bruising. You compose a smile of amusement. Soon, he lifts her off enough for his large cock to escape free from inside her, the tip so red it's practically begging for release. - "Tu veux regarder? Ou tu veux goûter?” - Do you want to watch, or to taste? His question stays unanswered, as you walk away, now devoid of curiosity. He waits for a few seconds and then your ears are rewarded again with that pleasant whimpering, which attracted you in the first place.

The next few private rooms are nothing you haven't already seen, so you pass by them without giving much attention to what's happening inside. One scene of particular, however, shows the outcome of unsafe practice of the profession. A woman is using her hand to satisfy a bulging man's need, her belly round with a child, who's father shall probably never get revealed and if it happens to be a girl, it will most likely become like her mother. The woman looks at you with pleasing eyes to which you don't show pity, if anything you just walk away, only the thought of finding an empty chamber for yourself wandering inside your head. By the end of the corridor you do succeed to fulfill your wishes, yet you're missing a man to share the small, used many times by others bed. With a quick turn, you begin walking back to the large commun chamber.

Few minutes away from the filth doesn't necessarily mean something significant changed, yet in your case - it did. You feel, or rather hear it the moment you return. The moans are not as loud and the people are severely more composed, although still naked. Such behaviour calls for a reason, it's not difficult to guess why. Sometimes even the the noblest of the noble come seeking sinful attendance through the dark hours of the night. You don't immediately spot someone you know from that class, which is unusual, because you've memorized all of their chubby with fatness faces, from the times your mother used to invite them all in the house, in hope for a new friendship. None of them clicked right for Miriam, just like you disappoint yourself with not finding a familiar face. In the middle of the room, however, you see the reason for the sudden distress.

Not a noble figure, not even a local one. But undoubtedly a person of value, the picture reveals a masked customer among long forgotten themselves ladies of the night, with the privilege of privacy. The man, as he surely stands and acts like one, has taken a central seat in the middle of the large room, clean and smoothed suit resting on velvet fabrics of the sofa, polished shoes almost looking scared to touch the covered in whatever body fluids there floor. Arms crossed in his lap, as if immune to the two charming women sitting on his sides, both with breast revealed to the public, nipples perked enough to catch attention. There is a very obvious presence  of consent between them - the  mysterious man doesn't touch them, nor do they play with him. Only flirting eyes, smirks and low, dirty whispers. It's very rare for a man, enjoying his time in a brothel, to be just talking with the workers, as they are not merely companions, but women ready to sell themselves for living. But coin is coin and they are going to take it, despite not having to take a man up them. A normal person would say that's better for them, but you can only think of a way to stealing their polite customer, seeing him as perfect for your plans. Knowing your own charms, you remove the stolen mask, tossing it somewhere on the floor, before walking towards the masked man.

Once your boots line up with his pointy shoes, you give him a quick, but calculated glare, with the idea of comprehending the need of the golden mask over his visage. There are no signs of some kind of injury, so you take the freedom to think it has something to do with privacy, again. Upon a second look, it is revealed that the metal shines under the lighting like dripping, fresh honey. You've seen enough of your mother's necklaces to know you're eye to eye with someone rich enough to allow themselves such large, truly golden mask. An expensive accessory, no denying it. The design is also appealing. The top is lined with the beginning of his forehead, after a sea of blonde hairs, unusually long and even braided for man, yet with the new coming fashion, especially in Paris, you don't pay it much attention. The man's face is entirely  covered with thick gold down to his nose, where the mask is cut according to his head shape, hugging features with care. Under that final line are hooked many small in size golden chains, free to move around down to his jawline, beneath which you spot a greyish thin fabric, adding another layer of protection, although almost see through, to his already hidden face. The mask is secured by an additional shiny frame around his head, which goes behind his ears and drips down to his neck like a necklace, turned backwards.

"Yes?" - a slightly confused tone pulls you out from your hideous staring without usually blinking trance. - "Anything you need, my lady?" - his voice is raspy, low, yet melancholy pleasant for listening. He talks slowly, without rushing the just started conversation, as if trying to drown in it. The mysterious man sounds like he needs to cough any moment, or rather - he's been smoking something strong until now. Yet it's clear how hard he works to cover that and you can't help just notice some kind of familiarity.

"Not exactly, I'm here to give my... services." - only after replying to him, you acknowledge you both serve yourselves with the English language, without thinking why French is not present. Perhaps he has guessed you're not fluent, or perhaps he himself can't speak it. That question, however, is not important.

"But I already have two lovely companions with me." - your previous thoughts and observations turn out to be correct. He doesn't see these women as the whores they are, but a human company to spend the night with. You don't understand it, you've paid for something then you should do your best to devour it. Besides you've never liked being around others. Speaking of the ladies, they do not talk, but they sharp, ruined with dark makeup, eyes do look you up and down from head to toe. The man spreads out a palm, as if to show them, his hand smaller the usual size for a grown up. - "It would be greedy to ask for a third...besides I don't remember ordering you."

"I'm exclusive and...private." - in hope to get him as soon as possible in those private rooms and get it over with, you insist on him hearing the last word from your mouth. He only hums, blinking slowly, therefore giving you enough time to manage a look under his mask and note out that he, as well, possesses blue eyes, one slightly lighter in colour than the other, however. You think of lifting up your skirts for show, but a nod from the man in front of you tells you he's starting to think about what you're proposing.

"And how much will that cost me?" - his voice drips with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

"Free of charge." - you announce, forcing a gasp, quickly followed by another, from the half naked women on both sides of the man. The small coin bags, tied to their underwear, speaks more than you should know - they would never do a service for free, even if it's just sitting next to a customer. Soon, he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound muffed from the mask.

"Oh, certainly interesting..." - his hand moves to the right, where his long, slender finger connect with a metal handle, connected to a long walking cane. He moves it from side to side, almost like trying to decide if he should get up or not. However, this action has effect on the two women - without saying anything, they slowly raise from their seats and begin to walk off, whispers wandering after them like insects. - "Tell me your name then, exclusive lady of the night." - what a mocking voice he roots out from his throat.

"Vermilyea." - you answer quickly, then adding - "Vermilyea Lament."

His hand freezes on the spot, knuckles going white from the intense grip he holds upon the handle of his metal cane. His legs,  slightly spread, now cross with the speed of a scared little boy. He takes in a breath, which probably has been intented to be silent, but his tight collar betrays him. His body language expresses fear, or at least - panic. Surprisingly he covers it like nothing, reminding you somehow of yourself. Soon, the man leans forward, curving his head to look up to you. And he laughs.

"Vermilyea Lament..." - he repeats, rolling your name on his tongue, savouring it like it's sacred, or rather cursed. The endless dilemma of your existence, that no philosophy book has ever held the answer to.

"Is there a problem, Monsieur...?"  - you lift up your eyebrows, mimicking interesting. If you have to be honest with yourself, a few minutes ago you were interested in what story this weird man has to offer, but he's slowly starting to fit the aesthetic of those who often calm their nerves down with intoxicating additives. Your mother does it sometimes, and you wouldn't be half bothered by it if those people weren't so insufferable when high.

"I doubt my name is of much importance for you, my dear." - he stops for just a second, as if awaiting reaction. You're used to formalities, however, such verbal address doesn't affect you the way he desires. Because it's easy - to charm up a woman with cheap pet names and then take advantage. It seems like you both understand that this is not your case. Another thing you notice is how the man has quickly catch on your little performance as a worker. For now, you decide to ignore it. - "But shall it please your tongue — Danamir Corneille."

Your response is limited to a simple nod. You've got a name to the man. Just a quiet, fake moan of it would be enough for his sanity to disappear. You are no stranger to the allure a woman's body can hold, especially your body, you've been way too... admired through the years. Of course noone actually got something from you, as you didn't want anything as well. Your shoulder roll backwards, and you allow the petit jacket you have over them, mostly for the idea of a full fit of clothes, to fall them, revealing bare skin. That's how you wish to start, after all you don't plan on getting completely naked. The job would be done with a poke or two, skirts needn't even be fully lifted. Monsieur Danamir Corneille's eyes narrow and suddenly he stands up, perhaps head and a two taller, but for some reason - thinner.

"Private, you said?" - his head tilts and you refuse to look look up to him, by your own judgment he's not worthy of it. - "Very well then, Vermy." - Vermy? - "Lead the way, my darling. Let's see what a Lament offers when coin isn't a part of the bargain."

The tip of his cane hits the ground with a tud. Despite how composed and mighty he looks, tall and with a straight back, brushing invisible strings off his purple suit here and there, you can't miss the fact that Danamir Corneille limpers. That's why he needs his cane. With slow steps, you both make your way to that empty private room.

.

.

.

"Sex is... only given out of love or for money." - by the merely ten minutes with this strange man alone in a room you've come to the understanding he has no intention of jumping on you like a feral beast. Instead, he has been speaking with the polished arrogance of a man who thinks intelligence is foreplay.  You rarely get angry, but can't help the twitching of your fingers as he leans back on the bed, still not making any kind of move or even a gesture, which would  suggest a start to the topic he's currently discussing. You're not used to really listening to other people's opinions either, so you need a second to process once he calls out your name. - "Vermilyea, we both understand that there is no love between us and since you don't want any money, I just don't see a reason to—"

"There's no love, but there is need." - you cut him off, offering words that you believe would suit his taste. Sat on a smaller chair two steps to the left of him, you can't do much, but lift up your skirts to knee level, teasing, while your tongue lies with precision. - "I want you, Monsieur Corneille."

"You don't know me, Vermy." - that awful nickname again.

"I don't have to know you." - although cold with the tone, you try your best to sound convincing.

"You just want me to use you then?" - a loud moan echoes through the room next to you, for some reason making Danamir flinch. Perhaps, his ears are sensitive. Or he's rather allured by the sound. His head turns to you, golden braid yanked over one shoulder - reaching the beginning of his chest. You've never seen a man with such long hair.  Neatly cared for as well. At that moment, looking at his crossed legs, a new thought passes through your mind - the possibility of Monsieur Corneille being interested in men, rather than women. But it wouldn't make sense to sit in their company, although you never saw him touching those ladies from earlier. Stranger. - "Or do you want to use me, Vermy?"

"Would that...offend you?" - you slow down your speech, trying to convince this man you haven't been practicing dialogues in your head from the moment you stepped into the brothel. Although you're good in convincing, you need preparation to make perfection. This is a rule you live by, otherwise your desires and the things you do for them would feel like failure. However, you've never tasted that and you're no near planning to.

"No." - the man is completely honest, proud with his answer. He stops and waits for a wave of whimpers from the girl next door to pass on, quickly followed by filthy cursing and unpleasant wet slapping sound. Then he adds to his one worded reply. - "But it would bore me."

"Then I'll pretend I want to be loved." - you lie again, not even having a hint of how love feels like. By the time you finish your sentence, the fabric of your skirts is already lifted high enough for your thighs to be exposed, covered in stockings, which seems to have caught Monsieur Corneille's attention. - "A young virgin girl, yearning for love. Would you like that, Monsieur Corneille?"

He stays silent for at least a minute, lost in his own head and the bridge between yes and no, and possibly another thing you don't really understand - morals. Then a scoff is released through warm air inside the  room you're in, making it smaller and more irritating than it already is.

"Every other man in my place would demand to see the cunt he's paying for." - his argument is confirmed by the grunts from the neighbour next door, who loudly announces his release. At the same moment Monsieur Corneille takes out a pocket watch and focuses on the numbers, counting seven minutes from the other man's last spending. A click of his tongue passes as critique. - "But since there is no coin in our business - I won't force you to show anything you don't want to." - he turns to look at his cane,  bending slightly forward, as if he's uneasy just sitting in one place. Truly there is something wrong with the man, you just can't figure out what, yet. - "What you need from me" - he murmurs, eyes not quite meeting you. - "...does include you getting naked, Vermy."

