#nosferatwo

She is cloaked in white, suffocated in a gilded corset. Lilies are stuffed into the gaps surrounding her, shifting with the spasms of her waking body. 

Her hair is pulled into a scalp ripping braid atop her head. It smells of wilting flowers and humid death. Ellen feels she should be most uncomfortable, however, there is little that can overshadow the intruder in her throat.

It is wretched. It sinks its sharp spindly barbs into soft meat, leaving hellfire in its wake. The walls of her prison shake with her attempts at clawing the parasite from her being. She presses her fingers into her mouth, reaching into its depths, fishing, to no avail.

She burns.

Her frenzy dissipates when the fire is reduced to a smolder. It curls away, burrowing into her chest. Her fingers are wet, and her mind a thick fog. Harried choking turns into soft sobs. Time eludes her, but even in her stupor, she comes to realize she is in a closet of some sorts.

It is dark, oh so dark-

“Thomas!”

She calls for him, once, twice, three times. She has no more air in her lungs to call out a fourth. She presses against what feels like varnished wood and pushes with whatever might she can muster.

Her exit is pain. She is crawling out of the dark, dragging on her belly. Her gown must be in ruins. Mother will be furious, father even more so. No, she is married now. Her Thomas will understand. He has never scolded her. Never took her to his belt. Where is he- where? 

She is lead at the bottom of a glass, drowning, moaning, writhing, sinking. She is reminded of a snail in salt, of a rabid stray gnawing at its tail. She uses cobbled stone to haul herself forth. 

Ellen finds herself knelt in front of a coffin. 

The ornately carved lid has snapped off its hinges, Petals litter the path of her escape. Her breath catches- Thomas will be distraught, wondering. She prays for his continued slumber. Her melancholy has brought her to strange places before- but this, how has she managed to become entombed?

She knows it is the work of the creature. Yet, she is not undressed and there is no pain between her legs. She is most grateful.

Ellen rises.

There is not a moment more to spare. Thomas will wake soon. He is getting increasingly punctual, her Thomas. He works so very hard. For you- and you repay him with a wife most undesirable. He will meet with Herr Knock tomorrow, to vouch for his absorption into the firm. He mustn't be troubled. I will return with haste.

She offers less than a passing glance at the scene before she is turning away. She pushes the tall stone doors to welcome in a moon-lit night. Bathed in blue, her flesh begins to buzz, and home calls to her.

She has yet to gather herself. Perhaps she has become too accustomed with the peace her Thomas has gifted her with. It is not unusual for even her name to elude her. 

Her affliction is not a stranger. 

For most of her life, it has been more than just her in this body. She has seen horrors from within that have calloused her from any gentle disposition. It is most odd, most unseemly, though, the way her feet find their way to her door- for the sight of it is presented in front of her almost as instantaneously as she had thought of returning to it. 

A low, rhythmic sound fills her ears.

Something within her awakes. An instinct, perhaps, one not known to her previous. It’s his breath. It tells her. Give chase. It commands.

Forward. He awaits. Enter. The door is bolted, push. Let nothing stand in your way. 

It surges her forward. At the expense of her senses, she gains an incredible strength. 

Ellen is unable to acknowledge the sudden ache behind her teeth, one that demands to be soothed by something.

Her Thomas is awake.

The instinct is sated at the sight of him, lifting the fog from her mind just enough so she may gaze upon her love with clearer eyes. With the return of her awareness, shame follows suit. 

He looks horrid. Unkempt, pale, eyes ringed with the color of desperation and terror. He scrambles off his feet, and threatens her so thoroughly that she is left winded. How distraught he must have been, to say such vile things. She wishes to plead for his forgiveness, to be sheltered by his goodness once more.

Instead, She calls to him, softly. 

His name is an echo of a thousand words. All delightful, all loving. She conveys this now, in a feeble attempt to soothe her husband. He comes to her, on his knees, begging her to remain with him. She holds him, petting the sick away, paying no heed to his increasingly concerning mutterings. She feeds him only sweetness, as he has always done to her. 

I will sleep no more. She tells herself, kissing the tip of his ear. For I risk bearing you to the ugliness it brings.

His breathing has slowed, but she knows he is awake. It is of no matter, for she is content in the silence. There is little to protest when her husband is in her lap. He had forgiven her so quickly, her good Thomas. Her treasure. She shan’t do wrong by him any longer. 

Well into the night, her fingers find themselves in his hair. It has grown quickly. Their honeymoon had only lasted a fortnight, and yet, it has grown well past his ears. She finds it very handsome, but she will trim it come morn, for he does enjoy being well-groomed. 

The sight of him, subdued, head buried in her stomach, stirs a heat in her belly. She blinks it away, sucking in a soft breath. It does not do her well, for the scent of him brings about a line of thought that is most indecent. 

Take him. 

Her tongue wets, and saliva begins to pool.

“My love?” He calls to her, and Ellen settles. He squeezes the small of her back, and she attends to him once more. 

Their exchange leads to his arms around her.

He engulfs her so well. His head is tucked into her neck, breath warming her skin. She almost preens, almost presses even closer so she may feel him all. 

Wanton whore. Her father’s voice rings.

“Your arms soothe me. I would be most upset should you let go.” she whispers, attempting to quell the heat that washes over her. He replies, she is sure, but Thomas turns his neck just so that the soft skin of his jugular is presented to her, and something within Ellen slips.

It returns, the instinct, and it craves.

Her eyes roll into her skull. The flesh of her gums retract. Her mouth parts, a gaping maw. Ellen becomes a singular purpose, a singular want. Life- to take it. To taste it on her tongue. To let it run down her throat and satiate the beast entangled within her being-

Thomas kisses her.

It is soft, Insignificant, right on the skin nearest to his lips. It is enough.

-

He feels Ellen tense.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, my darling?” He will do it right, this time. He will give her all that is good, all that will purge any memory of this terror from her mind.

“Thomas, something is…something is wrong.” She insists, beginning to pull away. He does not give in, gently coaxing her closer. She covers her nose and mouth, her brow furrowing harshly.

No, Thomas thinks, not anymore. He shakes his head, smoothing his hand over her loosening braid. “Forgive me, I am overwhelmed.” He kisses her brow. “I have not fared well without you.” The pressure behind his eyes is unceasing. 

“How is this possible?” He croaks. It is truly the question of the age, and it has yet to be answered.

At this, she stands. A quick, unrelenting force. His arms are thrown from her. He tilts his head upward, rapt. She is real. She is standing in front of me, whole. 

She does not meet his eyes. Her attention is taken. Ellen is looking at the door of their- of that room. The haphazardly nailed boards are ugly against the soft pastel of their patterned walls. Would she be displeased with him? No, she will understand. It is not theirs anymore, only a grave.

Her arm raises to a point.

His euphoria dissipates. He rises, brain rattling between his ears. He glances at the room, and then steps in front of it to shield her view. “Do not look at it.” He wouldn’t have her stricken by its presence. “We will leave this place, you needn’t be plagued any longer.”

No. They will go far. He will make her want for naught. She will smile, and read, and enjoy herself so fully. “I will keep you safe.” It is both an assurance and a promise. Still, she hears nothing, for her face is frozen in the horror of a sudden epiphany.

The look strikes his heart. He wishes to collect her in his arms, to take her from the evil that remains here, but something keeps him in place. It is a slow constriction. He strains to move, to no avail.

A menacing hum fills the room. “Tell me it is not so.” She whispers, eyes so far away, witnessing a terrifying recollection. “Tell me, Thomas.” He pushes at the force that holds him, and finds it almost suffocating to bear. His eyes blur around the edges. “Ell-” pain, tenfold. Things fall and clatter to the floor. 

“Tell me!” 

Thunder rattles and lightning strikes. Rain begins to pour from the heavens, deafening him to the long, mournful wail that leaves her lips. Ellen doubles over, clutching at her chest. At her descent, he is released.

He goes to her.

“Ellen, my Ellen.” His comfort is spurned with a push to his chest, but he persists. “I will tell you all, I will tell you.” He grasps at her wrists, holding them firm. She shakes her head, to which he answers with fervent nodding. “All is well.” he says, soft and coaxing. “You are safe, we are safe.” He is unsure of it, but for her, he would make it true. 

