Revenant - Coda
Apr. 4th, 2010 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_daytripper posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsSelene is dead, but not forgotten.
Two in the trunk and one wrapped in a fur coat in the back seat with her hair carefully arranged to hide the mottled darkness on her face, and leaning against the door as though she were asleep. He had slid black gloves up her arms to hide the torn and bloody fingers. A wrap dress covered the corset and stockings, and it would at least make any police officer who pulled him over stop to look long enough for them to join the other two bodies in the trunk.
Driving a careful scant kilo over the limit - Americans and their miles - and that had to be enough to keep him unnoticed. It was all he had. Without Her there was nothing. All he could do was to go to ground, and avoid pursuit. He shouldn't have killed the servants who had Her body, it would be noticed but he had been pained by Her loss and by the injuries that the bone-ridden bitch had inflicted on him.
Something must have blessed him, because the only sign of any authorities was one patrol car that didn't even notice him as he passed it on the freeway. Klar had warily watched the other vehicles around him, and none were following. There was nothing to avoid, no one to fight, no more bodies to dump in the trunk.
He almost wished it wasn't so. A fight would have taken the edge off his energy and given him something to do other than drive roads in the dark. The potholes rattled the car's body, and caused blossoms of pain to shoot up his sides and back.
Years before he had found the farmhouse, Klar wasn't sure why he'd bought it. He had never buried bodies there, that would have been foolish. He had no fond memories of home, it held no aesthetic appeal. Perhaps, he thought, it was just that he thought he would need it someday.
He pulled the car in behind a grove of trees, and busied himself with the details first. Changing the license plates, wiping away any prints he might have left, throwing away the plastic bags he had covered the seat with to collect hairs. And then there was nothing else to delay him, nothing to stall with.
He opened the back door slowly, waited a long second before bending to one knee and taking Her hand in his. Heinrich Klar was not a man of words, and there was nothing he could say. He had failed Her.
"Oh, poor hurt fowl." The voice wasn't Hers, but the fingers moved, and warmth suffused them. "There, there, dear boy. Don't you worry. You'll see, Klar. I'll make it all better, poppet."
Klar was struck dumb, staring up at the body of Selene, mouth agape. He had enough self control, only barely, to drop her hand instead of squeezing it tightly and crushing her hand to a pulp.
He almost immediately picked up back up again, still kneeling in the dirt, until he could trust his senses. It took several heartbeats not his own, felt through the gloves, before he could speak:
"My lady Candra. I live to serve."
Two in the trunk and one wrapped in a fur coat in the back seat with her hair carefully arranged to hide the mottled darkness on her face, and leaning against the door as though she were asleep. He had slid black gloves up her arms to hide the torn and bloody fingers. A wrap dress covered the corset and stockings, and it would at least make any police officer who pulled him over stop to look long enough for them to join the other two bodies in the trunk.
Driving a careful scant kilo over the limit - Americans and their miles - and that had to be enough to keep him unnoticed. It was all he had. Without Her there was nothing. All he could do was to go to ground, and avoid pursuit. He shouldn't have killed the servants who had Her body, it would be noticed but he had been pained by Her loss and by the injuries that the bone-ridden bitch had inflicted on him.
Something must have blessed him, because the only sign of any authorities was one patrol car that didn't even notice him as he passed it on the freeway. Klar had warily watched the other vehicles around him, and none were following. There was nothing to avoid, no one to fight, no more bodies to dump in the trunk.
He almost wished it wasn't so. A fight would have taken the edge off his energy and given him something to do other than drive roads in the dark. The potholes rattled the car's body, and caused blossoms of pain to shoot up his sides and back.
Years before he had found the farmhouse, Klar wasn't sure why he'd bought it. He had never buried bodies there, that would have been foolish. He had no fond memories of home, it held no aesthetic appeal. Perhaps, he thought, it was just that he thought he would need it someday.
He pulled the car in behind a grove of trees, and busied himself with the details first. Changing the license plates, wiping away any prints he might have left, throwing away the plastic bags he had covered the seat with to collect hairs. And then there was nothing else to delay him, nothing to stall with.
He opened the back door slowly, waited a long second before bending to one knee and taking Her hand in his. Heinrich Klar was not a man of words, and there was nothing he could say. He had failed Her.
"Oh, poor hurt fowl." The voice wasn't Hers, but the fingers moved, and warmth suffused them. "There, there, dear boy. Don't you worry. You'll see, Klar. I'll make it all better, poppet."
Klar was struck dumb, staring up at the body of Selene, mouth agape. He had enough self control, only barely, to drop her hand instead of squeezing it tightly and crushing her hand to a pulp.
He almost immediately picked up back up again, still kneeling in the dirt, until he could trust his senses. It took several heartbeats not his own, felt through the gloves, before he could speak:
"My lady Candra. I live to serve."