You decide to stay silent. Your body, however, is already moving. The small chair falls down behind you as stand up,  boots dragging over the floor until you reach the open entrance to your borrowed room and you seal the exit with the presented thin fabrics, imitating a door. The naked human body is but a cage to the soul, which you sometimes wonder if you still have - if it was there in the first place. So naturally, you're not ashamed to show it, yet it would be more fitting if only one pair of eyes are observing. The man is correct - there is no coin, but there is usage. And that needs to be repayed as well.

Retuning to the centre of the rather small room, you make sure Monsieur Corneille is looking closely and attentively. Regardless, his cane is now in his hand and he holds to it for dear life. You almost fell like something for sale on the market, but you're too deep in to stop now. With your jacket already gone, which the man was kind enough to pick up and place next to him on the bed, you can easily start with the removal of your walking skirt, fitted perfectly around your waist. The floor-length piece of clothing is flared just enough to allow movement, while the fabric itself it's from a cheap material, as you didn't want to waste something expensive in a dirty place like this brothel. In fact, once you remove your skirts, you carefully place them over the fallen chair, without fixing its position so they stay over the vertically inverted seat.

Your blouse is devoid of sleeves, but with a high neckline and ruffled edges. White at colour and light in weight the clothing is feminine and elegant, despite the intention to show more skin than it should. The buttons on it are small and curved like olives. And soon they are opened free, the blouse removed fully and placed over your skirt. You glance around to seek Monsieur Corneille, who seems invested in watching you undress. He even clears his throat as another moan interrupts your private time. A simple roll of his hand suggest that you should continue.

Your pastel lace-trimmed corset cover is perhaps the easiest to remove, given how thin and again - sleeveless, it is. With it out of the way your layers of clothing are limited to the last few pieces, which are your actual corset, split-crotch drawers - perfect for the occasion, because of the easy access. And of course a simple, modest chemise, almost glued to your skin. You reach behind yourself to get working on loosing the corset, but an idea quickly forms inside your head. If you allowed the unable to move eyes from you Monsieur Corneille to remove it, would he immediately jump you and get this scene over it? In your own humble opinion a man would pretty much accept and given their lack of self control, what will happened wouldn't be surprising. So you walk into another helpless role.

"Monsieur Corneille, would be so kind to help me with my corset?" - your voice is tender, almost awkward as you're never the one to ask for aide.

"Tell me, ma chérie, how many maids helped you out this morning when you were putting it on?" - part of you now understands why he has approached you in English. His French, despite the usage of only a nickname, sounds just as forced and bad as your own. You don't bite around that corner of his sentence, however. Because you're not interested in his speech, rather his audacity to suggest you need other women to help you dress.

"None." - you say through clenched teeth. - "I did it myself."

A quiet scoffs tells you everything you need to know in that moment. The man has tricked you.

"Then I'm certain you don't need my help now."

As mentioned earlier - you don't get angry that easily. Most of the time, the triggers, which irritate other people are too indifferent for you. But it's one thing to endure endless void of useless words, escaping even more useless mouths, but it's a whole other thing when someone manages to see through you, as clearly as Danamir Corneille just did. You stare at his unmoving mask, the uncanny image of this precious metal shell, and you decide on the spot that this man is nothing ordinary. He's similar to you, but you're not sure yet if you're from the same kind of almost human creatures.

The room goes silent for a few minutes and soon enough you find yourself completely naked before the man's eyes.

The raw feeling of being exposed to someone else rather than the mirror is more overwhelming than you originally thought, but you're certain it's because you're still a bit uneasy from your previous exchange of words. Despite your position, the bare body, and the way Monsieur Corneille is shifting in his seat - he hasn't made a single move towards you yet. Only making a circular motion with his hand, so you can turn around and show all of yourself. Your hair sticks to your back, befriending your spine while the warm lighting within the room dances over your smooth skin. Your beauty is unmatched, almost flawless, and he is now aware of it too. Perhaps, too aware.

"You are not a whore, Vermilyea Lament." - his tongue is sharp as a blade, which can only wish to cut through you, as you stop, but don't allow yourself to be caught off guard again. Your body is unmoving, eyes unblinking, you try to make yourself look bigger. But he's unbothered. - "You dress like a noble lady, you talk like a person with education, which most of your...colleagues don't have." - he mocks the working women with sarcastic precision. - "You're too...too perfect for that title." - then he looks up directly to you. - "You're perfect for me, my pet." - your eyebrows twist for the first time upon hearing one of his nicknames, this one too familiar and unlikable for your taste. The man notices and scoffs with coldness. - "Finally, a child of great Britain, aren't you?" - now you acknowledge another thing you have missed - Danamir Corneille has been testing you with those ridiculous nicknames till now, seeking your origin. You don't like how much information you have given him, without even doing anything in particular. Yet, you refuse to show him your genuine amusement.

"You're very observant." - your voice is dripping poison, any role of an innocent girl thrown out of this dirty place. You don't tell him the truth. You're not British, your adoptive father is, but he doesn't need to know that, not now.

"I've learnt to be." - you can physically feel the smile underneath his mask, it makes you sick. He soon adds.-"I had to.You can't trust anybody those days, especially strangers who...are so eager to be alone with you."

"Do you believe I can harm you in any way, Monsieur Corneille?" - just the idea of it is comical. You - naked and vulnerable, a woman versus a fully dressed man, too calm to be thinking anything good. And even if you believe in your verbal manipulations, you are aware that you can't fight a man, despite the fact that the one in front of you is visible weak, because of the can he uses and how thin he is, compared to the other individuals, which you saw tonight.

"No." - a firm answer, followed by an argument, which most people are afraid to speak out loud, especially directly in front of you. - "But you have no light in your eyes, Vermilyea. Everyone strays from a person such as you." - there is no nicknames from his part anymore, not even his favourite Vermy. He's completely serious, determined for a real conversation, without a clear ending, however. You like to play games with people like him, and how he has proposed a  competition before you, for which you're excited.

"My mother always says my eyes are a curse from the devil." - the man tilts his head to a side, taking in the two different colours, possessing your irises. You're used to be observed like a deformed creature, so you allow him to do so. In the meantime you speak your thoughts out loud for him. - "They are an imperfection, a defect. And I suppose she's right — they are driving people away from me."

"Your mother sounds like an interesting woman, but I'm afraid I do not agree with her." - Monsieur Corneille shakes his head as if offended, then he taps the floor a few times with his cane, perhaps to calm down before announcing something important. - "Everything out of the ordinary is considered the devil's work...but aren't his creations marvellous?" - his hand spreads out to you for am example. And after that he makes almost a whole speech in practically one breath. - "He's a mad genius. A painter, underrated by others. Each of his 'artworks' have a hint of mischief in them, no? He twists the beautiful with the ill-favoured and creates something out of nothing - born from both violence and tranquility. Of course, his designs come with a price but above everything they are masked as perfection, because not a single human can consider what exactly is completely devoid of flaws."

The words are deep and most certainly - his, entirely. You can guess by the way he speaks with passion, while his hand follow like obedient slaves to the speech. A smirk lurks around your lips.

"Are you a poet, Monsieur Corneille?" - you ask, voice almost innocent, if that is even possible for you.

"No." - a determined answer, follow by few seconds long silence. Enough for you to prepare your next question.

"A philosopher?" - you hum, still smiling at him, in hope to root out information. - "I rather like philosophers."

"Unfortunately not." - the man takes a deep breath, as if his actual profession is a burden. But you don't see it as such, once he reveals it. - "My occupation is that of a simple traveling doctor, who likes to loose himself in  pleasure," - he uses a French manner to say the word, focusing on the satisfying 'z'  sound. - "...between working hours."

"Will you help me then, doctor?" - his formal working title rolls down on your tongue, as you try to use it against him. - "Will you ruin me the way I want?" - a doctor would treat you with precision. Or at least they say so.

"I'm afraid I'm not able to." - his head drops down and he places his arms in his lap, looking somewhere between disappointed and guilty.

"May I ask what do you mean by that?" - your eyebrows furrow in confusion, while you fight the urge to take a step closer and finally use your naked body for good and make him take you.

Then Monsieur Corneille does something unexpected. His back straightens and he gets up, the small bed squeaking from the lifted up weight. You're reminded of the fact that he's taller than you and possibly more skinny, as he soon takes off his jacket - revealing a plain white shirt, which exposes his small figure. Perhaps he's sick? Or simply doesn't eat much? Any questions die in your throat the moment he wraps the jacket over your shoulders, covering most of your upper body. - "I believe you've already figured I can't help you with your needs, but I suppose it's time for me to get undress as well."

The man is quick to remove his shirt, the linen fabric is crisp and white, you guess it feels smoothing over skin. Instead of disposing it on the ground, he folds it quickly in his arms before placing it on the bed. The view under his clothes leaves you confused. Over his chest a large, thick looking line of something resembling medicine bandage, runs over the skin, tightened to redness and if you had to guess - pain. But why? Is he wounded? You wish to ask him, but soon enough he starts to take off the flattering undergarment with clever, fast working fingers.

You blink once, then twice, trying to comprehend what has been revealed to you. The man...rather the person, as you're not exactly sure anymore, clearly has a feminine chest. Your eyes are met with a pair of breasts, slightly crushed from the bandage over them, but definitely round and big like those of a woman, with even erected nipples, like yours, because of the coldness in the room. Trying to not look too much at them, you move your attention downwards to the newly exposed ribs, which are almost see through the skin, completely devoid of any fat. But what is most interesting about Monsieur or rather Madame Corneille is the large, darker in shade than the rest of the flesh, scar over the stomach - horizontally and just below the navel. It's not straight, though, it's flawed with rough edges, which suggests the wound didn't heal as it was expected. It's rather...familiar. Before she can pull down her pants as well, to fully confirm her female anatomy, you speak out, already have guessed you're not going to see a cock there. In fact, you're reminded of the way Monsieur Corneille often stays with his legs crossed, completely unnatural for most men. Which she is not.

"You're a woman..." - you try to shape your point of view. - "dressed as a man...why?" - you can't seem to find a good reason at the moment.

"Oh, that's too much of a long story, I'll leave it for another time." - listening to her voice now, you can clearly hear how forced it is to sound more masculine. It's not because the poor Monsieur Corneille couldn't cough properly. Yet noone can achieve such change with just abuse over vocal cords. There's something else involved, some kind of chemical, perhaps?

"Then..." - you murmur, part of you getting excited to see the truth behind this person's story. You knew Monsieur Corneille was too composed to be a real man. But now you're truly invested - "at least let me see your face. You owe me wasted time." - after all a woman can't ruin another woman. Not in the way you desire, that is.

After a moment of hesitation, she nods her head, arms reaching up for the golden mask. - "As you wish, my lady."

Fifteen years worth of yearning and constant thinking about a forgotten ghost reveal themselves upon you within seconds. With the mask now gone, you see a painfully familiar visage, carved into your mind for eternity. She looks like you, with just a few slight differences - her cheeks are more pronounced, her jaw shaper, her nose is not straight like yours, but rather chippy, her lips are full and soft looking and her skin tone is just a bit lighter than yours. But her eyes, oh her eyes are practically made to match yours. One of them is blue as a furious ocean, while the other silver as bullet. You've never seen anything like that, except that you had. When you were around eight. When you first met this woman. Your obsession, your possession, your....

"Mirdin..." - a whisper among ghosts, filled with emotion a normal person wouldn't understand.

"Excuse me?" - she is lost, confused beyond reason, as to why this woman in from of her is looking like she's ready to devour or... worship. And that sudden nickname. - "Who is—?"

"What is your name?" - you cut her off, blood floating through your veins with fury, making you shake from excitement. Because you know, there is no Danamir Corneille. He's not real, only she is. - "Your real one?"