Their eyes meet, and Thomas notes the utter clarity in them.

“I’ve become death.” she declares. 

There is little else Thomas can do but take her into his embrace and feed her the warmth she now lacks- so perhaps she may feel alive once more.

-

Thomas has perished.

He knows it. He feels it in his very soul. There has never been more of a certainty. 

Not a week has passed and the festering hole his love has left behind has ridden him of all meaning. In both waking and in slumber his horror does not cease. With every creak and groan of his century-old home, he startles. With every rise of the moon, he dare not blink. 

The first night, he had boarded up that room. His thumbs are still swollen from one too many nail heads missed. The last of his strength had been used to convince himself not to surrender the entire building to a torch. Such thoughts felt wrong, for this is Ellen’s home. Her drapes, her kitchenette, her sitting room. He would not touch anything. He would leave it as is, until she returned to him.

He sleeps wherever his feet take him. 

The good doctors have both managed to rid him of the demon’s corpse and procure a mausoleum for- for Ellen. He dresses her and does her hair as he’s always watched her do in the mornings, kisses her cold lips and walks away. He shoves his fist in his mouth to spare anyone from the scream stuck in his throat. He pleads to a God he is not sure is even there to care for her well, to bring her sweets and sing her to sleep; to dress her in powder blues and buy her anything she pleases. He pleads to God to take him swiftly, to lead his feet to the edge of a cliff and push.

“We will look after you, boy, soon. Keep the terror at bay- for there is a plague we must first rid ourselves of.” Professor Von Franz grips his shoulder tightly, and stares at him with such meaning, that he almost does as he is told. 

The two have yet to return, and Thomas is grateful for it. There is a comfort in knowing no one can cast an eye upon his carcass. 

In one of his rare moments of movement, Thomas finds the locket Ellen had gifted him placed upon an entry table, coated in a dark red crust. He boils water with the last of their wood and shines it so vigorously he scratches the glass. 

Now, it has found a permanent home in his breast pocket- close to his failing heart. 

Thomas tries, he truly does, to write to her father. 

He dislikes the man. He’s always questioned the validity of Ellen’s parentage. How is it a tree so rotted would produce the sweetest of fruit? Ellen hadn’t needed to tell him all- he had seen the fear in her eyes, the reluctance to speak of future visits. She’d rarely spoken of home, and would steer him away from any line of questioning that would lead to it. 

Thomas cannot even bring himself to find the parchment.

On the fifth day, Thomas begins to hallucinate. 

His body has picked a corner to rot in for the evening. He’s stuffed a decorative pillow behind him and readied himself for what was to come. His days are a haze of dreamless bouts of sweatied sleep, and his nights, painful and long. 

He does not expect the front door of his home to fly off its hinges and clatter into the hall. 

In the shower of splinters, Thomas scrambles to his feet, hands reaching for the crucifix hanging above the fireplace mantle. He feels oddly grateful for the intrusion- the adrenaline in his blood invigorating what was once deemed dead.

Dream or not, he holds the cross in front of him. A weapon, not a shield. The faint outline of a body haunts the threshold. Thomas is yelling, something horrid, he assumes. He feels hate for the creature in front of him, hate and hope. A hope for the end.

The creature, dark and small, enters.

Thomas is then suddenly aware of the fragility of the mind. How easy it must be to bend and fracture. He mourns for his sanity, he mourns for a simple world wherein wealth was the demon in his closet. 

The cross slips from his fingers, his back hits the wall, and Thomas is still.

“Thomas…” It whispers, somber. It wears her face, sullen and heaving. The flesh of her neck is an open wound, weeping dark sludge onto the ruins of the dress he had buried her in.  

Even in death, his wife is beautiful.

She is a beacon in the everlasting night. He pushes forward, entranced. His arm is stretched out, knowing it will touch nothing but air, yet trying anyway.

“Ellen, my Ellen.” Desperation grips him tight. He wants to feel her, keep her here, where she belongs. He stumbles forward, arms hovering over her, afraid to dissipate the mirage.

The ghost is pale, its eyes stricken with pain and confusion. It looks up at him with a shaking lip. 

Thomas will savor this torment. A gift, to see his love again, even in such a state. He will stare until his mind sees fit to take her from him once more. He is heaving, shaking, still hovering.

“I apologize.” She whispers, blackened tears welling up in her eyes. “You must have been worried.”

“Yes!” Thomas exhales, his hand suddenly gripping at his chest. “I have been so- so worried.” He drops to his knees, resolve waning. He clutches at her skirts, burying his face into her stomach. The specter is cold, and yet, the comfort it provides is a balm to his torture.

“Thomas- why are you- has my absence hurt you so- oh my Thomas.” Ellen falls as well, arms encircling him in a vice. “I am an errant woman, no good for you.” Her voice is a song, sweet and smooth. 

He begins to cry. “Do not say such things.” He chides, shaking his head. He wants to dig his fingers into her flesh and anchor her to him. 

“I beg of you, stay. Stay with me.” He has grown limp in her arms, whimpering, blubbering. He cares not if his neighbors would hear. Let them think him mad, for he surely is.

“Thomas, I would not leave you of my own will- it… is the fault of my maladies.” She pets his head, swaddling him in her love. She kisses his hair, swallowing the sudden ache at the back of her throat. “A sleep spell, is all. I have found my way home to you. Worry not, dearest.” 

Thomas is nodding, “Yes, how wonderful you are. Thank you, thank you.” He is waiting for her to disappear. Waiting for his head to thunk to the floorboards and to be alone once more. He readies himself, eyes squeezing shut.

His ghost, however, does not disappear. Their harried breathing devolves into a heavy silence. She cradles him for what feels like hours- and it might as well be- for the clock rings three times before Thomas begins to question what exactly is happening.

“My love?” His voice is raw and hesitant. Why does this psychosis persist? His head is pressed into her lap, his body limp. He squeezes the small of her back and is met with flesh under fabric, freezing, but real and whole.

“Are you hale, my sweet?” The ghost replies, sweeping the errant hairs from his temple. “Perhaps we should go to bed- do you not have to attend to Herr Knock in the morning?” She massages his shoulder, solid solid real.

Her eyes, I must look in to her eyes. Thomas is set ablaze, a sudden vigor in his blood. A question, one that he never thought to entertain, is presented in his mind. He cranes his neck, a slow twist that begets the sight of his Ellen, eyes darker than the night sky, staring back at him.

He swallows.

Thomas reaches for her, a single hand, his addled mind racing with a possibility. When he grazes the skin of her cheek, his Ellen closes her eyes, and welcomes his fingers with a pleased kiss.

Thomas sucks in a breath-

-and crushes her in an embrace. 

She smells of death, iron, and earth. He digs his face into the crook of her neck, careful not to agitate the open wound of her throat. How strange the world is, how ridiculous.

“Your arms soothe me. I would be most upset should you let go.” Her whisper tickles his ear. Thomas shivers. There is so much to be said, so much to ask. He feels this is real, he believes it is- and yet, doubt remains. 

If this is deceit, Thomas welcomes it wholly. 

“Then here we shall remain.” Thomas murmurs. The clock rings a fourth time, and it feels like armistice.

-

Trigger Warning: Nonlinear narrative, I know, don’t stone me. They are separated by line breaks because I am kind and think of all you visual learners. Somehow this ended up longer than the first two chapters combined because I have no self-control and WILL indulge myself. 

——————————————————————————————————

Beneath the heaviest downpour of the year, Thomas races through the streets of Wisborg.

His determination is a pinhole. He cares for nothing but the path to the graveyard. Even when he feels the tendons of his knees may sever, when the chambers in his heart may burst, he surges forth. 

In spite of his urgency, he keeps his footing steady. He allows himself a glance behind him, seeing that Ellen has yet to stir from her trance. He tightens his grip. Rainwater soaks his nightshirt and floods his boots. Blisters form between his toes. 

He will not falter.

The seller carts are barren and the knocker-uppers in bed. There is little to do in weather so unyielding. His Ellen, too, does not stir. 

In his brief moments of thoughtfulness, he notes some things. Her chest does not rise and fall. No breath tickles his neck. She has become heavier. It is as if she has been recarved in lead, un-hollowed, solidified through and through. Thomas uses her to ground him and anchor him to the earth, which has become very irregular. 

