Tomorrow's Shadow - 8. When Tempers Clash

Stefano paced the floor in his private office. Shelves lined three of the walls, laden with books and original volumes, creating an effective sound buffer. A fine dust lay on most of the shelves – a good indication that Stefano rarely let anyone else in, including Viktor. His boots thudded against the wooden floor. If his pacing didn’t show the level of his frustration, the volume of his steps surely gave it away.

He’s being unreasonable. I am perfectly capable of handling the relationship and bringing it forward. I can think of no reason for him to not allow it, and I shall insist on an answer the moment he arrives.

In the great hall, Viktor made his rounds, checking first the harp, then the piano. Unusual for him, he frowned, his brow creased as if fighting his own thoughts. As he played each note on the piano, moving down the keyboard as usual, his scowl became more pronounced. I will need to call out the tuner. Again. Every few days since the open house, and that was a fortnight ago. He refuses to speak of his conversation with Master Vargon who is also adamantly silent on the matter. The evening had gone so well, then their “talk” out on the balcony. Nothing has been the same since. And now the Master has returned to his own and Lord Stefano locks himself away in his office. He shook his head sadly and moved back to the kitchens. He called over a footman and gave instruction for the lad to go to the mainland and talk to the piano repairman. The man will become very wealthy if this continues.

It was well after midnight before the door to the office slid open and Stefano stepped out, holding an empty bottle of the house wyne. He pressed a panel on the wall and the door closed then moved forward enough to blend into the wall. There was a solid “click” as the lock sprang into place. The great hall was empty, the lights low, the fire almost out. He moved to the bar to set the bottle on its top before crossing the room to throw one of the split logs stacked beside the opening into the fireplace. Sparks flew up the chimney as the wood slowly began to burn. He moved toward the balcony but paused to look back at the bar. He must have retired. Stefano stepped out onto the balcony then down the steps to the beach and the waiting ocean. An hour before dawn he returned, hair matted, wearing only soaked jeans, holding his boots in his right hand, his shirt draped over his arm. Water dripped from him and his clothes as he made his way to the staircase. As he reached the third stair he heard Viktor enter the room from the kitchens. Stefano paused and turned to his manservant. “I am retiring, Viktor. I have no idea when I shall rise as it is quite late already. I know I need not ask you to tend to matters, you always do, but I do ask. I have been … upset of late, as I know you are aware, and really don’t have the energy or inclination to bother with events in the keep. Thank you for your loyal service.”

“All will be cared for, m’Lord. Rest well.”

Viktor watched him as he stepped up the stairs, frowning at the water across the floor and stairs. He is not well. I’m sure he fed – but his emotions wear him down. He inhaled and held the breath a moment while in thought, then released it, speaking to himself softly. “Time to talk to the Master. I just hope he is receptive.” He stepped into the servants' hall and woke a couple maids to clear out the water before going to his room and preparing himself for what could be another challenge.

The sun had only just set when Stefano came down the stairs, humming. He wore his typical tight jeans with his crimson peasant shirt, unlaced, and bare feet. He walked to the bar, placed both hands on the top, then lifted himself half over to kiss Viktor on the forehead before tossing himself back on his feet. “Good eve, my dear friend. I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, m’Lord, quite well. Might I ask what has you in so light a mood this eve?”

“Nothing much, I suppose. I have just come to an understanding of what I wish to do regarding some things in my life, and have been able to make choices based on it. No longer being in a quandary I suppose has lifted my spirits.”

“What choices are those?”

“Indeed. I would like to hear this as well.”

Stefano turned as Vargon stepped from the shadows beside the harp. “Go on, my chylde. Regale us with these life choices you have made.”

“I am … still reasoning out the finer details in my mind, Sire. Once they are settled I will be happy to let you know.” He looked around the room. “Is Odessa with you?”

“She stayed at the wagon as a troupe of traveler kindred have camped nearby. She didn’t want it to appear as if we were avoiding them, just that the Prince had matters to attend to. Finding her was a true fate blessing.”

Stefano turned back to Viktor. “I am going for a swim first off this evening. We can go over the affairs of the Keep when I return.”

“As you wish, m’Lord.”

“A swim sounds refreshing. I’ll come with you.”

“Actually … Sire … I planned on using this swim to clear my mind and let it muse over those ‘finer details’ I mentioned earlier. I’m afraid I would not be very good company for you.”

Disappointment shone in Vargon’s eyes. “I had thought to be good company for you, my chylde. But if you would rather I not join you…” He let the sentence fade out.

“It’s not that I do not want you with me… Well, honestly, yes. It is. I need this time, sir. I trust you can understand.”

“A prince is nothing, if not patient.”

Stefano flinched inwardly at the commanding change in authority of Vargon’s words and tone. “I shouldn’t be long.”

“Take your time. I am not going anywhere.”