"Miranda." - she announces the sound of your victory. Oh how you wish to scream at the whole wide world your Mirdin is not dead, she has never been. And you knew it. You waited, all those years of despair. The only person you actually care about is standing right in front of you and you...wish to run away. The meeting being too overwhelming.

"I want to leave." - you breath in, almost forgetting you have to do this to stay alive. Your eyes move away, now searching for your clothes on that small chair. - "I want to go home."

Miranda can't do much to stop you. She tries, once. Which leads to you slapping her hand away. And she doesn't go near you for a second time. She watches as you dress yourself, although ripping the fabric from rushing. The moment you get ready, you dash towards the door, turning around only for a second to stare at the confused woman.

"Goodnight." - you blurt out, wanting to say something completely different, but in the moment of unusual panic, you forget yourself. A fool, that's what she turns you in. - "No— goodbye, Mirdin."

With that you leave, not hearing Miranda's last words towards you.

"I—goodbye then, Vermy. Let us meet again sometimes."

*****

The inside Monsieur Corneille's mind, or rather Miranda's, is pure chaos. But in the centre of it, there is only one person.

She's perfect. Oh, so perfect. Sweet Vermilyea with the awful last name Lament. Perfect. Perfect for me.

She can't get you out of her thoughts, even by force, or the alcohol she consumed after you left. She's sure even the morphine she often takes won't be able to help her. Because finally, finally she has found the perfect woman for her project, for her rebirth. Her doll will have your face, which is way too similar to hers and that makes it perfect. Not only that, but you're also able to match her way of thinking, although she managed to beat you in your games, simply because she uses those same techniques when she wants something. And Miranda might not always get what she desires, but Danamir Corneille does and only that matters.

Even now, she's walking down the dark alleys of Veret, unafraid, because she's beneath the costume of her public persona. The golden mask being her protector. She's respected and praised for being a man. All things that never reached her when she was a woman. All she knew was pain, blood and violence. But now the world is hers so will be Vermilyea Lament.

She takes a sharp turn to another street, eager to get to the tavern she has decided to sleep in, as her home is not here, no, her mansion awaits her in Montverre, therefore almost a whole day worth of travelling. Despite her pleasant meeting with you, she also was between many other people, most of them unwashed and dirty. And she couldn't stand it. The purple suit she wears will be washed over and over until her hands bleed and she's going to soak in her bath for at least an hour. All to feel clean again, something she hasn't really felt since being seventeen. After that man ruined her completely. The same man that now hunts her own mind.

Suddenly, Miranda stops all movements, her cane, which she uses for her limping, hits the ground and she turns around. Endless void of darkness following her tightly behind.

"Is someone there?" - her voice is shaking, the effect of the special herbs she uses to make it more like a man's already wearing off. But she's sure she heard someone behind her. She is unmoving, eye perfectly good and one unseeing eye staring at the night covered buildings around here. Only then she hears another voice and calms down, taking in a deep breath before resuming her hurried walking. - "I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone."

In reality, Monsieur Corneille is completely alone.

Notes:

I'm so happy to finally finish the first chapter of this new fic! The idea has been inside my head for months now. I hope y'all will enjoy it as much as I do. Also I understand that I'm writing about very serious topics so if something is inaccurate, please feel free to correct me!

Anyway, I'd be happy to hear your thoughts and opinions about this chapter! Love y'all (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡

Chapter 2: A Doctor Visit

Summary:

Gods can be build from corpses.

1881 - Vernovia, Romania 

That day a maid opened the wrong door.

What followed were  hysterical screams of pure fear, caused by the amount of blood she saw inside the room. It should have been locked. Originally, it was intented, but it seemed like that particular doing was forgotten due to inescapable circumstances. Once she stopped gripping the wall beside her for support, the maid took a deep breath, along with a large step backwards. The reasonable decision to take in such moment would be to seek help, and playing a good and honest to God persona, she did it. But she chose the wrong person. As if he was going to help at all.

"Master!" - her voice was shaking as she ran down the stairs of the familiar mansion. The one she has been working in since her twenties. It was a nice home, with a well payed labor. - "Master!" - she continued to scream, slightly out of breath, but successfully down to the first floor. Her head was beginning to play tricks on her, a black spot in her vision her and there, while her eyes were shaking in an attempt to hold back tears. Of course, her age was slowing her down, which was not good - if anything it could have been critical for the situation. Given the fact she was running to save a life. Hopefully. Soon, she reached another door, or rather a set, and  invaded the space behind them without knocking. A large room was revealed before her and inside she saw the person she was searching for. The owner of the mansion, the man who forces his servants to call him 'master', the awful Apolon Lament. One look from him was enough to summon shivers down the maid's spine, despite her working for him for years, she was still afraid of his authority. Another deep breath and the truth is revealed. - "Master, the lady...the lady is bleeding."

Two figures froze on the spot. One of them stood smaller, less threatening, as it was blended over a velvet chair, one extended hand over a small table, on top of which layed a chess board, suggested that a move with the pawns was to be made. That figure was recognized by the name of Richard Lament, the younger brother of the famous Apolon Lament. And speaking of the man, he was now out of his seat, blood rushing through his veins with fury. He was beautiful, or at least he had the looks that were considered beautiful for men in those years. Standing tall and somehow muscular, a result of his hunting hobby, he often attracted attention, wanted or unwanted. His hair, yellow as the sun, was slicked back in a stylish manner, but very few people knew it was a weak attempt to hide his hair loss. His skin was fairly smooth, of course his face had its flaws, but being a noble, of high class on top of that, he needed to look presentable. A beard was only a dream to him, so it was clear to the observing eyes the way his lips thinned in almost invisible lines of annoyance.

Yes, for many women Apolon was attractive and very desired. And he didn't stray away from them neither. However his reputation wasn't the one of a gentleman. He has rude, commanding and rough. And many believed there wasn't a single droplet of kindness inside his body. Perhaps that's why he married later than expected. The women he was trying to romance were always too young, too boring after one night for him, too scared to give a hand in marriage. He wasn't afraid to hit them, as he merely saw them as toys. So noone really wanted to be his. Until he found a girl, not a woman, to force into being his wife. Apolon didn't know what happened to him the moment he was her, but he just had to have her. She was nothing special, a barely making enough money for living peasant, but she was the most magnificent person he has ever seen. And naturally, as every man does, he had to corrupt her.

Miranda didn't marry by choice, she was sold by her parents. And by all means, she didn't want Apolon's child, but she was forced into it, less than an year after being in his home, after freshly turning eighteen. He wanted to wait, really he wanted to be nice towards her for once. But he was left with no choice after the accident with the other woman.And now, after hearing she was bleeding, he knew it wasn't just fate.

Apolon moved with worry not about his wife, but rather his unborn child, for which he hoped was a boy. After all he needed a proper heir. He didn't thank the maid while passing her and he didn't take the stairs up to his wife's separated chamber. He couldn't sleep next to her, because she was always sobbing in her sleep and he couldn't stand it. And once the pregnancy effects started manifesting, Apolon just couldn't bear the sounds of Miranda puking around him. At that moment he knew entering that covered in blood room would mean  either finding his wife dead or killing her himself. So, to avoid this, he ran straight to the doctor's chamber, which he called at the moment when he started trying, or rather forcing, Miranda for a child.

Unfortunately, he found and empty room. Just then he truly understood the pressure of the situation. And how the hysterical screams of the loud maid  had created a huge commotion.

It was a slow walk. From one room to another. With each step his anger grew and grew, yet he was trying to keep it  inside himself, even if it meant squeezing his fingers into dangerous fists or forming out an expression twisted enough to scare his own late mother - possibly the only woman who has truly loved the awful man. Two more maids ran down the corridor, passing him with worried faces, cheeks burning in crimson colour, while holding blankets, towels and vials of medicine they had no information about, yet it was still something. Many excuses filled his ears, those women even cried instead of him. He couldn't be bothered with such emotions. His mind was half empty and half thinking about that blonde siren he was about to see in just a few more slow steps.

Apolon loved his wife, he loved Miranda. But not in a traditional manner, it was an obsession with beauty and desire to fix ugliness. When he first saw her on that market she was dirty and overworked by her parents - poor farmers selling crops for living, a peasant girl, no doubt. But the good Lord was his witness that girl was the most immaculate creature he has ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. Not a single one of his past mistresses or well known whores from brothels were on her level. Apolon believed he was doing her a favour by buying her off her parents and giving her a luxury life, in a palace with a successful man such as him. He wanted her, he loved her. And in return he was given disgusted looks, avoidance and betrayal of loyalty. He wanted to wait, to make her feel easy and ready before bedding her, before trying for an heir with his bride. But instead he found her trying to get laid with another woman.

Furious was not a word he could use to express himself back then. She made him a monster, she forced his hands to strike.

Apolon was smart enough to understand that his actions were not considered morally right. However he was hurt in a way nobody could understand. How can he stand there and endure the neglect Miranda was offering him. Everytime he reached - she flinched. Everytime he tried to be gentle - she begged for more freedom than she already has. And when he asked for loyalty - she betrayed him in the most miserable way imaginable. All he wanted was a good wife. However after everything he could only see Miranda as something less than him, the object he swore he didn't want to make out of her. And his anger was untameable. He couldn't put himself in her shoes, he couldn't forget, yet still at her open door his heart almost stopped beating. Only for a second of course, then Apolon Lament remembered himself and decided that not even a bleeding angel could bring him down.

He walked in what others would considered hell.

A scent of something strong enough to burn noses and weaken the human sense of smell  hit him straight in the head, almost forcing the man to take a step back. But that particular smell was no match for the iron aroma of pure, fresh blood, which danced around the room like a forbidden, sinful artist. After all the reddish liquid was all around the chamber and the vials of what Apolon guessed to be medical morphine were definitely less than the amount of blood. Which most definitely belonged to his wife - Miranda, who was lost somewhere under a mass of maids and a worried doctor, trying his best to save a life that was already wasted for no good.

The weak whimpering coming from the sick woman made his throat dry and he swallowed harshly, almost like he couldn't decide if he wanted to scream out of anger or despair. One of the younger maids passed something to the doctor - a cutting instrument, Apolon figured just before the girl walked to a side, wiping tears and holding the tiny cross on her necklace, perhaps in prayers for Miranda...or for the same thing to not happen to her. At that critical moment Apolon began wondering if the situation was really that bad.

Remembering himself Applon rushed forward, instead of turning back and running away from the problem just like every part of his mind was telling him to do. After all he's the great Apolon Lament - the most successful salesman in Romania, though with British origins. And there are very few things strong enough to guide him into misery. A woman, surely,  wasn't one of them. Apolon pushed the praying maid to the side, clearing his path and almost snapping at her to go if she's not going to do anything else but hold onto the wooden cross around her neck. His fierce eyes were probably enough because her feet began to move and she was out of the room within seconds.

The view under the mass of people was grotesque. Miranda was trembling, every part of her uncovered skin was either soaked in blood or chilled by fear and  undoubtedly - pain. There was no need to say anything about clothes because there were barely on her, to be precise she has been wearing a long dress that was currently lifted around her waist,  the fabric fisted by a maid while the doctor worked beneath it, where Miranda was completely bare and vulnerable. The nakedness of her lower body was ignored, because the main place demanding attention was her stomach. A large pit of poorly cut skin was gaping open, no matter the many tries of the sweating doctor to close it. Apolon's eyes widened while observing his wife's insides, she didn’t bleed in a healthy way—there was no rhythm to it, no promise of clotting. Just a slow, inconsistent seep, like her body couldn’t decide whether it still wanted to live or not. Bits of cloth—frayed and blood-soaked—stuck to it, remnants of whatever poor excuse for gauze had been pressed there in desperation.The skin was pale, sickly, and the scent coming from her stomach was sharp, sour, wrong—like metal and rotting milk. By the doctor's words an infection was already setting inside the poor woman's body.