He is strangely reminded of his mother. 

She would sit with him by the window sill on days much like this, feeding him candied peels. Sweet boy, She would speak into his hair, telling him stories of old. Of dwarves, faeries, princesses, and, when it thundered, monsters.

Once, over a particular summer, he had grown almost a foot. It had been the first time he’d left her without his company. Thomas had told her he was much too grown for the silliness of children. Not silly. He now thinks. Not silly at all.

She had smiled, as she always did, but there was a tightness around her eyes he had pointedly ignored. Years past, when he’d begun his apprenticeship, she would continue to sit in the comfort of grey clouds. Even so, she had never failed to leave his seat open. 

She had been a woman of great insight, much like his love. He’d found joy speaking to his mother, he’d thought her so charming, so warm. He has not been home in an age, despite them being only a day’s ride from Fredrich’s manor. He’d planned to bring her home after he’d secured his place at the firm. After he had something to show of himself. 

She…she would have loved Ellen. She would’ve found a daughter in her- and perhaps they may meet, should he reach the damned fucking mausoleum- ——————————————————————————————————

“Release me.” 

Even with her words, she’s white-knuckling his collar in the most crushing of grips. Thomas tries to meet her eyes, but they dart around the room, beady and dark. He is cupping her face, trying to think. 

“I am with you.” He replies, Instead of ripping his hair out. He presses his cheek against the hard line of her hand. If anything was so true, it was such. That, and the simple fact that he is so very lost. 

Ellen’s senses return in short, agonizing bursts. Thomas is still reeling from the moments prior and can do little but sit with her.  The invasion had been of the same sort as the castle- no, that had been worse. He can’t leave. He never left, he is always there, in that room. On the floor, holes in his chest, teeth nipping at his heels-

“You would hold me, still?” She asks, face devoid. Regardless, he can see the minute shake of her lip, the undercurrent of doubt and fear beneath her flat affect. Thomas blinks away the upset and considers.

Slowly, he tucks a stray hair behind her ear. His Ellen. So severe, so beauteous. He would give all to peer inside of her, to turn over every artery, every vein, just so he could know her further. In truth, Thomas knows there is nothing she can do to turn him away. He is in an ever-perpetual state of awaiting. Awaiting her embrace, her voice, her presence, her. It has always been, and always will be, Ellen. He knew her even when he hadn’t, and he will know her even when he is purged from this world. To reject her would be to reject himself, and that could not be.

“Without question.” He answers, voice steady. 

She is not so convinced. “I am ruined.” 

“You are alive.” His heart swells with conviction. “For that, I am the most fortunate of all men,” he adds, holding her gaze. 

“I will never fault you for your distress. I try to stand in your place and I cannot begin to comprehend the strength you hold.” Thomas thinks of himself and sees three men. Before her, after her, and now. One more changed than the last.

Collectively, they cannot hold a candle to the woman before him. Ellen is a force, and he knows that she will persevere. He would lift her from the depths as many times as needed.

There is an unspoken line drawn. There are many things to address, but later, when they can begin to make sense of the madness that has been lain at their feet. 

Many a thing flicker across Ellen’s face. Not all of them are pleasant. Still, in the end, her pupils bloom and the wrinkle in her brow flattens. Her lips part and her jaw quivers with words unsaid. 

He stares back and knows nothing but love.

The ground, which had been as precarious as shifting grain, begins to right itself once more. 

The threads of her being have never slowed their entwining with his own. Ever since that lone, spring day- when he had gazed upon her for the first time- he had known possession. Because that is what she had done. Engulfed him so fully he lost all sense.

Even in her absence, he’d felt its tug. Even in turmoil, he welcomes it readily.

“And you are a fool.” She says, soft, loving, and bitter. She is far from placated, but it is enough.

For now.

“Yours.” He reminds her, allowing himself the amusement. She lightens. It lasts but a moment. His eyes flicker to the weeping wounds on her neck and he startles.

“You are hurt-” He quickly untucks his nightshirt from his bottoms, giving the edge a sharp tug. The tear produces a good amount of fabric. Ellen blinks at his flurry, unsure of where to look. She examines herself.

“Just a moment, love.” He murmurs. He loops it behind her collar and covers most of the damage with a tight, but comfortable, knot. 

Her hand flies to the makeshift bandage, attempting to push a finger under, but he softly steers it away with a tch. He takes it into his own and uses it to guide her to her feet. She follows- a faraway look on her face. He leads her to the washing room, settling her in front of the copper sink. 

He does not consider, and he so wishes he did, that the sight of herself, or lack thereof, would be upsetting.

Ellen sucks in a sharp breath.

There, in their small chipped mirror, is Thomas. 

Only Thomas.

-And Ellen’s disembodied, soiled gown. ——————————————————————————————————

The onslaught is blinding. He relies on his memory and snippets of blurred lamplight to lead him true. A flash of light and an apocalyptic rumble leave his ears ringing.

“Make haste, make haste, make haste-” Thomas skids on his heels, turning the most important corner of his life, and is bestowed its dark, terrible outline.

He hikes Ellen up, tightening his grip on the underside of her thighs. He takes a single step, and the faint, almost imperceptible, light of dawn begins to peek through gray.

Thomas hurries.

He slams his shoulder against the gate. A flock of crows crowding the overhang of the tomb scatter. He slips past their flurry, and into the dark- So very glad for it. He wastes not a second. He gently peels her body from his back, and lowers her into her bed of lilies. 

They’ve wilted, more than a week would allow.

He presses a harried kiss to her forehead and fights the broken coffin lid to a close.

A blink, and he is outside once more, fingers in the mud, shoveling handfuls into the scoop of his shirt. At its fill, he returns to his Ellen, and lets it spill atop her abdomen with a sharp schlop!

The logistics of this are comical to even consider. He is thankful for the wise lunacy of Professor Von Franz. The soil, he had told him- what seemed like an age ago now- his finger pressed against a page. He brings the earth with him, so he may rest in it at night. Clever beast.

It is a harried, rushed rhythm- but a rhythm nonetheless. Thomas notices that the rain has ceased its assault. He blankets her in wet dirt until she is engulfed.

With the last pour, a cock crows, and the city is washed in light.  ——————————————————————————————————

Her hands fly to her face, then her chest, then the folds of her dress. She begins to tug and rip. Perhaps it is a trick of the light–

Shards of glass spill into the sink basin, Thomas pulls her away, speaking words she cannot hear.

She is suddenly so very tired. 

The edges of her vision blur and desaturate. Everything grows and shrinks. It is loud, then quiet. Her chest flares with pain, then, she has no chest at all. She is a floating mass, writhing in perpetuity. 

She is plucked from the earth. It is a sharp tug by a clawed, rotted hand. The dark is not safe, nor is it helpful, but it is familiar. 

It is inconsequential compared to the metamorphosis she has so obviously gone through. Perhaps it is merely the tipping point– and tip she does. 

She is pulled within her own mind, succumbing.

——————————————————————————————————

He shuts the mausoleum doors tight. It does nothing to calm his anxious heart. He pats at the walls until he finds the sconce, and is lucky enough to find the accompanied matches. 

The room erupts in flickering orange, and Thomas collapses.

 He drags himself to the dias, hand reaching for the lip of her casket. When it catches, he sticks to it like a lifeline.

It feels almost foolish to have his hands clasped in prayer. So be it. His reservations have long left him. He begins to fill the crypt with a whispered Sancti Angeli- but stops before he can finish the first stanza. 

The chance of an exorcism may be small, but not impossible. He, instead, retreats inward.

Do not take her from me. He squeezes tight, forehead pressing against the cool wood of the coffin. His chest constricts. I would give anything, anything. Hear me now. Let her live again. 

Thomas pleads. Hours pass and, perchance, a being takes pity for him– as he is granted the pillowed reprieve of a dream. 

——————————————————————————————————

Beneath a tree, Ellen draws. The parchment and the sides of her hands are stained with blunted charcoal. The sketchings shift and morph into many a thing. Folds of a muddied gown, a shattered mirror, a wilting bouquet, a castle on a hill. She’s forgone her copies and has begun to stray into her own mind for reference. She enjoys it more, this way. Though her governess would have chastised her for doing so. 