“You are staying more than just one eve then?”

“I may be here several nights. There truly are matters which I must, as prince, deal with.”

“I shall see you later then ... Sire.”

“Indeed, chylde. That you shall.”

Stefano respectfully bowed his head then turned and swiftly stepped out into the night air. Upon reaching the stone steps, he slowed, his mind racing. Chylde? Not ‘my chylde’, but just ‘chylde’? If he has come to talk me out of taking Gerik, he is in for a fight. Tradition be hanged. I love Gerik, I shall bring him over. Vargon did for Odessa. I shall for Gerik. He can throw his being a prince in my face – it makes no matter. I will not back down. Not even for him. In fact … especially for him.

When he reached the sand he stripped off the jeans and shirt then walked into the rolling waves. His fingers swirled the water as it reached his waist. When it was almost chest deep, he paused to look back and up at the balcony, clearly seen at this distance, before he slid into the water like an eel. Effortlessly he swam, moving further and further from the shore, not surfacing until he reached the surf line of the mainland. He gauged the severity of the tide and waves before moving on, heading for shore, allowing the waves to assist his progress. As he stepped free from the surging tide he wrung excess water from his hair. He slipped into the shadows as he headed for House Falow.

It wasn’t long before Stefano was beside Gerik’s bed, watching him sleep. He smiled at the slow and even rise-fall of his love’s chest. If only I could run my hands over his chest… Claim those lips… He sighed. Hearing a sound in the hall, he turned and bumped into a small table, knocking a wooden figure to the floor. He chastised himself mentally as he bent to pick it up, then set it back where it belonged. He shrugged of whether or not the thing was in the right place, but turned to look at Gerik, who was now laying on his side, eyes wide open.

“Stef?”

Stefano swore under his breath and took a step backwards, moving into the shadows. Let him think he woke from a dream and I was on his mind. If the Fates smile on me… He quickly left House Falow and headed the shore, avoiding light from windows or street posts. He didn't want to think about what would happen should he be found skulking through Atterstock naked. Reaching the beach, he sprinted into the water and disappeared beneath the foam. Although current meant nothing to the apt swimmer, with his mind so locked on his desires for Gerik, the swim to the island was much longer than normal. He walked from the water on his beach and grabbed his shirt and pants, his fatigue showing had anyone else been present. His wet feet slipped on one a step and he was laughing at himself as he reached the top. He got his third surprise of the night when he stepped onto the balcony.

“Do you normally walk around without clothing, my chylde? Granted, I have no qualms at seeing my chylde in all his glory, but I doubt it is proper when you could be seen by one of your servants."

Stefano froze, staring at the doorway where Vargon was standing with a glass of wyne in his hand. His frustration rose, hearing the words as a reprimand instead of a complement. "Would it be so terrible if I were seen? This is my home, my refuge and they are my servants. As lord of the Keep I am free to be as I am.” His eyes swirled with shadows.

"I will not argue the matter. Go clean yourself up then return, properly attired of course. We have much to discuss. I trust you fed while you were out.”

“Yes, Sire”, Stefano lied. Blood-wyne will have to suffice tonight. “Can you tell me what it is you wish to talk about?”

“I am fairly certain you know the answer to that, chylde. Now go. I’ve waited for you long enough.” Again the sound of thunder. Just not so distant.

Hearing the authority change again in Vargon's voice brought Stefano’s training to the surface. “Yes, my Lord Prince.” He politely bowed his head before heading swiftly to his room.

I will not bend. All Hades be chilled before I let him dictate how I express my love. He had no way of knowing how many nights his Sire would use in his "dictation".

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“Sire, I beg of you, please let me return to my room.” Stefano beat against the heavy wooden door of Vargon’s suite to no avail. The room was softly lit with just a few candles on various height shelves around the room, accompanied by some of Vargon’s more treasured tomes.

Vargon sat in his chair calmly, dispassionate eyes watching his chylde. “When you submit to my authority, you may go. A simple matter if you think about it.”

Stefano turned to face his sire, his face haggard and drawn. He snarled much like a feral animal, teeth barred. “I will not. Gerik is mine. I shall turn him.” His back slowly slid down the door until he sat at its base. “Sire it hurts!”

Vargon reached forward, collecting some of the dirt that was placed carefully on the dais around his coffin. He rubbed it between his fingers slowly, deliberately. “It amazes me, even now, how much we need the soil from beneath us when we are turned. How it gives us peace and solace. And lack of it … well, you can feel for yourself what its absence is doing.”

Stefano narrowed his eyes and growled low. “You call yourself a Prince. A Prince without compassion or love. How I pity Odessa, trapped in your cold embrace. Or is she perhaps a frigid wench who cannot even feel your presence?”