The scenery almost made Apolon want to puke his guts out and run far away. Yet a feeling of something close to anger and sorrow at the same time was burning inside his chest. He has seen worse wounds, he has seen dead bodies even – and his eye didn't even tremble. However Miranda was different. Looking at her in such state made his blood boil. If it weren't for that awful memory of an unknown woman licking between her open legs, hidden from his gaze, Apolon might have reacted differently. But his pride got hurt and with it – his mental image of his beloved wife.

Miranda didn't yell in pain when her hair was pulled back by a strong fist. Instead she just blinked rapidly, as if trying to keep her eyes from rolling back when this action forced her to straighten her back and glare at her abuser. Her mouth was slightly open and she couldn't do anything to help the fact that she was drooling. But that wasn't the worst part of her face expression. Her vision was blurry, eyes blown wide and reddened, while her head was spinning like her neck couldn't support it anymore. Strings of golden hair were slicked to her sweaty forehead and she was panting, clearly not being able to breath normally. Apolon also noticed she didn't seem to be aware of the amount of pain she should be feeling for someone with a half torn stomach. And then it clicked for him.

Miranda was high out of her mind.

"What did you do?" - Apolon spoke with poison on his tongue. One guilty and filled with remorse look from the doctor told him the smell filling the room besides blood was precisely morphine she was given to endure the shock and pain from her wounds. Although the doze seemed very serious and she could barely focus her eyes on her furious husband, she still managed to respond, the constant tugging of her hair getting more irritating with each passing second.

"I..." - Miranda started, lips trembling and Apolon could barely recognise her voice due to the circumstances. A small part of him managed to melt the tension between his eyebrows - the small part that still loved Miranda. It was truly a shame the most of his being now hated her and one look to her bleeding abdomen reminded him of that fact. But then her next words made him completely turn away from her, although he was still holding her hair with a possessive grip. - "I was in pain."

"Doctor?" – he half screamed at him, more than ready to trust a foreign to the family man over his distressed wife. Yet in this household and historical year a male's opinion was more respected than whatever a mere woman had to say.

"She..uh..told me the same thing, I..." – the doctor,  clearly overwhelmed by the critical situation, the sorrow of the wife and the anger of the husband, could barely structure his words. He swallowed hard, having noone to wipe the sweat out of his forehead,  he did it himself for the sike of letting go of the woman's torn stomach and naturally she whined in pain, the sound ringing loudly in his ears. – "the...the possibility for a spontaneous abortion, falling of the womb, the loss of your child..." – he whispered this part, as if it was sinful. – "all this is not completely unimaginable, even though her condition was fine. I don't really understand why–"

"You expect me to believe this was a miscarriage?" – no matter the amount of morphine she had rushing through her veins, Miranda could feel her scalp burning as Apolon tugged on her hair again, determined to let out his anger. Unfortunately the act even startled the doctor, who sympathised for the woman, her redden and filled with tears eyes showed everything Miranda or her husband tried to mask up.

"I was...in so much pain." – she repeated her only argument. It drove Apolon crazy, not because she was using words to manipulate him, but because truth hurt more than anything and he knew he has been too harsh, but she was promised to him underneath God's eyes. And that gave him the motivation to continue his cruelty, somewhere deep in his twisted mind a voice whispered he was correct for his actions and he listened without second guessing.

"Doctor?" – Apolon called out again, making the man jump in his place. He was busy enough to stare helplessly at Miranda's wounds, while waiting for the useless maid he sent to fetch his medical equipment, completely unable to help her in any other way, different from making her consume more morphine. And not in the usual way on top of that. He made her drink it, which was dangerous for several reasons. Her body would have accepted it easily was it injected into her, but there was no time. Even he was surprised at her ability to stay conscious. The doctor's fingers trembled once he heard a question over an unavoidable topic. –"...was there a baby?"

"A whole baby? I'm afraid no..." – he nervously tried to explain that Miranda was in an early stage of her pregnancy before the accident. While the signs were there, the being in her womb was still a fetus, not a baby. – "Blood and flesh tissue are the only things you can find this early in a pregnancy, but it's common for women to go through unfortunate terminations when–"

"She murdered my child, Doctor! My heir, my bloodline, my future son!" – Apolon raised his voice with confidence, although completely unaware of the gender of his now late baby. Instead of pulling Miranda's hair again, he completely let go, too frustrated to deal with her anymore. He made a closer step to the doctor, forcing the other man to take a deep breath, yet his eyes refused to meet his. – "At least let me see the remains."

"...In the other room."

Apolon rushed towards the door. However, something inside him made him stop right before pushing down the handle. His heart began to beat in an abnormal way and he made a mistake he would remember to this death. Apolon turned back to look at his wife.

And Miranda, despite being in pain, was laughing at him. Not only a curved smile, but a cursed smirk and a loud, truthful laughter. Even the doctor looked surprised.

And she didn't stop until Apolon left the room.

.

.

.

After a week and two days or pure isolation, near starvation and constant usage of morphine, doctor words – "It would make the pain easier for her, so an everyday dose is required.", Miranda was weaker than when Apolon found her right after her homemade abortion. But his anger didn't calm down during this period and she wasn't in luck to be left alone by him. His visits weren't her favourite and while he couldn't immediately try for another child, as her womb was still in stitches, he surely made her life even more miserable.

During his first meeting Miranda couldn't move. The drug in her veins made her fingers tingle, but her head was heavy on the pillow and she could barely move. For a very long time Apolon just starred at her, unmoving. Then she felt strong hands around her neck and slowly her air ways started to give out. But the blurred image of this hateful man disappeared before her meaningless life could end.

The next night Apolon decided to lay down next to her for whatever reason. He even put his hands around her, imitating cuddling. Something he refused to do even on their wedding night after he was done using her and Miranda believed she was broken forever. But worse followed. Her husband's proximity was not familiar to her. It made her feel wrong, it disgusted her. Luckily for her, Apolon remembered himself in the morning and never repeated this weak try for affection.

By the third visit, one of Miranda's blue eye turned silver and uselessly blind. By force, of course. And many painful fists.

Her mind also betrayed her. It did that unpleasant protective mechanism whenever something traumatic happened to her. The memory loss. Now, she knew the morphine was doing her dirty as well, but she could remember only mere fragments of the earlier events. The only real evidence of her dead child and endless pain was the large, still healing scar across her lower abdomen. A map of violence she couldn't forget, even if she wanted to.

And it is that scar you found yourself staring at when you entered her isolated room, after you've been told to pay no close attention to the 'sick lady of the house.' Your mother, still devoided of titles and commonly known as a maid in the Lament mansion, said the woman reserved what came for her. You had no real opinion, after all you hardly ever saw her to begin with. But one thing was know around the grand estate – Miranda was not a truthful wife, as Apolon made sure everyone heard about her affair with another woman. Such sinful act summoned so much hatred towards her.  You didn't understand what sin is, so naturally you were outside of that group.

Miranda was nothing to you, her existence – meaningless. She had nothing to propose to. Nothing you could take advantage of.

Still, you were forced to enter her room by noone else but Apolon Lament himself. While running one hand through his falling hair with irritation, he handed you a cold, silver plate and then ordered you to go feed his wife. It was a busy day for him and his servants, but you never expected to do their work. You were curious to see the woman, and so you obeyed.

The end result was...unsatisfying. Miranda was spread over a bed, almost lifelessly, her head turned to a side, while she started at a singular direction, unmoving. Her chamber was silent, at first you questioned if she was even breathing. She didn't do much to acknowledge your presence, regardless. Only after a few steps closer to her did she move. In pure discomfort, she twisted her body awake and quickly covered her until recently exposed stomach. The scar was finally hidden, taking you out from your own trance.

Your eyes locked. Two deformed organs reflecting eachother. Her good eye matched your blue one, while the silver of her left connected blindly to your green. It was like looking at an older, broken version of yourself, given the fact that you looked somehow familiar. She allowed herself to relax, her skin calming down after waves of shivers. And she turned her head again, perhaps in shame. Her golden but unkempt and unwashed hair slightly covered a part of her face, but it didn't put enough effort to hide the puffing and remains of deep purple under her mal eye.

Without wasting another minute you place the silver plate on her nightstand, offering her mashed potatoes with a side of cooked vegetables. It looked delicious, definitely better than what you're given for food. But your status were different after all, even though Miranda look pathetic in her current state. She didn't even glare at the plate. Her head was still heavy, the little left of her vision – blurry. She has no intentions to spare time for talking to whoever it was, but the unknown child in her room started talking anyhow.

"My mother says childbirth is the most painful event in a woman's lifetime." – your voice was flat and stripped of emotion, because it wasn't intented to be comforting. If anything it meant to summon rage, by simply repeating well known statements. You slowly tilted your head, observing Miranda with curiosity, even though your visage expressed boredom. – "She sometimes cries when looking at me." – it happened rarely, when Miriam was  less busy and actually acknowledging her daughter's existence, which you didn't really understand. Have you done something wrong? Possibly, but you didn't remember gaining the anger of your mother. So your next question was genuine. – "Is that...normal?"

"I don't know..." – Miranda's lips trembled, while her thin fingers dug into her palm, carving half moons deep in her skin. But there was not enough force within her muscle to actually cause harm.

"Perhaps it is, you're crying as well, but where is your child exactly?" – the woman froze in her place, your words slowly sliding under her poisoned with morphine skin. She slowly lifted her trembling hands, barely recognising the shapes of her fingers. But she took it deeply – where was her child? Then, for the first time a voice whispered in her head, yet so awfully muted and unclear that it didn't help her the slightest.

"I....don't know." – Miranda murmured and finally made your lips curl up in a cunning smile.

"My mother has an answer for everything." - the grimace got bigger once you noticed the flaring of her nose. You just pushed deeper. – "Shouldn't you be the same?" – she turned her face towards you, twisted in both anger and sorrow. She could almost taste your next words and it made her want to vomit. – "Or are you not a real mother?"

A child murderer. The voice inside her mind whispered, this time more than clear.

"Stop..." – she gagged, swallowed hard to prevent the pressure building up her throat. – "shut up, please–"

You were in the middle of opening your mouth to strike her down again when the door opened with a bang against the pale wall.

"Vermilyea, come here immediately!" – both yours and Miranda's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, while you even took a step away from the bed, as if avoiding unnecessary arguments. Because Miranda wasn't aware of the owner of the slightest rough voice and to be fair she was busy with silently repeating the name of the child that has been terrorising her for the past couple of minutes. But you know very well such sudden appearance of your mother was nothing good for you or anyone around.

Miriam walked into the room like she was the estate's owner. Quick, confident steps leading her way, but you couldn't miss the way her body also shook with anxiety and another thing you could only name as anger. And the reason for it was soon discovered. Just before your mother could reach you, her hands already reaching out, another person entered the scene and with that Miranda's breath hitched.

"I don't think you realise how thick of a line you're crossing here, woman." – irritated, cold and chilling. This is how Miranda felt her husband's voice – piercing her like a needle. She was aware of the anger written all over his face, after all she has seen it enough times to remember it with perfection. She knew she hasn't done anything wrong this time, yet Apolon's mere presence made her tremble. And curse her miserable life – you noticed. No real intentions for mischief were lurking inside your head, but the knowledge of her weakness thrilled you. With a silent, purely unemotional expression you stood calmly in your place, allowing your eyes to linger on the two angry adults in front of you. Apolon was already waving his finger in Miriam's face. – "Just because my brother has taken a liking in you doesn't mean you can do whatever you desire." – his eyes moves to you just for a second before returning to the original centre of attention, this time he spoke with low, threatening voice. – "Remember your place, woman. You are but a maid, nothing more."

His forced composure was killing you. This man was a pure bundle of nerves and he didn't hide it well. At least your mother was genuine with her reactions.