She’s long abandoned her bonnet. Her hair is scarcely free, with Fredrich about. She does favor her weekends with Anna, but her husband is of a certain disposition Ellen finds clashes with her own. He is tolerant, yes, but…she prefers the field. 

Also, she is not so blind to miss the looks the two so often exchange.

The grass blankets the sprawling landscape, allowing Ellen to trace the dotted sea of white daises with a soft appreciation. It soothes the ills of the printed wallpapers and carved stone of her father’s manor. She finds that she has never equated a roof with safety. No. It is better to look at the stars and ponder on which one might suit you best; To pet sheep and cows and tell them of her ills; To pick bugs from the soil and admire the color of their shells.

The crunch of grass. “It is only beyond the hill, Gingerbug. Think of the apples, core and all.” 

Ellen startles, a soft jerk smudging the coupled doves in the corner of her fifth page. The voice feels familiar to her, a soothing balm that pulls her forth. A name sits just at the tip of her tongue. She does not know it but still feels the need to call it out.

A whinny. “Sweet girl, we will rest only for a moment.” The voice is closer. A series of clinks, and then, a soft thud. “I find it most pretty here. We rarely visit this season. Come, let us look at what spring has to offer. The young master wouldn’t mind, I do not think he would disparage me for allowing him more time with his wife.” A chuckle, almost musical.

She abandons her work, propping herself on an arm. Her hand presses against the rough bark, heart in her throat. Blood rushes to her ears. Ellen leans far enough to peek around the thick trunk. Silent.

It is a man and his horse. 

His back is turned. He’s removed its saddle and has begun to brush it softly, patting and speaking freely of things most mundane. The mare huffs and chortles on occasion, as if to reply. She finds herself most taken with the sight.

He is a brunette, impressively tall, and sporting worn, practical travel wear. When he rids himself of his overcoat and gloves, she sees the hard line of his shoulders, the taper of his middle, hugged firmly by a cinched, leather waistcoat. When he shoves his sleeves above his elbows and reveals hard, sturdy forearms, Ellen begins to feel perverse.

I have yet to see his face. She thinks as she begins to pull away. I would see it, and then, I will hide behind this tree until I am rid of him.

Ultimately, it is a mistake. He turns to shake the loose hair from his wire brush, and Ellen despairs—

–for he is handsome. Impossibly so. Of course, amid her girlish swooning, it is then he decides to gain an awareness of some sort.

Their eyes meet, and Ellen’s resolve whittles away into nothing. She does not retreat. She does not cower. She stares back, face bereft of surprise or apology. 

A beat.

Then, “Oh–” the man drops his brush in surprise. It takes a moment, for he looks overcome, but he quickly snatches it up, holding the handle in both hands. “--My lady.”

He looks so unsure, so pathetic in his floundering. He gives her a curt bow, pressing the brush against his chest in lieu of his hat. “Forgive me for my thoughtlessness. You must think me blind.” The mare- Gingerbug, how lovely– whinnies. 

“Fret not.” She begins, transfixed. “There has been no intrusion.” For It is I who should apologize. One would think I would wish to drag you into the woods “There is no offense in the enjoyment of beauty.”

His face flares. She thinks he might faint.

“The field.” She clarifies. “The field is beautiful.” 

“Yes!” He is too quick to assure. He startles himself, adjusting his volume with a cough. “I…I scarcely see it at this time of year.” He glances at something above her eyeline, and quickly looks away. 

Her hair is undone. 

Ellen rises, urged by the curse of her curiosity. She crosses the respectable barrier the tree had provided. Her drawings remain in the dirt, heavied by a rock. She is over-dressed, for she had given Anna the excuse that she would be attending church. She is glad for it, hoping the veil of sophistication would not make her so strange to him. He seems the nervous sort.

At her approach, he goes stiff. She’s gathered her skirts, tip-toeing around the large, varied roots to close the gap between them. She stops when she’s given a good enough view of his features to begin to commit them to memory. Ah, she should respond.

“I do not know it at any other time.” Ellen answers, soft and considering, eyes following the line of his nose. The bow of his lips. 

Spring was the time for excursions. Her father was away this time of year for business, and could not protest his unmarried daughters’ wishes. At one and eight, she is being thrown suitors by the hour. None of them are of any sort of notable nature. They are her father in various forms. Prideful, arrogant, mean, and so very wealthy. 

“Oh, you must see it in the winter.” his demeanor changes, coming alive, at that moment. He sounds as he did when he thought it was just him and Gingerbug, sweet, earnest. “It is most breathtaking. There are these foxes- they burrow into the snow to catch mice. If you are quiet enough, you could spend an entire weekend watching them dig.” He blooms, beginning to use his hands. A thick strand of hair falls across his forehead. He points across the road, a vague gesture she assumes represents their hunting grounds. “There. You must visit, though I do recommend two coats.” 

At the end of his spiel, he comes to. She notes the embarrassment that floods his face. He retracts himself, swallowing. “It gets...cold.” he finishes, lamely, and grows quiet.

She is displeased with it. 

“-and what of summer?” She finds herself asking, eager, wanting more. More of what, exactly, she did not know. “Of autumn? You would be most kind to tell me.” 

He stares, almost bewildered. 

Most unexpectedly, he humors her.

“In Summer the air is sweet.” He begins “The apple trees flower, and the wind carries the petals far. Autumn is the harvest, there is a festival—” a swallow “People of all standings gather and make merry. It is nice.” His brows scrunch, his line of thought trailing off. He tosses the wire brush into the nearby pile of miscellaneous horse dressings. He eyes it for a moment before he shifts the conversation entirely. 

“Do you not hail from here?” He asks, hesitant. The horse has begun to eat the grass behind him, content to leave the two to their floundering. It is not a direct ‘Where do you live?’, but Ellen takes it as such. For once, She, too, finds herself with loose lips.

“I am a day’s ride west.” she begins. He has the longest of lashes. “Hamburg. I come here when I tire of it.” She gestures to the tree behind her. She has never considered that it is always this tree, not any of the dozens that litter the forest edge. “It is, in my opinion, the loveliest of views.” 

“I am keen to agree, my lady.” he says, softly, almost unaware of how it sounds when he does not even attempt to look at the scenery. 

Her face heats. She does not recall a time in her life similar to this. Men were the most blurry of creatures. She would curtsy. She would cover her hair. She would smile and speak in the lowest of tones– But ne’er has she enjoyed one’s company to such an extent. They were a fixture of life in the same essence as a drawing room chair. They just were. 

Of course, for Men do not suit one such as you– a woman not of this world.

Ellen primly clears her throat. “And you?” she prompts. The more they speak the more she is reluctant to think of the eventual parting. Should it be so unthinkable, that she desires something? 

But a woman does not have desires, she only fulfills them.

“East.” he answers, eager. “Wisborg.” the neighboring port city. She had been once when her father had begun to stick his fingers in dealings with foreign goods. Her dreams had worsened there. She’d declined any summons since, even from Anna.

“I recall it. The smell, especially so.” She jests so rarely, but she finds it easy, now. He huffs out a laugh, swiping at his nose in reminder. “Ah, yes, it is quite charming.” the smile remains, lingering. Ellen has gotten closer, somehow, her feet more honest in her wants than anything else. Stupid girl.

“Potent.” She supplies, her lips twitching. She can almost feel her eyes glitter. 

She is being inappropriate. Here, in the middle of nowhere, unaccompanied, speaking to a strange man of the stink of fish, her hair wafting in the wind— Anyone would gaze upon the two and call her a harlot.

Though She has not had such fun in an age. She, as always, is loose with her definition of a respectable lady.

Suddenly, something shifts. She feels it is important, but cannot recognize how or why.

“Should you return?” He asks, his cadence almost resolute, firm. There is a furrow in his brow, his posture straight and narrow. 

“What?” she blurts, surprised by the change. 

“Should you return? To Hamburg?” He clarifies, dipping his head to stare at his feet. He looks up once more, a flicker of something in his eyes. A strained quality. “Perhaps a carriage awaits you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. There hadn’t been a second she’d allowed herself to feign consideration. She has half a mind to turn around, grab her drawings from the dirt, shove the charcoal stick in his hands, and force him to write his address. Instead, with a show of impressive restraint, she is almost demure.

