Sleep came easily, but with it dreams of a lifetime Randal didn't remember, at least not entirely. Fragments of memory became whole as all the bits and pieces started coming together. It was like watching a movie of one's life story unfold before him in his mind. It was the story of a life that started out like any other, but ended in horror and tragedy. Had it been a mistake marrying Isabelle" Whose fault was it that he'd decided to pull the trigger that fateful day in April" Was it hers or his" Should he blame the war or his wife's infidelity, brought on by grief and tragedy of her own" There was no time to digest it all, to sort it out and make sense of it, only to see it play out in his mind and to know it was not simply a dream, but the memory of a life his soul could not forget.
It haunted him, just like the ghost that had been part of his soul had haunted this house, unable to move on, unable accept his own fate, until at last he learned to love and trust again. It was Kit who'd given him that, Kit who'd broken the curse, Kit who'd saved his soul. And here he was, alive and whole in a new body with a new life ahead of him, and yet, all of that knowledge came as a shock to that body - to the man who'd lived his whole life never knowing that a piece of him was missing, never knowing the tragedy of his own past, his own soul.
He awoke at some point during the night, Kit sleeping fitfully beside him, and crept out of bed, shaken and shocked by a dream that wasn't a dream, but the memory of a life that had ended in tragedy and damnation. He didn't dare wake her, not wanting her to see him like this - trembling and pale and on the verge of a breakdown. Why had the memories all come back now, all at once" Was he ready to accept them or would they drive him insane" He at least had the presence of mind to tug on a pair of pants before creeping down the stairs on bare feet. He wasn't sure where he was going or even why. There was something he needed to do, though he wasn't sure what that something was - something to finally put it all behind him.
He went first to the portrait that had once hung in the dining room and that now leaned against a wall, smiling at him as though she was mocking him or very pleased with herself. He had commissioned it himself once over a century ago, when he'd still loved her, before she'd betrayed him. She had been beautiful then, as fresh and lovely as a summer day. How she had died, he didn't know, nor did he care. She had bargained her soul to save him in an attempt to redeem herself, or perhaps to redeem him. He knew she would never be free until he was free himself, until he accepted what had happened and forgave her for her part in it. "You were so lovely once, so innocent," he whispered to the face that was smiling sweetly up at him, just as she'd done in life.
"What happened to us, Belle?" he asked her, not expecting any answer. He already knew the answer to that question - the war happened, just as he'd told Kit over a year ago in this very room. He studied her for a long time, remembering the life they'd shared together and the tragedy that had followed; remembering her promise to free him from the curse that had damned his soul; remembering her advice to believe. Forgive and believe. That was the key. Perhaps it wasn't about his soul any longer, but about hers. After a long moment of quiet contemplation, he moved at last, as if he'd decided something. As heavy as it was, he picked up the portrait and carried it from the room, the sound of the back door slamming closed behind him.
In the bedroom above, the woman he had left alone to her fitful sleep shuddered out of slumber at the sound of the door slam. Her mind still fogged with sleep, Kit pushed herself to sit up, looking around the familiar but unfamiliar decoration of the room that had been hers as a child but was now ....A soft gasp escaped her lips as she turned to look down at the bed besides, knowing even before she looked that he wasn't there. Shock bled through her heart and mind as she took in that absence, recalling loving touches, shared kisses, all the secrets she had told him not so very long ago. Had it been too much' Had he decided, after all, to leave and not come back" Her heart aching with the hope that her fear wasn't true, she slithered from the bed, catching up his discarded shirt to cover herself as she padded, barefoot, from the room, forcing herself to stay calm. He couldn't simply disappear. She would just have to search for him.
If she looked hard enough, she would see that nothing much had changed in that house. His luggage was still there, right where he'd left it. Even his discarded clothing was there, other than for his pants and the shirt she'd retrieved from that pile. His car was still parked in the drive. Everything was as it should be, except for one thing - the portrait that she'd detested for so long was gone, the screen door the led to the back porch opening and closing with the wind, as if someone had forgotten or failed to latch it.