"Yes, I am the maid, not my daughter." – with one defending hand on her chest and the other pointing at you, Miriam fiercely defended her position, surprisingly for everyone. While she was not the one to keep judgmental comments for herself, she was never this brave, especially in front of her formal master, as Apolon liked to be called. Spending more of her time with Richard Lament surely had its effect on her. – "Command me all you want, but leave her out of this."

"She lives under my roof, therefore she–"

"She's a child, not your slave." – Miriam swallowed upon cutting him off, with disgrace. Apolon took a deep breath before continuing his sentence, repeating it through gritted teeth.

"She lives under my roof, therefore she follows my rules. " – he was now closer to Miriam's face than she would prefer, towering over her smaller body like a predator. She didn't back off. This was the first time she did something for your sike without a promised price. Because for your mother dignity was almost everything in life, after money and a few more things. Naturally, she would never allow you to be treated like something you're not, especially during childhood years.

"Vermilyea is a child." – Miriam repeated with no shame, her top lip twitching with both disgust and anger as she lifted herself on her toes to match the height of the man in front of her. Then her eyes lit up and she spoke again. – "She's not a servent for your pathetic corpse of a wife."

The scenery escalated faster than you could have ever imagined.

Miriam was burning in flames of revolution. Apolon was drowning in his hatred. And in the middle of this heated argument, you allowed yourself to scoff after your mother's commentary. It was miscalculated mistake. Within the spawn of seconds Miriam was shoved to a side by two shaking from irritation arms, while you could only blink once as the face of balding man appeared closer and closer to you. Apolon was never fond of you, an uneasy feeling, as well as sometimes cold shivers, were always torturing him whenever you were around. So in that moment he thought of a revenge over the rotten child of mansion, as they called you.

The man lifted his hand, twisted it to a side and you closed your eyes, waiting for the strike to hit. You even counted, yet nothing happened.

Because your face wasn't rewarded with a rough slap like you expected. Instead, it was shoved towards something awfully soft, warm, round and...incredibly comforting. It took you a few more seconds to adapt and actually realise what has happened. It seemed like Miranda has acted faster than her husband. Because you were not only pulled out of his grasp, by her, but she has also carefully wrapped her weak arms around you in a protective manner, with no intentions of telling go. Naturally you were now at the edge of the bed, as she didn't have enough force to lift you on top of it. But your weren't disappointed the slightest. Due to the position and her clothing, you were practically glued to her exposed cleavage, her nightgown low cut. It was hard to explain the feelings urging inside of you, but it was clear to say this moment changed you forever. After all Miranda was trembling in front of her worst fear, her heart was hammering in your ears, yet she still stood her ground and didn't allow you to get injured in any way. Even your twisted nature could appreciate that. But there was something more. This woman...you were  playing with her mentality just moments ago. However,  she still chose to protect you, knowing you were no good.

"You are not going to hurt this girl." – her voice was trembling so hard, it even summoned her accent and revealed the fact that she was not the same origin as her husband. Little droplets started to damp your slightly exposed forehead and you acknowledged she was crying. – "You won't. Not while I live."

There was a minute of agonising silence. Then Apolon let out a sound of disbelief.

"You chose the perfect fucking time to care for a child, Miranda." – he cursed, venom dripping down with every word. His palms were defined fists of anger, but he kept them close to his body. One look at his wife's blind eye somehow calmed him down. After realising Miranda was serious about her actions, he lifted a hand and pointed at her, while lowering both his head and voice. – "Shame it isn't your own."

You felt the exact moment her heart sank down, as it immediately started to beat in an even more irregular rhythm. At this point her breath was heavy as well, the extra work of the core muscle of her body was a trigger for her lungs, which we were already overwhelmed, pushing against her ribs almost painfully. The mention of her unborn child clearly had a massive effect on Miranda, both mentally and physically. Despite her hard time breathing, she still ran her fingers through your hair and pulled you closer, in need to protect something, anything. Because her hands were now forever painted with blood. Her only option was to protect and heal.

You were too busy to inhale the smell of iron from her skin to acknowledge heavy steps on the wooden floor. But Miranda watched, with anger, yet damp from tears, eyes how her husband turned his back to her. Then Miriam sparkled in her vision again, the woman was almost equally shaken, murmuring curses under her breaths. In her origins, your mother came from a family of spiritual women, or the so called "witches". It was one of the reasons she and you included were hated in the mansion. Regardless of her attempts to cursed the man, Apolon leaned over her, then whispered in her ear. Miriam shook her head in Miranda's direction before running out of the room, screaming a foreign name Miranda heard as 'Richard.' Apolon soon followed after her, closing the door behind him and leaving you alone with the broken woman.

For a few minutes none of you spoke or made any attempts to move. You found incredible comfort in her arms, which was unfamiliar for you. Perhaps the last time you were so thoughtfully embraced was as a baby, after her maternal break Miriam didn't really pay attention, even when she was free of work. On the other end, Miranda couldn't bring herself to let go for her own selfish reasons. Of course she wanted children, but not like this, not born from assault and raised in fear. Although, she was certain – if she was to survive her punishments, she'll never be a mother.

Slowly, the hands around you lowered themselves, setting you free. The dissappears of warmth was drastic, but you didn't want to seem weak and did not seek more of it. Just stood calmly in your place, lifting your head to look Miranda in the eyes and perhaps hear what she has to say, if words were something she desired to use, that is. However, as you observed her briefly the reality of the situation hit you hard as a rock. This woman was noone to you, just like you were noone to her. Yes, both of you were out of breath, waiting for something to happen.

And it did. Miranda cupped your cheeks with gentle palms, unsure in her own actions, her fingertips tenderly brushing over your skin. Unexpectedly, you leaned into her touch.

"I apologise if he frightened you." – she was well spoken, despite you finding out she wasn't foreign like her husband. English wasn't her mother's tongue, yet she spoke in it with near perfection. – "He is...an awful man." – you noted how she refused to use his name, possibly because she didn't want to think of him as an actual human being. Her thumbs slowly brushed under your eyes, expecting to smooth down tears, but her touch found none of those wet droplets. – "Which is why...you need to go. Don't come back, don't seek me." – she swallowed, eyes dislocating from yours on purpose. – "I don't want to see him hurting you, Vermilyea."

The way Miranda spoke out your name was pure gold in your ears. After that the woman hesitated, as if not wanting to share more, which you believed to be important. Regardless, you nod your head, but that jester was a simple lie to calm her down. You were not going to leave your newborn saviour this easily.

"I have to confess..." – you started slowly, taking a step back, allowing her touch to slowly disappear before you got addicted to it. – "I don't usually listen to what my mother has to say...and if I actually do, I most definitely don't repeat it." – Miranda's eyebrows twisted, her fingertips withdrawing from you, trembling in unsureness. – "I just make observations. And you...are my biggest one." – your lips curled into a smirk, which was not forced, yet was unsettling to look at, at least for Miranda, who was out of words. – "Thank you."

With that, you silently took your leave. And on that day your Mirdin was made. Not born, because Miranda was purely your own possession.

*****

1897 - Veret, France.

The Übermensch represents human potential, particularly for those  who are willing to cross over from the comfortable, easy, mindless acceptance of what a person has been taught, and what everyone else believes, and enter into a way of life that creates its own values in a world where traditional morality has begun to crumble and holding onto the beliefs of the past no longer make sense.

The Übermensch is extraordinarily powerful, both physically and mentally, and independent. They shape the concepts of good and evil according to their own thought world, disregarding the prevailing societal values. They recognize that suffering is necessary for goodness and embrace it. Their priority is themselves, and they strive for their own success.

“The ‘Übermensch’ is the meaning of the earth. Your will should say: the ‘Übermensch’ shall be the meaning of the earth!” Note well! I teach you the ‘Übermensch’: he is that sea; in him your great contempt can sink. Note well! I teach you the ‘Übermensch’: he is that lightning; he is that madness!”

You close the book in your hands. Its title reading – Friedrich Nietzsche.

You've always had a liking to his philosophy, especially his idea about the so called superman as it hits close to your views of the world of morals and human passions. You first started showing interest in philosophy when your parents hired a private teacher, willing to pass his knowledge to a woman or as you were - a mere little girl. But everyone knows if something doesn't happen with money, it happens with more money. So after a few days of irritated looks and barely any information from the man with dirty glasses you finally began learning from him. Your primitive lessons were about the beloved for many "Love for wisdom" or the study they called philosophy. Although the man didn't immediately jump into Nietzsche, but instead ancient Greek, you found books about him and from him in the houses library yourself.

You hated the idea of being somehow less intelligent than someone you knew you can be better than. It wasn't exactly pride, even though you covered more material for two weeks alone than with two months with him, you never showed it. You continued to look as interested as you could during the lessons, but no new information was coming your way anymore. So you stopped listening. Your mind alone was enough of an entertainment. At first you figured every inch of personality the man with dirty glasses had. For example  you noticed he had a repeating habit of tapping his left ear with two fingers every time a specific word was spoken out. It seemed like he himself wasn't aware because you played with him long enough to understand he would continue to tap until you decide to stop repeating the trigger words. He was also weaker in science, knew biology from books but lacked any practice and chemical reactions were difficult for him. When the time came for you to learn about wife duties and mainly - reproduction,  he was red in the face while explaining the female organs, which to be honest didn't have much information. But you listened, one single name wandering in your head during those awkwardly sounding lessons - Mirdin.

And while on the topic of Mirdin and Nietzsche in hand, you close your eyes, feeling the hard cover of the book and focus on trying to remember the first time you read about the superman. You couldn't understand it at first,  mostly because you had no morals to begin with, but soon you realised it wasn't about good and evil anymore. It was above it. And you could only think of one person who could take that position. The vague name Miranda,  with the trembling hands and twisted from pain visage and weak body. Yet, she protected you and crowned her a goddess the same day. However,  Miranda didn't exactly fit the role of the Übermensch, at least in your head. So you fell into a hole of your own conclusions and reflections and after carefully thinking it through you decided to create the image of your own superman. The key difference with the one of Nietzsche being that it was already born, in female form, young, beautiful and for all you knew - cursed. You named your Übermensch - Mirdin.

There is a knock on the door,  immediately managing to pull you out of old memories.

It couldn't possibly be your mother, because Miriam doesn't believe in making sure someone is comfortable before entering their private space. She wouldn't even make an exception for your current condition, which would be equal to a weak fever,  yet dramatic enough to put you on a bed with a headache. As guessed,  instead of an open door, you're met with another knock and it makes you certain. It is your father behind the wooden façade. You clear your throat,  setting the book aside and pulling up blankets over yourself, before giving Richard permission to walk in. A cracking sound of opening and a poking head is what he presents you with. You don't even blink at his presence,  but you understand that him coming to check up on you is way better than Miriam.  You're aware that you've managed to get sick because of your nightly promenade, as your immunity towards maladies is not the best. Richard doesn't ask questions,  just gives solutions, while your mother always spills them over you to the point of irritation. So the situation works perfectly in your favour.

Your father takes a few steps forward, body language hinting how unsure he is to the right approach. He always tries, you can give him that. He cares and he most certainly acts like an actual parent figure, perhaps he's a bit more protective than usual, but his performance is good. Not perfect as your standards are too high for him regardless, but close enough to root out a reaction out of you upon looking at him. A fake smile is all you can give at this moment,  yet it lights up his face like a candle in dark night. 

"How are you feeling, Vera?" – you hum, comprehending the difference between the usage of the small of your name. With Miriam is pure manipulation from both sides – she uses it to express her authority over your being while you listen, because you like making her believe she has any type of control over you. With Richard is just genuine affection. There was a time during your childhood when he used to wonder what to call you. After all your full name is quite curious. Vermilyea comes from two main other names – your grandmother's Vera which was going to be your full name originally,  based of Miriam's words, however your mother decided to combine her own to it, so this is where the Mi comes from. And to sound completed she added Lya at the end, forming out Vermilyea. So naturally,  after a year or so, Richard began calling you Vera as well, influenced by Miriam.