“I am a guest at the nearby estate.” Ellen supplies, watching as his lips part in surprise. “The H–” 

“The Harding residence.” He finishes, breathily, before muttering an apology for his interruption. She pays it no mind, nodding along. Her fingers pinch hard at her skirt in an attempt to reel in her beating heart.

 “Yes, how do you…?” A thought forms. Surely not. The Hardings are of great notoriety, anyone could assume such. It is also the nearest property.

He huffs, incredulous. He looks to the side, hands on his waist, muttering something about horrid friends and their unfair luck– and maybe it is the approaching sunset, or a trick of the light, but he is most…radiant.

Something in the dark recess of her mind tells her that something significant has occurred.

He gives her a grin that does not mean to be dashing, but she cannot help but describe it as such. “It seems we have a similar acquaintance, my lady.” She remains poised at the revelation, even if within, she is decidedly not so. “Ah, how interesting.” she replies, nerves swimming. 

Would he be staying there, too? 

Ellen’s fingers twitch. 

“I would have your name.” She cannot help how it sounds like a demand. It is his fault, for catching the blight that is her attention. 

He presses a palm to his chest, beginning to bow. He can barely start his introduction before she holds out her gloveless, charcoal-stained hand. 

He blinks, gaze flickering to it. She misses how his pupils bloom at the sight of her downturned palm, and the strained clench of his fingers against his shirt. Ellen watches him intently. A good gentleman would be most put out with her behavior and would be expected to decline in the preservation of both their propriety.

His hand darts out, taking hers. They are calloused, large, and engulf her own so fully. His flesh is warmer than the best of summer days. Ellen is buzzing.

When his lips press against her knuckles, her skin burns. It is achingly respectful and finished all too fast. He looks at her through his lashes, shy.

“It is Thomas, my lady. Thomas Hutter.”

Ellen tastes his name on her tongue and feels like she has always known its sweetness.  ——————————————————————————————————

“-omas!”

He awakens.

He had dreamt— Of what is lost to the void of sleep. It has left a warmth in his chest and his heart full. The room is engulfed in dying candlelight. Scrambling— he finds purchase on the coffin’s lid and lifts it high. 

He is arrested with a thousand emotions. He sees her, covered in sludge and eyes slit and wet. His beautiful, darling girl. She has conquered death once more.

“Hello.” She croaks, calming at the sight of him. 

He smiles, eyes watering, and is allowed his catharsis at last.

He almost dives after her, scooping her up. He is crying, most ugly, he assumes. She lets him. Her arms wind around his neck, already scratching the base of his skull. Comfort- and a silent apology, for her lapse and the distress it has caused him. 

She had lost herself. She remembers the mirror, and then waking in darkness once more. She did not take it very well. She scratched and clawed the inside of her prison before she had half a mind to call out for her Thomas. 

As always, he had returned to her. 

“Ellen.“ he mumbles, rubbing his face into her clavicle. “Do not leave me again.” She plants a kiss on his temple, running a hand through his hair. “Please.” He chokes out, tightening his grip.

“Never.” She promises, voice hard and true.

Even if she may be the foulest of women, her love is something she will offer without end. She feeds it to him, through her skin, through her touch, calming his cries into the occasional sniffle. There is so much to say, so much to think.

After a time, when Thomas has grown quiet and jellied in her arms and she has shaken off the last of her stupor, they extract her from her pile of graveyard mud.

Now, they sit side-by-side, arms interlinked. A thumb strokes her cheek. She traces the veins in his arm.

“So It is true, then.” Ellen speaks into his shoulder “For once, my mind does not deceive me.” Thomas can only nod, content with the fact that she has cheated death. There are many things he must do, now. He will board the windows. He must purchase a new coffin, something more akin to a bed and not a rat trap with compost in it. He will need to feed her-

Oh Yes. That. 

“I know not what to feel.” She continues after his moment of silence. “Or do.” 

Thomas can only huff out a humorless laugh. Ellen enjoys the rumble she hears in his chest. “I would be most concerned if you did know, my sweet.” He assumes, for all the books that might exist in this world, there is not a single one that could tell him how to navigate the storm roiling on the horizon. He turns to her, revealing her pretty face. 

She hums in agreement, meeting his eyes. He feels emboldened to admit to one thing, at least.

“There is a war within me.” He begins, his hand cupping her cheek. She leans into it, eyes closing. Thomas aches. “But joy, joy remains victorious.” 

A beat. 

“I love you.” Ellen whispers, most ardently, and the singular wall candle reaches the end of its wick.

——————————————————————————————————

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Me: This is very traumatic and sad. Writes the sappiest, Pride and Prejudice ahhh dream sequence. Okay, we’re good. 

Note Time! 

Thomas is 6’3 :-)

During their Meet-Cute, Thomas was genuinely tweaking over the fact that this really beautiful, mysterious, pale noblewoman was giving him the time of day. He most definitely wondered if she was even real for a moment. Instantly down bad, very pathetic. Love it.

Thomas is coping with his rapidly lengthening list of problems by making sure his wife doesn’t die AGAIN.

Gingerbug is the sweetest girl, and is alive, safe, in a stable somewhere. Perhaps she will make an appearance again because I really enjoyed writing them being sweet and cute and happy! It makes the present feel so much worse :D !!

Just so you know, her face when she was spying on Thomas was terrifying. Yes, he was very taken with her for that.

She’s genuinely just so done. Ellen, you would have loved modern mental health services. All she has is a life-sustaining trauma bond with her husband to keep her afloat. 

Ellen being completely disinterested in any other human man is so hilarious to me. Thomas, or ancient demonic force. There is no in-between. She’s very real.

She can’t see herself in a mirror anymore not because she has no soul, as folklore suggests, but because she is in a sense, dead, and mirrors reflect truth. I’m taking creative liberties with that one because Ellen has a soul. Idc. It's a very pretty one too. 

Respectable women wore bonnets when outside, especially around men who were not their husbands. Thomas seeing her hair undone is considered improper. As well as him touching her when she has no gloves on. 

We will get into more of the technicalities/drawbacks/benefits that come with Ellen’s new form in the coming chapters! I’m so excited to explore the… blood-drinking part a little too much. 

The love I’m getting for this series is incredible. I do adore you guys! Comments literally make my whole day. Even the extremely freaky ones I get in my Tumblr Inbox (You know who you are.) I admire the Gooner dedication. 

I really am trying to be careful with how I’m managing the overall emotional tone! Let me know if the pacing feels good, I beg of you. That also goes for the characterization, flow, etc. I’m always looking to improve! 

Hello! I have not died. It's just that this chapter was an utter bitch to write for some reason. This one is over 5k, so don't say I don't feed you.

This monster was going to be wayyyyy longer, but I decided that splitting them up into two would be appropriate AND ensure that I don't leave you guys hanging!

Enjoy, my little freaks.

—————————————————————

They sit in growing darkness, matted with filth and anticipation, watching the light of day disappear through a hair-thin crack. 

Ellen is wrapped around his arm, fingers entangled with his own. They’ve come to the unspoken, unanimous decision to enjoy this short purgatory they’ve been offered. 

How often they have held each other the same— in pretty fields and beneath trees. In their marriage bed. Under country bridges. Against Gingerbug’s warmth.

Yes, they look horrendous. Yes, he is sure he cannot walk. Yes, they are so very very exhausted.

—But Ellen is massaging slow circles into the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. She asks if he has eaten. She picks away the most unsightly flakes of dried mud from his neck. She scolds him for the state of his knees, the pallor of his skin—demanding to know why he has not been tending to himself.

She knows why, but she does not like it. She coddles him with words of comfort and touches so soft he almost forgets his troubles entirely.

Almost. 

His eyes follow the last slivers of light down and down until— ah, they will be able to leave in only a few moments. A spike of pain jolts up his calf. Maybe a little longer than that, then.

It is when Thomas becomes effectively blind when Ellen makes a strained noise. She tucks her face further into his shoulder. Her nuzzling makes his lashes flutter to a close. He feels her breathe him in– her chest swelling against him. 

Ellen stills. 