Despite her rising concern, she was methodical, remembering her panic of the week before, forcing herself to pay attention this time. The house did not feel empty; it didn't feel as though she had been abandoned this time. But still, she couldn't help the panicked thump of her heart as she searched each room in turn, finally reaching the ground floor. Her eyes spied the place where the portrait should have been, her head turning in alarm toward the gentle thump of the back door as it swung to and fro, and she forgot to be calm, frightened that something more than just a decision to leave her might be happening now. Bare foot and barely clothed, she hurried out into the garden, shivering in the chill breeze.
There weren't any clues to tell her where he'd gone, nothing but a faint light flickering through the windows of the summer house - the one place that held such terror for them both; the one place Kit had not gone since that day back in April when his death had played itself out right before her eyes.
It didn't take long for her eyes to catch the glimmering flicker of light in the summer house, her arms wrapping tighter about herself as she finally realised where he had gone. "Oh, love ..." she whispered, pain and regret for what he must have recalled in his sleep rising in her. Reluctantly, she turned her feet toward the dilapidated structure, afraid to go in, but deeply reluctant to let him relive that moment alone. The wooden boards felt dry and rough beneath her feet as she slipped inside, not daring to say his name. Not yet.
Starting a fire in the fireplace had been something of a challenge after so many years of disuse, but he'd somehow managed. It wasn't like there was nothing there to burn. He had half a mind to torch the entire building. What use was it anyway' It only seemed to serve as a reminder of the past, a reminder of the tragedy that had taken place here - of his own folly and regret. By the time she found him, he had the fire going, the light from the flickering flames dancing off the walls and creating eerie, ghostlike shadows. Though he was alone, the portrait of Isabelle stood beside him, propped against an old musty cloth-covered chair, while he was crouched down in front of the fire, feeding the flames with sticks he'd gathered from the garden.
"Rand?" Soft though it was, her voice sounded unnaturally loud against the rush of the wind outside and the crackle of the growing fire before him. Her gaze strayed to Isabelle's portrait, the insufferable smile that had mocked her for so long, looking away before the anger could come back.
He didn't look over to see who was there; there was only one person who might have followed him here, and he knew that voice almost as well as he knew his own. The light from the flames cast an eerie glow against his face, creating dark shadows beneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in weeks, as if he was a ghostly shadow of himself, but it was only a trick of the light and nothing more. "I'm going to burn her," he said, as calmly and matter-of-factly as one might discuss the weather.
It haunted him, just like the ghost that had been part of his soul had haunted this house, unable to move on, unable accept his own fate, until at last he learned to love and trust again. It was Kit who'd given him that, Kit who'd broken the curse, Kit who'd saved his soul. And here he was, alive and whole in a new body with a new life ahead of him, and yet, all of that knowledge came as a shock to that body - to the man who'd lived his whole life never knowing that a piece of him was missing, never knowing the tragedy of his own past, his own soul.
He awoke at some point during the night, Kit sleeping fitfully beside him, and crept out of bed, shaken and shocked by a dream that wasn't a dream, but the memory of a life that had ended in tragedy and damnation. He didn't dare wake her, not wanting her to see him like this - trembling and pale and on the verge of a breakdown. Why had the memories all come back now, all at once" Was he ready to accept them or would they drive him insane" He at least had the presence of mind to tug on a pair of pants before creeping down the stairs on bare feet. He wasn't sure where he was going or even why. There was something he needed to do, though he wasn't sure what that something was - something to finally put it all behind him.
He went first to the portrait that had once hung in the dining room and that now leaned against a wall, smiling at him as though she was mocking him or very pleased with herself. He had commissioned it himself once over a century ago, when he'd still loved her, before she'd betrayed him. She had been beautiful then, as fresh and lovely as a summer day. How she had died, he didn't know, nor did he care. She had bargained her soul to save him in an attempt to redeem herself, or perhaps to redeem him. He knew she would never be free until he was free himself, until he accepted what had happened and forgave her for her part in it. "You were so lovely once, so innocent," he whispered to the face that was smiling sweetly up at him, just as she'd done in life.