"My head is better," – you calmly answer his question,  pulling on the blankets to stimulate genuine weakness,  which immediately works and your father's expression changes to extreme worry,  before he quickly fixes it, perhaps trying to act a bit tougher. Worrying about a twenty-four years old woman is not something a lot of men his age have in common,  but they don't have daughters such as you, of course. You raise a hand to the base of your neck, elegant fingers rubbing circles on the soft skin. - "but my throat has gone dry, it hurts."

"That is what you get for sneaking out at night." - Richard crossed his hands, chin lifted up. He looks almost hilarious, but you don't laugh at his stupidity and his unability to dig out the right answers, even while searching in the same rabbit hole. Instead you observe him carefully,  allowing the mere power of your eyes and calculated glare to do the work in making him understand he shouldn't be messing with your doings...much. Your father is dressed simply today, indicating he's probably staying at home. You can go ahead and try to guess he's doing it because of your condition and you would probably be correct. However his messy hair is not the thing that catches your attention, instead a rogue spot under his jawline – without doubt left by Miriam's dark lipstick. Their shared love is disgusting to you, but you make no comment. Instead you blink slowly,  as if reminding the world you're actually capable of doing so, and turn your head to a side.

"I didn't sneak out." - you declare, wetting your bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. You don't give your father the pleasure of looking him in the eye while also adding -"That would mean I didn't have permission... and I'm rarely being denied, father."

"Correct," - Richard murmurs under his nose, allowing you to take a mental note of your small victory. It's convenient, because now you can use him for the plan you made this morning, upon waking up with a hideous headache. He starts playing with his sleeve, a nerves habit he does often,  so you've noticed. Miriam always gets mad when the edges of his long sleeves get ruined because of it and she does have a point– noone in this family wears cheap clothes,  even it your current financially difficult situation. Even the nightgown you're wearing would be enough to feed two people until they can't take another bite for the whole day, or two. Very little people wear actual silk in society, after all. Your father clears out your throat,  as if remembering his wife's anger, and lowers his hands down, positioning them behind his back instead. - "you're too...difficult for that kind of discipline." - an unexpected commentary, yet standing unanswered.

"Because I know what I should and shouldn't do." – you're very self aware of your possibilities, your rights and obligations. The moment you and your family migrated to France and settled in Veret, you figured the world was not as simple as you had it in Vernovia. Life there was just all about obeying your mother and the master of the house, for whom Miriam used to work, before marrying his brother. So naturally you learnt to adopt in environment that wasn't clear to you and you hated it. Because it made you feel small, especially after making mistakes. It was necessary to find your own place and defend it. You've been flawless in your act for years. You look up to your father again,  hoping to shake him a bit with your different coloured eyes, which always reminded you that no matter what you do, you just don't fit – and not only in this family or Veret,  but in the genuine society you fool almost everyday with your inclusive performance. However you can't expect a man to be grossed out when he hold so much love towards you in his heart. Sometimes it makes you why, after all if he wanted to he could always make another child to adore, which would me most certainly his. But Richard chose you instead. - "...And I know exactly what I want."

"And what is that...?" - he asks, not nervously this time, but rather confused. Lucky for him, you're not feeling like circling around the topic for countless hours, regardless.

"At the moment, to be in better health." - as if calculated to perfection your voice cuts dry and you're forced to cough, hand reaching out for a porcelain cup of clear water near your bed. After a few silent moments,  you open your mouth to speak again,  tilting your head and forming out another smile to seem more affective. – "Why not call me a doctor, father?" - at that Richard furrows his eyebrows, knowing well even though you're often sick it's never serious enough for a medical worker.

"Didn't Miriam give you some herbs earlier?" – she did, but you're not sure how to tell him you ended up watering the already dead plants by your wardrobe with the 'healing' liquid your mother brought you. So you make excuses,  slightly irritated in how Richard hasn't called a doctor yet, precisely the one you so violently desire the presence of.

"A witch should know her potions well, but it seems my mother has forgotten them." - your father's lips curl up at the joke, although his face altogether tries to stay composed. He loves his wife very much, but sometimes his daughter makes comments about her he can't help but praise with a reaction. You rub the base your throat again, feeling it burn under the pressure of talking. - "They don't work."

"Very well, then." - your father mimics a visage of understanding, although his overall body language expression his unability to control the situation. And he doesn't,  he can't,not when he's battling against you. Richard lifts up a hand, running it through his messy hair while looking around for a mirror he can observe his work in. You find it a bit unfair is how quickly men tend to fix the messes on their heads, meanwhile you have to control and tame your blonde curls every day, sometimes by a few times. Your desire to stay flawless is unescapeable. Even now, in your fever struck state, your hair is neatly braided and tossed over a shoulder for aesthetics. After making sure he looks presentable,  Richard turns around,  heading to the door. - "I shall get you a medic."

"Father?" - you rush to stop him, although your voice stays low, influenced by the pain, which doesn't allow you to speak very loudly. Not like you ever do. For you, talking calmly is more effective than yelling. A clear example would be moments of arguing with your mother, where she practically screams in your face, while you listen and present your own words carefully and with precision. It drives her wild almost all the time, but you at least you're not the one to burn from anger after that.

"Yes, Vera?" - Richard quickly turns around, more than ready to help with whatever he can.

"There is a traveling doctor in town, perfect in... his craft." - you hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should still see Miranda as the man she pretends to be. For the sake of her puppet show, you do. You're not actually aware if she's good in her chosen profession, but you risk to believe your Mirdin is flawless in every aspect you can think of. Besides you definitely wouldn't want her to just treat your sickness, were she with you. - "He's called Danamir Corneille, wears a golden mask." - your father makes a grimace. - "Do seek him if he's still here."

"A traveling doctor? Where–when did you meet him?" - Richard not only raises his voice,  but also hands, which he swiftly moved around the air, while trying to found the right words in his current chocked state. It's not everyday you open your mouth to asks about men, let alone demand their presence. But yours is different and so urgently needed,  not for your health, but rather – personal desires.

"It's useless to bury ourselves into details, father." - you compose a smirk upon seeing his anger transform into confusion. He tries to gain control whenever he seems fit, but after living under Miriam's boot for so many years this masculine feature has almost disappeared. So naturally,  he fails in scaring you. - "We've met last night,  I'm yet to see what he's capable of." - you speak almost with boredom.

"Then what relationship should I assume you two have?" - your father taps his foot a few times on the floor,  demanding answers. If he knew the truth of his beloved daughter wandering in a brothel for an unfit for her role of an innocent lady reason, he would possibly explode from anger...or perhaps sadness. Embarrassment? Sounds more like Miriam.

"A nonexistent one." - you almost hiss out, wondering when is this conversation going to end already. Sometimes too much useless talking is tiring. - "He's but a doctor and I find myself in need of one."

"And yet you request him by name." - Richard's eyes narrow down at his daughter, while the room goes silent. Not only that, but a rather large cloud slowly makes its way in front of the shining sun, making the until now rich in colour bedroom dark and almost depressing. The lack of daylight is short, possibly less than a second,  but it's dramatic enough to birth tension.

Your head hits the pillow behind it, searching for a confortable place to rest. Your father rarely gets serious or angry, to be fair it's almost impossible to get him in such state,  but you know when it happens, as per now, he demands attention and some kind of respect towards the elderly, which you by all means do not possess. So you bury yourself in sheets, forcing out a vulnerable look, while still cutting him off with a calculated voice. - "Is it unusual to want the best care available?" - you murmur, words walking over the edge of mockery.

Richard composes a scoff, his unability to argue with his daughter shining like a deadly sharp diamond. Speaking of the beautiful and dangerous, a common name for your father's lips to spell out is lured to the conversation,  almost by magic or rather...habit. When one parents can't control a problematic child– they just transfer it to the other. And naturally Richard does so.

"If Miriam–if your mother  finds out about this, she will–"

"She doesn't have to know." - you allow your eyelids to softly touch the base of your slightly flushed from fever cheeks – a ghostly blinking. And while your father huffs and puffs about how pissed off your mother would be if she finds out you were trying to dirty the family name by messing around with unknown men during the night, you observe a portrait on the wall, expressing you, Richard and Miriam, although not in its best shape as you don't acknowledge it half of the time. But some small bugs do and they've eaten out the canvas, leaving Miranda with just barely of a face. The image almost makes your lips curl upwards. Then you snap back at the irritated masculine figure in front of your bed. - "And she won't ever know,  unless you tell her, father." - a pause. - "Am I correct?"

You sense the exact moment of his surrender and you nearly taste your victory once he bows his head down and lets out a tired sigh. His jaws tightens, teeth crashing into one other. Richard was splitting before the image of his lovely wife and beloved daughter. He even raises a hand to scratch his neck, which apparently makes him think better,  or so you've been told. But the end is near, the red mark from Miriam's lipstick is now ruined and nearly erased from his skin. No doubt – a sigh of defeat.

"If this...Danamir is still in town, I will try my best to find him." - at last, Richard chooses a side and settles for the safer path.

"Good." - his only reward is a nod and a mirage of a fainting smile,  which to be fair has nothing to do with your positive feeling about your father taking your desires seriously. No , it's something deeper. The same voice, which whispers about your Mirdin still being in Veret, waiting...just like you wait for her. Destiny is not something you believe in, but it is something to look forward to. - "You've always known how to make me feel better, father. I am...sincerely thankful."

To be of aide and importance for his daughter has always been a dream for Richard and you know it to precision. Richard sends you one last pitiful look before turning away,  ready to leave you in your lonely comfort again. Just before he steps out, however, your father turns again, his voice lower than a whisper, trembling too, for whatever reason.

"Rest well, Vera...and don't make me regret this."

It's fear. You've awoken fear inside him. From the unknown possibilities of your current and future relationship with the said Danamir Corneille. And of course – the anger of Miriam, shall she finds out the truth she's so eager to always hide. It's fear, the emotion stronger than every other and the mere one to so wonderfully work in your favour. You don't really feel it but you manage to understand it, but you often use it.

Even now, after Richard closes the door and dissappears from your sight, his fear still lingers around the room. And you feast on it like a starving beast.

.

.

.

 

Several hours later that cursed door squeaks open again, although this time a polite knock is missing. At first – one, including you, would consider it's Miriam Lament behind the wooden entrance, as she's known to not respect the privacy of other the same way she wants hers to be respected. But there is something different, far away from Miriam's usual habits. The lack of good manners is present, but so is the slow opening of the said door. It moves with enough speed to alert the person inside for an upcoming guest, therefore giving plenty of time for a warning to be made, shall the visitor needs to wait, in reason on changing of clothes, fixing up a proper look or more intimate acts that demand solitude.

In your case all you manage to do in those last few seconds of isolation from the outside world is to quickly shake your hair out of the weak braid you put it into this morning and help yourself with clever fingers to style and give a bit of volume on the top. No other change is done, because you know very well you don't need it. Especially for the guest you're expecting.

A loud tud echoes through the room, surely announcing an arrival. You recognise the cane that hits the floor, the long metal cylinder and curved handle – the same one, which supported the limping traveling doctor from the brothel you were just last night. And once you distinguishe a familiar in colour, yet different in texture,  as it was surely changed, purple outfit you stay assured that your Mirdin has finally came to visit again. It wasn't a goodbye after all, it never was to begin with.

The currently dressed as the wealthy and respected Monsieur Corneille ‐ Miranda, takes one singular step into her patient's room and freezes on the spot. She doesn't need to turn her head into the direction of the bed to feel the piercing gaze which she becomes a victim of. As a woman with many fears, she has learned to repress them as much as possible and most of the times she's successful, but in such critical moment she can't help the shivers running down her spine or the way every single hair follicle on her body stands up–afraid and alerted. By what danger exactly,  she's yet to find out.