Opening his eyes, he sees the faintest glow of two beady circles peering at his neck, unblinking.

Gooseflesh. There is a sudden, sharp, oppressing silence. Thomas’ throat constricts with a thick swallow—his scar aches.

“My love?” he whispers. He flattens a hand to the small of her back, pressing lightly.

They flicker shut. A beat passes, and the hair on the back of Thomas’ neck settles. 

Ellen shifts, resettling herself. She peels away, and Thomas resists the urge to lean in and follow. She places her hand on the stone between them, their fingertips brush– placating. 

“Forgive me, I—” 

“It is alright, dearest.” He assures, trying so very hard not to sound out of breath. He does not know what else to 

Thomas does not need to be told, for it is the distinct, familiar feeling of being prey that tells him enough.

The lapse is ignored. She entwines their pinkies “Only a minute more.” she whispers, and Thomas would be a terrible man to say no.

He is lucky that he hadn’t frozen to death in his sleep. The mausoleum walls were ancient and ugly, but thick. When there was still light, he had noted the lichen blanketing the stone, sopping up the chill of winter. Instead, hypothermia had been traded with cold sweats and soaked underthings. 

He feels horrid.

Think of food, water, a bed, a bath. 

He is placated enough to start ruminating on the many—stepped plan of returning home. 

The line of thought starts and fails to make purchase, many times. He decides that future, 5-minute later, Thomas can pick up where he left off.

Somehow, in his overwhelming grief, he’d spirited Ellen’s belongings into their shoebox of a guest room. It could have been his own, crude, brand of foresight– or maybe the lingering fire in his heart that told him to save whatever was left of his wife from the desecration of that vile creature. 

Tonight, he will lay out her favorite nightgown, ready her a bath, and clean out the wounds that have yet to be properly tended to. They will need wood to boil water. There is also the issue of their lack of a door, and Ellen’s sleeping adjustments. 

They need to procure the soil from this graveyard— a lot of it. They’ll need to come back with something that could hold enough to cover her.

He feels the stirrings of a headache.

Fingers tip his chin downward. “I can hear you think.” Ellen lets her hand fall to his chest. When it grazes his heart, she pulls it away, digits flexing. “Share with me your troubles.” 

Thomas allows himself a deep sigh. “There is much to do.” His head shakes. “If there was a list…” they could probably use it as kindle for the bath.

Ellen’s eyes crease at the edges, tight. “Then our minute is over.” 

She squeezes his arm. It hurts like the devil, but what doesn’t? Thomas is a bruise on two legs. She stands, and though he sees little, he feels its odd grace. It is a singular shift of damp fabric, lightly grazing his thigh. 

He loses the details of her in the dark, but he feels hands gathering him up, pulling gently. He is startled by the ease in which she takes him. He groans, his knees popping. 

They exit the tomb, and at their first steps, they are ankle—deep in a swirl of mud and snow. 

—————————————————————

Bodies no longer litter the streets, but there are faint remnants of the sickness. Bandages, tonic bottles, and broken cloth stretchers— all blanketed in a layer of white— as is the entirety of Wisborg.

They are nearing the end of December and it feels significantly colder than when he was a boy. 

Perhaps the holidays have lost their spark. Would it be silly to say he still wishes to celebrate?

Their first Christmas together.

He would scrounge up the funds to get her a new gown and a proper easel. God knows where he’d find one on such late notice. He is no seamster, but he can work wood. He’ll build the blasted thing if he has to. 

At this, a picture appears. Ellen, sat on an artist’s stool, bristle brush in hand, buffing out tufts of pinked clouds. It would be parallel to his desk, so he could humor her while she worked.

Thomas will count their savings when everything has settled. 

The trek is much slower than yesterday, significantly so, but Ellen has taken on his weight without complaint. He’d been reluctant at first, to burden her with it. In the end, she’d given him a hard look, wordlessly fixed his arms around her shoulders, and walked.

“It is not the time to be stubborn.” She’d chided, and Thomas could only give her a sullen nod.

Over time, his body had begun to sag. More than once had he found his face dipped into the crook of her neck. He’d pull himself up again, only to find himself in the same position only a moment later. He’d stopped trying to stand up straight only a half-hour in.

Ellen, however, takes it in stride. Her slow, purposeful steps are for his sake rather than her own. There is not even a pinch in her brow— only the occasional tilt of her head to meet his eyes, and to softly ask him if he needs to rest.

With how effortless she is in her guidance, one would think she’s carrying an empty sack.

They leave a snow—parted trail behind them. He hadn’t needed to tell her to take the side streets. If not for the absence of whispers—and of people in general—he might not have noticed at all.

Even in near darkness, Ellen tiptoes over every crack, bump, and stone. They only pass a lit streetlight on occasion, which is in their favor. With the plague, there are probably only a handful of lamplighters to spare. Thomas suspects that it will grow brighter as they move toward the inner, wealthier districts.

Thomas, for once, is grateful he lives on the more… dubious side of the city. Still, they need to cross over the middle of town, so they will not get out of this with their propriety completely intact.

When he starts to shiver, Ellen instructs him to stay put, and then disappears into a dark street. 

Not a moment later, she returns with a thick, ill-fitting coat. When handed it, he moves to drape it over her shoulders, but she stalls his wrists.

“I have no need for it.” she whispers, a meaningful look on her face. Thomas relents.

She maneuvers him into it with a practiced hand, buttoning every closure to keep the warmth in. She doesn’t need to make it look pretty, but she adjusts what needs adjusting, and then continues leading the trek.

A long while later, when he has warmed just enough, he has the mind to ask her where the hells she got it from.

“Do not worry yourself,” she says, patting his hand. “He was not going to use it.”

Thomas, trusting that it is less ominous than it sounds, can only kiss her cheek.

They eventually run out of alleys to hide in.

“Thomas.” A soft movement of the shoulder his forehead is currently resting on shakes him from his stupor. He glances up— bleary-eyed, and answers with a hoarse hum.

They’ve traveled further than he thought. Surely not? We are nearly halfway home. 

A busy plaza is just around the corner. The barrier between the dark, quiet outskirts and the bustle of city life is stark. A harsh line of yellowed lamplight cuts across the street, and a horde of shadows dance on the tall brick beside them.

"Of course. Reederplatz Plaza never sleeps; perhaps we might find a carriage here?" Ellen turns, shifting his weight so that they are facing each other in a less tender version of a hug. She looks up at him with concern, and a gentle nudging that suggests she wants his input.

As true as that may be, Thomas doubts that even the kindest of Samaritans would subject themselves to their presence. 

Ellen, to put it very politely, looks like she’s gone and rolled in shit.

She is beautiful, nonetheless. 

He cannot fathom what image he must paint to anyone of good sense. Their standing in society aside, there is no other option—lest they decide to waste the precious time they have dragging his failing body across the city.

“Let us try.” He says, because there has to be at least one person with a kind enough heart and a low sense of self-preservation to say yes.

Using the wall to guide him, he hobbles forward and peaks his head around the corner. 

It is moderately busy. It is the standard mix of people for wandering vagabonds and wealthy patrons returning from their parties and dinner reservations. Even in the wake of tragedy, there is little that can halt the cushion of life of those with large coffers and even larger hats. 

A swathe of carriages line the outskirts of a small park, most of them loud and gaudy. A wide, marbled statue of a ship serves as the plaza’s center point. Thomas was right in his assumption, for every single corner is lit up well enough that the idea of remaining subtle is almost laughable.

There is a pressure on his lower back. He looks over his shoulder and sees Ellen peering over his shoulder, coat bunched in her grip.

He turns to her, his hands finding their way to her arms. With their uncertain knowledge of Ellen’s condition, Thomas hesitates to bring her into the crowd. He knows her flesh is not rotting off the bone, nor is she frothing at the mouth and biting at people’s ankles– yet he cannot say how she would fare among so many. 

His thumbs press into her inner elbows, his lip caught between his teeth. It would be wise to procure a ride and take her from there rather than wade into the thick of it and hope for the best. 

As if she could hear him, she squints, jaw working. “You will return to me if you encounter any disagreeable sort.” her eyes dart behind him, surveying. 

Thomas huffs,  “My love, were that the case, I’d be gone a minute.”