Vargon stood slowly, his expression showing anger for the first time during their conflict. He walked slowly across the room and leaned over. With the speed of a cobra he struck,
backhanding Stefano across the face, splitting his lip. “Speak another word against my wife and we are finished.” He spun on his heel and returned to sit in his overstuffed leather chair.

Stefano rubbed his lip with the back of his hand and winced. Although there was naturally no blood, it also wasn’t healing, sure evidence of the time since he last fed. “As you decree, my Lord Prince.”

“Very good. Are you ready at last to concede your place?”

“I will die before I give you permission to turn my love.”

“Permission?” Vargon laughed cruelly. “You talk permission to a Prince? You must be delirious. Or weak with hunger. Tell me, chylde, which is it you feel most?”

“Contempt.”

A loud knock resounded through the room, accompanied by Viktor’s muffled voice. “Master Vargon? May I assist you in any way?”

“Leave us.” The words crashed through the air.

“My, my. Is the mighty Prince beginning to lose his composure?” Stefano smirked as he stood, gradually sliding back up the locked door. “Given time you shall lose your control, and I shall rip the key for this door from your frail body.”

More laughter filled the room. “Assuming you could even get near me in your state, do you truly think I carry the key on me? It is somewhere,” he motioned around the room, “in here. But you could never find it, even if I gave you freedom to search.”

Stefano stumbled forward to lean heavily on the straight back of a wooden chair. Vargon watched in silence, surprised his son was still moving, much less conscious. He
smiled slyly as he spoke, “I’ve been thinking. Gerik is much better dispositioned than you, he would likely make a strong future in my staid, when the time came. I may have been hasty turning you. Though you have led me to him.”

“When the … time came?”

“Have you forgotten all of your training? No one is forever, not even a prince. Death comes to us all, eventually. And when I go, my chylde shall take over my chair. It is why a prince will often only take one chylde. You should remember.”

“I remember.” Stefano raised his eyes to look at Vargon. “I remember also you have two, not one. Odessa is yours also. The one you turned yet took as your love.”

“Do you fear she should take my place when I am gone? She is wife, not chylde. Until now you are first and only, though I have need to consider Gerik as a son more closely.”

“Wife. And chylde. Or did you lie when you said you brought her over?”

“I spoke the truth. I always speak the truth.”

“The truth as you see it, perhaps. Yet I must ask, how it is a prince can break his own laws. For you turned the very woman you have taken as your lover. I cannot, but you can? You speak of truth and justice, yet where is your justice, oh great Prince?”

“In a century you would have been deemed able to turn your own. Though most would frown on a kindred taking a lover in such a way, there are a few of us who permit it. I am one.”

“Am I not the fortunate one then.” Stefano almost doubled over in pain. “You are killing me, Sire.”

“No, you are killing yourself with your refusal to submit. And trust me, though you will soon fall and be too weak to do much more than think … you have a long time yet before you
perish.”

“I shall become. Prince. And that wench shall be first victim of my reign.”

Vargon rose and crossed the room again, fury building in his eyes. “I should end you where you stand.”

“Then what holds you back?”

“Something you seem to forget. My love for my chylde. Do you really think I find pleasure in your agony? Not even as Prince do I find this enjoyable. No one with any heart delights in giving pain.”

“Then why?”

“There are times when only pain can etch a lesson.” Vargon stood quietly, looking at Stefano, admiring the young man’s stamina and determination, and knowing he could never
admit it. Not at the present. He finally backed a step and turned around to walk back to his chair. Had his mind not been preoccupied with compassion, he might have heard Stefano’s sudden movement. As it was, his realization came when the chair splintered against his temple.

Stefano watch his sire slump to the ground, then began searching for the key, pulling ancient writings from their shelves to litter the floor. “Where did you hide it, old man? Where have you put my deliverance?” He glanced at Vargon who still lay motionless on the floor. “Where is the key?” He moved to Vargon’s coffin, ripping silk, tearing out padding and material, tossing it aside where it fell like snow. An angry growl echoed in the room as he turned back to the shelves, frantically pulling at anything and everything. In his haste he forgot about the candles, several of which were now on the floor, a few still burning, igniting coffin materials and brittle papers.

Stefano hissed and moved back against the door hard. He hung his head and pulled at his hair before calming some. Must find the key. His eyes rapidly bounced around the room then froze. There, hanging from Vargon’s neck on a leather strip was the key. The bastard lied to me? The great Vargon lied? So much for 'truth'. He dropped to his hands and knees and crept forward, inching toward Vargon’s prone body. He strained for the key as Vargon began to stir.

Outside the room, Viktor began to pound on the door. “Master Vargon. Lord Stefano. Someone answer me.” He took a couple steps away from the door and began gathering all his
energies for a single blast. Stefano’s howl pierced the door like a blade, temporarily breaking his concentration. Viktor raised his left hand, focusing his strength.

By the Fates, let this be enough.