The room is too silent for her personal taste. It's cold and it smells of nothing in particular, like a forgotten tomb, but devoid of corpses. The cane's tip nervously shakes on its not so secure spot, a clear indicator of the way the hand which holds it slightly trembles. Miranda dares not breath, she has felt the same energy just last night, the darkness surrounding the same woman she finds herself in a room with. Such effect is hard to achieve, especially in a short time and specifically on someone like her, or at least the person she pretends to be. Carefully, as if to purposely avoid danger, she twists her head to a side.

Two unblinking, cold eyes are staring right at Miranda. If she didn't know better she would decide right on the spot that her precious patient has died before her arrival, therefore reducing her called help to a round zero. This exact scenario already happened with the late Élise Bernard, but not because of a mistake on the side of her medical abilities,  but the fact what she was simply summoned once the lady's condition began to worsen to a massive amount. And they knew the road from Montverre to Veret was long...however this is irrelevant at the moment.

Vermilyea Lament has unique facial features. This is the mental note Miranda takes for herself as she finally swallows her fear and turns fully toward the young woman on the bed. Although your eyes are sharply shaped like the ones of a fox, one of them was slightly softer then the other. That would be her blue coloured eye, while the other iris is richly green, like an emerald. However sharp and never touched by the hands of master jeweler. Untamed. Miranda is quite convinced you haven't blinked once since you've met, in fact you show close to no reactions at all. The only significant difference she spots in your behaviour is due to your intense glaring and slightly low tilted head, you're able to move your ears and it almost feels like they are reacting to the sounds Miranda makes. It's an almost invisible movement, yet even with one bad eye she manages to notice. And she begins to wonder if it's because your facial muscle are somehow affected by your expression. This is one way to explain it. However, the modesty dressed woman drops the idea before it can form into something bigger that haunts her until she can get her answer, like most things in her life do.

Miranda swallows hard. Vermilyea Lament is alive. And observing her every movement.

Due to the circumstances, Miranda doesn't even realise she's still standing glued to the entrance of the chamber, giving the look of someone unsure what to do – to run or stay. She aims to fix that. And she does. With a slow kick and a now closed door. She finally allows herself to breath, although making it so she's alone with you. Which she's yet to decide if she likes or not. Currently, she chooses to trust you and soon her fingers search up for a key below the wooden handle. And sure enough it's resting there, Miranda puts pressure on it until it turns and the loud mechanical click of the lock rings out, announcing the beginning of a private matter.

"Do you mind if I make myself comfortable?" - Miranda asks, her voice still lost in that curious spectrum of masculinity and feminine sonority, yet her manner of speaking is changed to an intimate hospitality, proper for people who have not yet crossed the sinful point of no return, but being close enough to it. After all you both have seen the other naked, or half naked, however none of you has explored the body ...yet. That tension makes the air thick enough to be cut with the metal pair of scissors Miranda spots on your neatly arranged vanity. With no real intention to wait for a proper answer,  Miranda lifts up her hand to carefully take off her golden mask and set it aside on a circular table without chairs in the middle of the room. With that she transforms herself from Monsieur Danamir Corneille to your simple Mirdin.

You part your lips to speak, however they are soon glued shut again once she unbuttons her jacket and right there, over her dark vest you spot a revolver from shining metal material, heavy on her lower torso. It's tied around her waist with leather straps, connecting to a holster. She wraps her slender fingers around it, even the handle too big for her grip, which indicates that the revolver could possibly not be hers. But it doesn't stop her from lifting the semi heavy weapon and settling it next to her mask on the table. You are aware you should be wondering if this show is to scare you,  yet your mind is busy to imagine how cold that metal would feel against your skin, were she to press it to it.

You quickly realise what she meant by making herself comfortable. And your newborn smile is genuine.

"I don't, but my mother wouldn't be happy about me behind a locked door with...an armed stranger." - your eyes dare to linger on the cold firearm, just casually placed on the table close to you. It's clean and shiny, suggesting rare usage or a very good maintenance. Has Miranda ever fired it, you wonder? Or is it just for show? Lifting your gaze up, you spot the slight tremble in her defined jaw. She's nervous, but you ate still trying to figure out the exact trigger. It could be all you, but still...her head might as well be messier than yours. You lick your lips, calmly adding - "And she's not practically fond of doctors, one tried to...take what wasn't his from me when I was a little girl."

His fingers sometimes still feel real against your skin, but they are not remembered out of fear, but rather disgust and unspeakable anger. That man, as well as any other, wasn't good enough to take what you desire to give to your Mirdin. This exact rule has kept you away from them for years and the audition lack of interest towards the male gender. Of course, the promise to yourself was about to be ruined only last night, however everything worked out in your favour, per usual. There is no doubt though, imagining Miranda all your life was one thing, but seeing her in person was completely different. Especially when you began to truly believe she was dead the last few years, when even your hope started to die.

Miranda's cane makes a tapping sound on the ground,  immediately gathering your attention.

"I didn't do it when it was offered to me on a silver plate without a price, why would I take advantage of you now?" - the reminder of the brothel is clear as a blue sky in the summer. Her words are truthful, if she really wanted to ravish you here and there she would have already done it. Is it your fault for wanting it? You're yet again wondering. However your Mirdin doesn't seem like the type of woman to lust over the body...or in general. In fact, observing the way she avoids eye contact and has yet not found a place to sit in your rather welcoming room speaks more then she does. You recognise a pattern of distancing. And you can't leave it alone.

"...Do I disgust you, Monsieur Corneille?" - you really like how the usage of her fake name surprises her, even though she should be more than used to hearing it on a daily basic.

"Not the slightest," - she answers after a brief pause, as if to get a grip on herself. Soon, you'll be able to crawl under her skin with no effort. But in order to do that you have to study her and Miranda is not like your father, or Miriam or your private teacher. She has walls, which others would find hard to go through. Perhaps the worst thing about her, however, is how she can walk past your guards as well. - "in fact I find you...incredibly alluring, Vermy."

Incredibly alluring? Intriguing.

"Why the cold restrain then?" - you wave your hand in the air to point out the clear distance between you and her. It is expected for a doctor to be careful with a sick patient, but this is absurd in your eyes. Miranda hasn't moved nearly a muscle since she walked in. - "I'm no stranger to the perverted side of the human spirit and I'm confident to say two women can–"

"I believe I have my right to not share reasons."

Silence. Her cane taps the floor again, now more angrily than nervously. Her serious expression almost makes you gag out on a laugher. But instead, you curl up your lips in an even brighter smirk, almost mockingly.

"...Yet?" - you voice out, low and confident, completely sure in your power to root out answers whenever you desire them.

"Yet." - Miranda repeats with a scoff. That is all you needed from her.
    
There is a brief moment of silence in which Miranda's eyes travel through the unknown space around her. Your room is nothing out of the ordinary, it fact she notes that it tends to be very plain and extremely clean. The plants placed near your wardrobe add a slightest bit of colour in the overall beige atmosphere. Perhaps the richest looking corner is precisely your bed, in which you currently lay down, covered in many warm blankets for freezing night or as per today – a stubborn fever. Miranda decides to think the said bed is comfortable and soft, just like hers back in home, but with severely less pillows. Finally Miranda's singular blue eye snaps to a half eaten plate on a nightstand, her other one – silver and blind, useless in practice, quickly follows and she's met with a bizarre view.

Peaches. Cut in small pieces and sorted in one side of the plate. While in the other she observes their peeled skin. She blinks and narrows her head, a low hum escaping her throat. In her usual diet,  Miranda mainly consumes fruits and vegetables and even though her portions don't give her enough needed energy, she does like them. However as a doctor she is aware a sick person shouldn't depend on such food. The curious poke of the eye remains the neatly separated skin. And after a closer observation Miranda notices the absence of a knife, which indicates the fruits were peeled by hand, or with another instrument.

Such precision is very unusual.

"Are you actually sick, Vermilyea?" – without moving her head, Miranda slowly raises a question. Due to her position on the right side of the bed, she's currently unable to spot the changes and mimics of your face, if they existed in the first place, because of her blind eye. You also notice it – the way it's unmoving and cold, grey  like smoke. You don't believe you've met a blind person before, especially not with just one unseeing eye. You have the slight desire to ask for its origin or the lifestyle with such...defect. Miranda, however, seems to be in control of her vision,  although its betrayal. So you decide to leave the topic alone, at least for now.

"...Well it's nothing serious, really." – you rush out the sentence after a quick pause in which you repeat her words in your head. You lean back in your pillow, parting your lips and searching for her gaze with low, narrowed eyes, barely showing beneath lashes. It works, soon the woman relocates her whole attention back to you. You regret having no closer chairs to your bed, in which she can sit and...relax. While positioning her on the bed would be convenient for both of you, from an outside angle it would look like pressured proximity. The norms of society are not something you're keen on, but you follow. – "Just a dry throat and a bit of a headache. Nothing insufferable." – you add, with raised shoulders.

Miranda chuckles again and the sound makes your thighs twitch. Such feeling...is unusual.

"Do you know I was called here because a noble lady cut her finger by mistake and in her fragile state, she got a high fever, which lead to seizures and she died because of it." – she holds up her pointing finger and wiggles it to show which one exactly she's referring to. Although the aristocrats in France tend to their health and needs, often calling doctors over for stupid reasons, it's no surprise the woman died from so little. Those same people change their diet constantly to appear smaller, or in some cases bigger, they apply whatever chemicals they can find on their skin to look modest and and always outside on walks. Naturally they rarely live to see old age. The mention of the lady's death, however, is useless in the situation. Just a story. But you quickly figure out your Mirdin is trying to spread awareness through it. –"I...wasn't called in time, but I am hearing a different story about her death, one of...uncureable sickening striking her down."

"Her name?" – your tongue rolls slowly, asking a question just to get more information. For many other useless, but for you...well, you're testing something out. Because the story Miranda is telling you sounds very familiar to a rumour your mother whispered to Richard, thinking you wouldn't hear.

"Élise Bernard, if I'm not mistaken." – Miranda is quick to remember her name and you caught the slightest bit of guilt in her genuine facial expression. Could it be that her great doctor persona is blaming herself for not arriving in time? Or did the late woman's pig of a husband got mad over a mistake the doctor they called was clearly not at fault for? Whatever it is, you don't like the situation. But if Miranda arrived in Veret after the ceremony of Élise's death, then what is the possibility...?

"Her funeral...were you there?" – a cold question send in  her direction.

"I was." – she admits, after a hidden nervous tick of her eye. You hum with interest. You didn't notice noone suspension or as astravagantly looking as the image of 'Danamir Corneille', even though your piercing eyes made sure to cover every corner of the graveyard. Either you made a mistake, which is rare, or... Miranda went as herself. Out of shame, perhaps? Thinking about the reason gets your brain exited and the desire to know why, how and when are burning beneath your skin. Yet, nothing rushed comes out your mouth. Because another detail pops out in mind.

"What about after the funeral?" – you give her a teasing smirk, enjoyed how for a split second her good eye widens, while her silver one stays cold and unmoving.

"...This is irrelevant." – an excuse. And an answer. You knew Miranda's voice is too familiar to be considered delusion. It was her, the strange grave digging woman from that cold night. You already have her exactly where you need her. It seems like you've misunderstood her expression from earlier, it wasn't guilt for Élise, but rather this uneasy feeling of someone questioning you over a topic you wish to throw behind. But once you have a witness,  it becomes difficult. You're not sure if Miranda understands it yet, but she's becoming more and more rightfully yours. Now, however, you have other questions. Whatever things she did to the lady's corpse that day should be long forgotten, as well as the memory of Danamir Corneille staying in Veret. Why is she still in town, then?