Ellen clicks her tongue, unamused. “Thomas.”

“Yes, darling. If and when the genteel people of Reederplatz Plaza do me wrong, you will be the first to know.” 

Her eyes lighten.

“My good boy.” she whispers, the edges of her lips upturned.

Even in the freezing cold, his face grows warm.

He coughs, willing away the sudden stirrings in his chest. He dips his head to place a chaste kiss on her hairline and turns to limp his way into the street.

“Wait.” 

Ellen steps in front of him, eyes roaming in scrutiny. After a moment, she reaches upward, running her hands through his hair. He ducks on instinct, letting her fiddle. She smooths the sides and runs a nail across his scalp, straightening his part. His eyes flutter to a close, and he lets out a weak exhale.

Her fingers are replaced by a soft, gentle pressure on his forehead. 

When his eyes open, Ellen has pulled back– her mouth still in a fragile, sweet grin. She looks so pretty.

“There.” Her head tips in the slightest of nods, content. Their eyes lock, and they acknowledge each other— assessing. Saying much, but nothing. There are a million words to be whispered, and all it takes is a quiet, ardent moment of connection to know them.

Ellen blinks, and then, she’s ushering him forward, a mushy be careful on her lips.

—————————————————————

Thomas will not have the heart to tell her that smoothing down his flyaways does nothing to plead his case.

Nor does the stolen coat.

He stands in front of a recently slammed carriage door. He’s left having learned a good amount of—or at least, what he would think are—expletives. The sort that make you question your self-worth. 

It rides away. The elderly, thin, evil woman stares him down the barrel of her nose until she disappears behind a corner. 

He is…weary.

Well, wearier.

That was the fifth to shoo him away. His pride has been wrung out. It lays at his feet, shriveled.

He takes a deep, ragged breath, and turns to go for a sixth.

“Which ones have you not tried?”

“God— “ He starts, scuffling back on his heels, hand pressed against his chest. She catches his sleeves, righting his balance. 

Ellen is looking up at him, brows pinched, fine dots of snow in her hair. “You are shivering.” She eyes the coat with contempt— as if she could will it to be thicker.

“It is going fine.” he says, diverting. “The people here are most occupied, is all.” They are increasingly unpleasant.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, my sweet?”

“That woman called you a worm.” Her voice is hard. How long has she been standing there? 

“Ah, yes. The elderly do lose sense with age.” He chews the inside of his cheek, eyes darting to another line of coaches. “And now, onto the next–” he goes to move, but a light tug on his coat sleeve halts his retreat.

She does not release him, instead, she turns her head to eye the thinning crowd in silence. She takes a deep lungful of the cold, port-city air, and whatever she finds makes her start pulling him in the direction of the gaudy, boat sculpture.

“Ellen?”

“I trust it will be well enough." she mutters, letting go of him in order to form some modicum of class. She rights her posture, her stride is even. “My composure remains.” 

He stays at her heels, clamming up as they approach the foot traffic. His peripheral, as expected, consists of varying forms of disturbed, horrified faces. 

It seems silly, now. For Thomas has seen true wretchedness. Their facsimiles make him all too aware of the thin separation between this world and beyond.

Would a poor man scream louder than a lord, or a duke, when gutted? 

Ellen does not veer to the side and start gorging on the nearest passer-by, and Thomas’ blood pressure remains safe, for now. 

As they near the center of the plaza, he notes that the carriages are larger, more colorful, and have intricately carved sections that look like they cost a leg and some Schillings.

They pass one, and the man inside makes him look twice. A tall hat, a full beard, young, donning black—

The small, dark hole he’d unceremoniously shoved his grief into begins to spill over.

He wrenches his eyes away, culling the thoughts of whiskey and laughter.

Their destination is clear now. Ellen has chosen one at random— or one of the only ones with the curtains drawn— She parks him a foot away and taps delicately on the side. 

Her voice is light, sweet, and tells of her good breeding. “Good eve, Herr—“

Thomas does pray that this one has a soul.

The man startles, letting go of his reading monocle with an alarmed 'Oh!'—his ledger nearly slipping from his hands. 

“What the devil—!“ Thomas cringes. The man sounds as if they’ve reached into his window and snatched his coin purse.

“—Away with you woman! You– you’ve soiled the leather!” Never mind that Ellen has not done so. He’s loud. Loud enough that people begin to stare more. 

The man, with exaggerated haste, begins to tuck away all his belongings into the nearest compartment. Ellen withdraws her hands from his window sill. Even at the quality of his reception, she does not retreat.

He suppresses the urge to glower.

He does not enjoy Ellen being the object of ire. Much less from sour, insipid, untoward, miserable wretches—

“I’ve no taste for a bed-warmer this night. Take your business elsewhere.”

Thomas’ hackles raise. 

“You-“

The man’s eyes flicker sideways to take in the state of her, expression puckered in disgust. However, it is when he looks at her face, handkerchief now poised to wipe at the invisible stain, that something changes.

The horses stir. A biting waft of air tunnels through the street. 

The man softens, almost immediately. Lulled by her visage. Thomas’ words die on his tongue at the shift. He would push Ellen behind him, if their return home hadn’t been of utmost importance.

— and the fact that he has begun to realize that it does him well to trust her word. 

Thomas sucks in a slow, steady breath. 

He settles for making himself very visible behind her. 

He knows his Ellen is a remarkable beauty. He too, even after the years he has known her, swoons— but there is something so strange about it all. The man is smiling, giggling. His cheeks are ruddied and flushed. 

He leans forward, beckoning her to speak once more. He takes off his hat, pressing it to his chest. 

“My sincerest apologies, my lady. Herr Augustus von Reichenbach, at your service.” He says, saccharine, sickly. 

Sweat beads at his forehead. The edge of his lip is quivering. “Of Reichenbach’s Royal Tobacco Trade.” he continues, his stubby, ring-covered fingers reaching into his pocket to procure, of all things, a trade card. 

A beat.

There is a moment of hesitation, but Ellen eventually plucks it from his grasp. The man pulls back to cradle the hand to his chest, rubbing his wrist. 

She studies the card for an appropriate amount of time— enough to placate the ego of a man of good standing— and then begins to speak. 

The cadence of her voice makes the edges of Thomas’ vision blur. He feels its pull. It is hands roving over his skin, pressing the ache away. It is the absence of any troubles, any hardship. It is a warm, fresh glass of milk. 

He shakes it from himself. 

The words are nothing special— a mere request for aid, a white lie of their wagon being turned over. They were on holiday, you see, and the storm had startled the horses.

The man is nodding before she’s finished, scrambling out of the other side of the carriage in a flurry of nervous movement. Has he ever seen an ugly, old, bald man simper like an infant? 

Thomas decides that he does not like this very much. 

He now sees that the coach’s driver has peeked his head around to stare at her with parted lips. Thomas steps closer, his chest ghosting her back. He has half a mind to take her hand and slip away, but a hand discreetly pats his thigh, and Ellen is turning to meet the man, sounding all too pleased to make his acquaintance. 

Hm.

Somehow, after a few exchanged pleasantries with Augustus, as he so insisted Ellen call him, they are being ushered into the cabin. 

Thomas doesn’t need to think to slide in before her. The sudden warmth is incredible. He scoots in with as much grace as he can conjure and offers his hand to his wife. She takes it and settles in beside him. Thigh to thigh.

Now that Thomas has become a physical barrier between Agustus and Ellen, he is forced to pause in his blubbering to acknowledge his presence. 

“This man…is with you?” he eyes him with thinly veiled contempt, looking eager to be rid of him. 

He can try.

Thomas squints— but because he is a good, patient man, who listens well to his woman’s word. Thomas’ eyes dart to Ellen, letting her bargain for his fate. He is afraid that if he’d been keen to answer they will not be in here much longer.

Ellen gives a sharp nod. “My husband.” She introduces, “He is weary. His health is of the utmost importance.” He notices that she has not let go of his hand. He squeezes it and runs his thumb over her knuckles.

At the tail end of her words, there is another shift. Augustus’ face slackens, ire gone. Then, his head bobs in a series of jerky nods.

“Of course, of course. The utmost importance. Coachman! Make haste!” Ellen must have told him of their residence because he sticks his head through the partition to bark orders at the still fish-mouthed driver. 