"What happened to us, Belle?" he asked her, not expecting any answer. He already knew the answer to that question - the war happened, just as he'd told Kit over a year ago in this very room. He studied her for a long time, remembering the life they'd shared together and the tragedy that had followed; remembering her promise to free him from the curse that had damned his soul; remembering her advice to believe. Forgive and believe. That was the key. Perhaps it wasn't about his soul any longer, but about hers. After a long moment of quiet contemplation, he moved at last, as if he'd decided something. As heavy as it was, he picked up the portrait and carried it from the room, the sound of the back door slamming closed behind him.
In the bedroom above, the woman he had left alone to her fitful sleep shuddered out of slumber at the sound of the door slam. Her mind still fogged with sleep, Kit pushed herself to sit up, looking around the familiar but unfamiliar decoration of the room that had been hers as a child but was now ....A soft gasp escaped her lips as she turned to look down at the bed besides, knowing even before she looked that he wasn't there. Shock bled through her heart and mind as she took in that absence, recalling loving touches, shared kisses, all the secrets she had told him not so very long ago. Had it been too much' Had he decided, after all, to leave and not come back" Her heart aching with the hope that her fear wasn't true, she slithered from the bed, catching up his discarded shirt to cover herself as she padded, barefoot, from the room, forcing herself to stay calm. He couldn't simply disappear. She would just have to search for him.
If she looked hard enough, she would see that nothing much had changed in that house. His luggage was still there, right where he'd left it. Even his discarded clothing was there, other than for his pants and the shirt she'd retrieved from that pile. His car was still parked in the drive. Everything was as it should be, except for one thing - the portrait that she'd detested for so long was gone, the screen door the led to the back porch opening and closing with the wind, as if someone had forgotten or failed to latch it.
Despite her rising concern, she was methodical, remembering her panic of the week before, forcing herself to pay attention this time. The house did not feel empty; it didn't feel as though she had been abandoned this time. But still, she couldn't help the panicked thump of her heart as she searched each room in turn, finally reaching the ground floor. Her eyes spied the place where the portrait should have been, her head turning in alarm toward the gentle thump of the back door as it swung to and fro, and she forgot to be calm, frightened that something more than just a decision to leave her might be happening now. Bare foot and barely clothed, she hurried out into the garden, shivering in the chill breeze.
There weren't any clues to tell her where he'd gone, nothing but a faint light flickering through the windows of the summer house - the one place that held such terror for them both; the one place Kit had not gone since that day back in April when his death had played itself out right before her eyes.
It didn't take long for her eyes to catch the glimmering flicker of light in the summer house, her arms wrapping tighter about herself as she finally realised where he had gone. "Oh, love ..." she whispered, pain and regret for what he must have recalled in his sleep rising in her. Reluctantly, she turned her feet toward the dilapidated structure, afraid to go in, but deeply reluctant to let him relive that moment alone. The wooden boards felt dry and rough beneath her feet as she slipped inside, not daring to say his name. Not yet.
Starting a fire in the fireplace had been something of a challenge after so many years of disuse, but he'd somehow managed. It wasn't like there was nothing there to burn. He had half a mind to torch the entire building. What use was it anyway' It only seemed to serve as a reminder of the past, a reminder of the tragedy that had taken place here - of his own folly and regret. By the time she found him, he had the fire going, the light from the flickering flames dancing off the walls and creating eerie, ghostlike shadows. Though he was alone, the portrait of Isabelle stood beside him, propped against an old musty cloth-covered chair, while he was crouched down in front of the fire, feeding the flames with sticks he'd gathered from the garden.
"Rand?" Soft though it was, her voice sounded unnaturally loud against the rush of the wind outside and the crackle of the growing fire before him. Her gaze strayed to Isabelle's portrait, the insufferable smile that had mocked her for so long, looking away before the anger could come back.
He didn't look over to see who was there; there was only one person who might have followed him here, and he knew that voice almost as well as he knew his own. The light from the flames cast an eerie glow against his face, creating dark shadows beneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in weeks, as if he was a ghostly shadow of himself, but it was only a trick of the light and nothing more. "I'm going to burn her," he said, as calmly and matter-of-factly as one might discuss the weather.