"Very well then, let me ask you something else — Why stay?" – unbothered by the newborn tension between you and her, you continue to strike her down with more and more questions. You can't miss the way her hand grips the cane in discomfort, yet she does nothing to end the conversation or escape you once and for all. Her reasons are teasingly intruding. Your eyes move to observe her closely, still dressed as a man, Miranda's richly purple suit shines in the sunlight coming from the window. Every piece of fabric is well maintained, devoid of wrinkles or filth. And the clothes are too  fitting for her overall bizarre figure. As a woman – Miranda is tall, which adds to the illusion she's a man, however she's also incredible skinny and while her chest is flattered again and most of her anatomy is hidden, there's something off that screams in people's faces. Regardless,  only you know how she looks underneath and oh, don't your hand itch to touch that milky skin. But the mystery about her being makes you wonder...–"Why are you still here?"

"You called, my lady." – you hold in a laugh at the clear lie. You've used this technique enough times to recognize it flawlessly. The illusion the tongue uses to enchant words and make them sound like the exact thing the person in front of you wants to hear. You're unshaken by her try for verbal manipulation.

"Don't flatter me, Miranda." – with a click of your tongue you send her two steps back her game. But the soft smile she presents you with, upon hearing her actual name from your mouth, manages to surely get underneath your skin. After all, your Mirdin's visage is an attraction even you can't just walk by without turning your head to look back.

"My job is to help the sick and you..." – she lifts a hand to rub her chin, lips still mockingly parted. – "...what did Monsieur Lament say...are in need of my  medical aide?"

Your mouth forms a silent 'O' in surprise. Then you nod. Very well then. Miranda clearly didn't stay for just your sore throat and by all means this is not the mere maladie you suffer from. If 'suffer' is the right term to use, that is.

"My condition..." – you start slowly, enough to gather her attention. – "is far more complicated than my father presented."

"How so?" – Miranda brings her cane forward in a position that makes it possible for both of her hands to rest on the handle.

You lock eyes with hers. The two colours manipulate her under a fox's gaze and soon Miranda feels a familiar shiver running down her spine. Your eyes either blink or move while you stare directly at her throughout your speech and it makes her uneasy in her place.

"There is something awfully wrong with me doctor, but I don't know what, nobody knows. For all it could be an actual curse from the devil. I'm cold," – your finger taps against the mattress. – "twisted," – another tap. – "an almost human creature, but never quite there. I don't suffer from it, but I'm not only sick, doctor." – tap. "I'm rotten." 

There is a long pause in which Miranda is left to wonder through her own mind, trying to understand yours.

"I should truly try my best to cure you then." – she finally whispers with a forced smile and you scoff under your breath.

Your Mirdin is naïve. But she's still your one and only God.

.

.

.

A chair is dragged close to your bed, as well as a medicine suitcase you haven't noticed from earlier, when Miranda entered your room, still in disguise of Danamir Corneille. Perhaps the removal of her golden mask and the revolver, which exited you more than your would admit, happened to be too much of a distraction for you. Regardless of that, Miranda is now towering over you, sat down of course, after she murmured about her hip hurting, and she is ready to examine you like a proper doctor.

You can't help but notice how the fabrics of her suits don't wrinkle much, like they normally would. This calls for a good quality clothing and it gets you wondering how rich exactly is that woman. After all the purple colouring is expensive enough, not to mention her golden mask...you begin to think your mother might actually like her as your husband. Her money speaks for itself. And Miriam adores money.

Upon her opening the suitcase you see a variety of different medicinal utensils. From syringes to bandages and many others. Miranda hesitates while looking at them, slowly moving her good eye in search of something specific.

"Are you planning on cutting me open, doctor?" – you can't help yourself, but make a comment, which makes her corner of her lips lift up.

"Do I sense fear, Vermilyea?" – she asks slowly, with the intension to scare you, although her words come with a soft chuckle.To add more dramatic effect, she allows her hand to rest on top of a sharpen knife with a curious shape. Its real name if a mystery for you since you know very well it's not just ordinary, but you are not educated enough in her sphere of work to know. Yet for the first time in years the fact that you're below someone in any way doesn't annoy you.

"I don't know what that is." – you answer with confidence enough to convince her. While you wouldn't say you're exactly fearless, your sense of the feeling is very limited. Mostly because the bigger part of you doesn't think about future consequences, instead only does what suits you at the current moment.

"I admit it fades over the years, but some...triggers stay forever." – her voice is slightly dipped in sadness, but her words get you wondering on another question. And per usual, you shoot it right at her, without care.

"How old are you?" – you loudly question, your eyes fixed on hers.

"I'm...thirty-four." – your jaw tightens. Ten years older than you and she's flowing of youth. Miranda hasn't aged at all since you first met her during your childhood. She's shamelessly beautiful without adding anything to her face like your mother does. And even though Miriam is much older, you could have noticed it when when she was around Miranda's age. Many factors separate them, but you like to think of your Mirdin as eternal.

Finally, as a brief moment of silence wanders around your room, Miranda chooses an instrument to continue on with the examination. A flat, metal spatule without sharp edges which she explains is for oral observation.

"Open," – she commands with a low tone, her masculine doctor persona shining through her perfectly feminine visage. You obey, opening your mouth just after she demands it. – "tongue out," – the cold surface of the spatule lands on your tongue and she presses down, forcing it out of the way so she can see your throat more clearly. Both your breath are delayed as she even tilts your head backwards to use freely the sunshine from the window, therefore making it easy for her to observe. At last, your positon is perfect to her liking and she praises you. – "...good girl."

Your heart, unexpectedly, skips a beat.

You spent enough time in isolation from others as a child to completely understand yourself. You know for a fact all of the known emotions was shallow to you, just the surface of what other experience. Of course, some of those feelings have never crossed your path. But you are also aware of what is deeply rooted inside of you. Power, of any kind. You mostly feel satisfied when you're more educated on a topic than others, but you also like it when other women your age give you jealous looks. To be better is power. On the other hand, you believed in the way of hedonism, which argues that pleasure is the highest good is life. And you agree with that, because your said pleasure is right in front of you.

Naturally, with head full of Miranda, lust found its way to you very easily. Even know, staring at her slightly parted lips gets you rather...excited. The perfect shade of ashen pink is forcing your nostrils to flare and once her delicate mouth parted to praise, you couldn't help the burning at the tip of your ears. Right in this very bed, you've spent countless nights in which you imagined your pillow as those lips, among other lustful things you've done under the pressure of your desire for pleasure.

There is no doubt, this woman is your greatest pleasure. And you swear to have her, one way or another.

While your mind runs wild withe the possibly outcomes of what would happen, were you to drag Miranda down at this very moment, she suddenly lets out a sigh. You already knew your throat was no good, but what Miranda noted out was very different.

"Are you aware that you posses no tonsils?" – and just like that the metal spatule is removed from your mouth, allowing you to speak again. In just a few seconds you summon all of your biology knowledge in order to understand what she is referring to. When it finally clicks you answer her.

"No." – a bit confused as to why is it relevant. Your head tilts with the next question. – "Is that bad?"

"Depends on the person, but considering what your father shared to me earlier, you almost allows suffer from throat pain, cough and difficulty in swallowing when getting sick, correct?" – you nod your head, again not feeling any type of anger as to why a person is more educated than you. Miranda gives you a kind smile, as if already knowing the answer. – "To be put simply, your tonsils protect you from unwanted bacteria, but since yours are missing everything goes into direct contact with your throat, therefore making you often sick." – she wipes the medical spatula clean and puts it back in her suitcase, then closes it and puts it to a side, clearly done with her inspection. – "I'm curious, Vermy, have you had any operations to remove them? I've never seen a person without tonsils."

"No, I haven't." – you confess, tongue moving around for mouth in a weak attempt to feel the spot of the said tonsils, but with no success.

"It's fascinating to know you were born this way, then." – born this way, unlucky.

"Will this...effect my voice in the future?" – you lift a hand to wrap around the base of your throat. To think about it now, it has been happening for years. The uncomfortable pain during talking or eating, even swallowing. But you never thought it could be something harmful. After all, it always ended fast as it came. So you were never worried.

"It shouldn't." – the way her good eye is studying you in curiosity is making your ears burn up again. You can't allow yourself to feel this pathetic, yet in her presence it feels almost natural. – "Why, Vermy?"

You softly hum. It's a question. Why? Why do you care about it. Why did you ask in the first place. The answer is again very well known to you. Another thing you acknowledged about yourself since childhood is that you cannot really have a consistent opinion on something. So as your lips part, you explain it's because...

"I've been told I sing well." – not because you liked singing or you discovered you were good at it, but because one day you were forced to by your teacher and he said you have some kind of talent, that needs work. Naturally you are now fond of vocal practice, yet it's not something significant. You've just been told you're good at it, so now you use it.

"Really?" – Miranda exclaims, while you nod to confirm. – "I'd like to hear you, then. After you get better, perhaps?" – she makes a pause. – "Will you sing for me, Vermilyea?"

You smirk, very interested in what game she's trying to play with you.

"With all my pleasure, Miranda." – you use her full name as well, choosing to put her in the same position as yourself. Although, you're left to wonder if it has the same effect on her just like your full name, spoken from her lips, has on you.

The woman then proceeds to carefully explain how you should take care of your sore throat, in order to get better sooner. She also shares tricks on how to smooth down a headache, shall it happens again. After that you observe her as she put the chair back on its original place. With suitcase in one hand, cane in the other, golden mask now tightly on her face and revolver again hidden under neat clothing – Miranda steps out of your bedroom. The chamber goes silent, as if she was never here to begin you. But you're feeling joyful.

Your Mirdin leaves you again, but only for a short while, because this time you have a secured rendez-vous with her.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope yall enjoyed this chapter!

I wanted to share a little bit of insight for the story. Basically, to make a few things more clear.

Chronotope: I've chosen France to represent the present and Romania to represent the past. As to the year–1897, I wanted a year where not a lot of things are developed, because I want that historical vibe, but I also needed medicine to be more progressive for Miranda's character as a doctor, so I settled for something in between modern and old. I originally wanted to make the main story year around 1910 and something, but I didn't want to bother with WW1.

I should also mention the cities: so 4 main ones–Paris, Montverre, Veret and Vernovia. I'm keeping Paris for historical accuracy, which is going to be shown in later chapters. Montverre is a city prototype of Versailles, it's also where Miranda lives. Veret is a city prototype of Vichy, it's where Vermilyea lives with her parents at the beginning of the story, because my girl will be moving 🙏. And we have Vernovia, which is a city prototype of Brașov. It's where Vermilyea and Miranda are both born and raised to a certain point of their lives.

Character names: with Miranda I did the following: Her Danamir Corneille persona is practically her own name, but with swapped letters, think of it like Dracula - Alucard, Carmilla - Mircalla...etc, and Corneille means crow in French, with fits the french aesthetic. For short, people who don't know her real self, call her Dan.
Now Vermilyea is a very pretty name and that's why I chose it. I didn't think of it myself, sadly, but I added a little bit of the story's lore to it. I mention it in this chapter, but still: The Ver is from her grandmother (Vera), the Mi is from her mother (Miriam) and the end to just make it sound completed. Also I chose the Lament as last name because it translates to "a passionate expression of grief and sorrow". The family name is cursed at this point.

And of course for this story I'm making a lot of research, especially for the time period and Vermilyea's character, because I wanted her to be a psychopath. I know not everything is perfect, but it's fiction, after all. Still it's super interesting to learn how those people's brains work and I hope Vermilyea feels like one. And yet again – apologies if something is not accurate.

Love yall, see ya next time.

Notes:

The lack of Miranda fanfics is STILL criminal, so I'm back with another story.
I apologise for any grammar mistakes, enjoy! 🦅