Thomas turns to Ellen, a silent question of ‘are you okay with this?’ on his lips. When their gazes meet, despite the composure she holds, there are many things he can decipher. 

It is an Incredulous, curious, but ultimately, conflicted sheen. A moment yields the tiniest hint of satisfaction. She squeezes his hand in return, and then with her other, offers the tradecard between two fingers.

He takes it from her, flipping the lithographed image of a cigar to reveal two lines of serifed, embossed text.

Reichenbach & Compagnie

Finest Tobacco from the Colonies & Beyond

His mind flits to Greta, lazing on their windowsill, a rat between her maw. As per usual, she’d drop them at the foot of their bed, purring the annoyance from Thomas’ brow. 

Thomas tucks it gently into his stolen coat’s pocket.

Then, they are moving. Just like that.

“—The crates, of course, must be sealed tightly—no moisture, no air, nothing that could spoil the tobacco; we cannot afford to have a single leaf damaged on the journey, you understand?—” he’s regaling Ellen, and only her, of the very detailed process of his trade. 

He’d, unfortunately, decided to return from bickering with his driver.

He speaks of how laborious it is as if he carries the crates on his back himself.

Thomas ensures that he rubs his crusted boots against the carpet more than necessary.

His mother had not raised a rude boy, but it is almost impossible to even attempt to tolerate someone who had yelled at, and disrespected, Ellen. Much less so that he ogles her freely, now.

Has he no semblance of decency?

He thinks mother would forgive him for it, just this once.

Ellen gives the occasional, polite nod. She answers his questions with the most basic, boring responses, and even then the ugly man looks at her as if she’d hung the moon. 

Much of the ride carries on as such, and by the end of a half hour, Thomas’ eyes ache from how much he’s rolled them. He’s tuned most of it out— only keeping himself half aware, less he begin to cross even more boundaries.

They’re a corner turn away when Ellen says a soft “This will do.” and Agustus is hollering through the partition, again. 

The carriage jerks to a halt.

Sitting back, Agustus quickly turns to Ellen. There is a hopeful look on his face. He’s wringing his hands in his lap, fidgeting. He looks barely contained, as if he does not wish to upset her with too much of his forward affections. Ah, but looking at her was just fine. The nerve.

Thomas sucks in a breath, lips parting— but Ellen squeezes his hand. 

“Thank you, Herr Agustus.” Ellen starts. She tips her chin in delicate acknowledgment. There is nothing that suggests anything other than common decency, but the man’s eyes sparkle, and he just…sits there, smiling to himself, breathing heavily.

Thomas glares at the man until he manages to gain a lick of sense.

Do not ask him how long that takes. He pops out of his stupor in a flurry, muttering a range of apologies that will never be enough to make Thomas not want to hit him.

When he sees the man throw himself out the door and start to walk around to Ellen’s side, Thomas follows suit. The blast of icy cold does not stop his pursuit. He all but shoulder-checks the man—half-wit— out of the way, and gently guides his wife down to the cobbled street. 

He murmurs a small ‘careful’ when her heel sinks into a thicker patch of snow.

Her brow is raised, to which he answers with his own. He keeps close behind her when she moves to approach Agustus, again.

The man is fixing his hat. He does not even look upset. 

At the sight of her, he’s back to blubbering. He takes the hat he just adjusted and presses it flush against his chest. 

“My lady, it has been so very delightful to be of service. It will be most upsetting to part. Might there be anything else…” he trails off, eyes flickering upward to look up at her. There is an edge of desperation, and Thomas knows that desperate men are rarely brushed off with ease.

Thomas’ resolve frays and snaps.

“Actually, there is nothing else—“ He begins, all venom, but Ellen steps in front of him. In a smooth, almost imperceptible, movement, her hand guides his own to the back of her dress. Pressing his hand flat against the small of her back. 

Leaving it there, she moves hers to the front of her soiled skirts, clasping them together. 

She begins to speak, and it is a hair different than earlier. This time, It coaxes out the sweat from his palms, the stutter of his breath, the buzz in his ears. His anger is soothed down by the weight of apprehension.

In his peripheral vision, the neighboring lamplight flickers, plunging them into a moment of darkness.

Even in the oppressive atmosphere, Ellen’s voice is calm. There is no underlying malice, or threat. She is polite, undeservingly.

“You will go to the churchyard.” She begins. Ellen has seemed to drop any pretense of this being a request. She speaks her intentions clearly, without room for error. 

“You will take the broken coffin from the mausoleum with the angels carved into the door, and fill it with soil from the grounds.” as coaxing as she sounds, there is an edge of something so unyielding. Strict. An invisible chain wrapped around the man’s neck, pulled taut as Ellen continues to speak. “To the brim.”

She seems to hold it with a muted reluctance, unwilling to tug too far.

Herr Agustus has gone lax. The flush of admiration settles into the pallor of blank parchment. His hat has fallen into the snow, darkening with moisture.

“You will return to our home no later than an hour before sunrise.” Ellen punctuates the end with a step forward. The click of her heel brings a heavy silence. There is nothing to be heard. No wind, no midnight crows, no rolling carriage wheels. 

A moment passes.

The man is stirred into action. He is nodding, again— Thanking her for the pleasure of her acquaintance. The driver is still staring. 

He’s halfway into the carriage when Ellen stops him with a quiet ‘wait.’

He freezes, quite literally. It’s an instantaneous tensing of every muscle. His leg is still raised, and shaking at the strain.

Hesitation, and then— “Give me your billfold.” Ellen’s hand lifts and unfurls, expectant.

Thomas blinks.

What?

His eyes flicker to the man.

There is not even an ounce of reluctance. He slackens and reaches into his waistcoat, producing a small, folded, leather case. He gently deposits it into her hands, turns, and all but throws himself inside. 

He shuts the door behind him— not before snapping the driver out of his trance with another round of shouting.

“G’bye Milady.” The driver tips his cap, voice shaky. He snaps the reigns with a hyah! and they’re being propelled forward.

She is silent in watching them hurry in the direction from which they came.

As they disappear into the night, Thomas is left quite speechless. Ellen tucks the billfold somewhere because it is now gone. He cannot see her face, but wonders what he would find should he look.

There is a stirring in his chest, a desire to ask so many things—to question, to peel back the layers of whys and hows he seems to only ever skirt the edge of truly knowing. 

Instead, he settles for circling his fingers around her wrist. “Come, Ellen.” he whispers. There is a renewed, but ever-dwindling, fight left within him, and it tells him to use the last of it to bring them home.

She still does not face him, her wrist is limp in his grasp. His brow furrows.

Thomas’ arms encircle her from behind. He squeezes tight, placing a kiss atop her head. 

“Should I have done that?” she asks, a flat murmur that makes Thomas wonder if she is asking him, or herself. 

Thomas does not know. In general? He feels that everything that led them back here was worth it—a means to an end he chooses not to pick apart. Later, perhaps. When they have settled, they can sit down and decide what to feel guilty over. 

“You did well.” he whispers, tucking her under his chin. Ellen stays in his grasp, quiet. The cold grows sharper with each passing breath, but Thomas stays put.

Eventually, Ellen tugs him forward, looking over her shoulder to give him a grin that does not reach her eyes.

—————————————————————

I do so love transitionary chapters, but they're so hard to make interesting! I do hope you enjoy Thomas as a narrator because he is so fun to write. As sweet as he is, he doesn't play about his girl. He's extra pathetic here. I feel like I need to give him a small win.

I'm trying to introduce Ellen's newfound abilities in ways that'll ALSO serve as character building and plot devices. Yes, this isn't just Ellen and Thomas being adorable losers together (unfortunately) I have an idea of where this will end up, but getting there is going to be a ride.

ALSO! Notice that the chapter count has turned from 10 to ?. That's because I realized this is going to be larger than I thought. Yay? I hope I don't succumb to the Ao3 author's curse.

Let me know your thoughts! And *holds up gun* Follow me on Tiktok at @beeandthescreen because I posted TWO Nosferatu edits and one of them is inspired by the fic. That's for all my maladaptive daydreamers.

Note | Comment about the dynamic between these two because I FEEL like I have them down, but of course I want your guys' lovely opinions :>