Immortality
folder
S through Z › Van Helsing
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
23
Views:
4,139
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Van Helsing
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
23
Views:
4,139
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Van Helsing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
In Paris
***
Three
His only regret in leaving London was that he'd had to go there at all. His home was there, of course, full of his fine and deeply uncharacteristic clothing and fine objets d'art for which he had no time. He was a man of action made to be clad in leather, striding in the dark with a pistol by his breast, not some upper-class public school dandy whose only deep-seated interest lay in the cut of his clothes. He could sometimes pass as such, if it served to dto do so and he made the requisite effort, but that was surely not his life. He was glad to leave London behind, even though he'd been there less than on single day. He thought perhaps it held bad memories, though he could never be sure.
He took the train from London, crossed the Channel overnight then carried on by train to Paris. The crossing was choppy and the train quite overcrowded but he didn't seem to mind; he had focus that lifted him above it, strangely aboven ven seasickness. Then the train came to a stop and for a while that concentration, focus, lapsed - he had a feeling that more than one person there in Paris would be more than a little surprised that he'd returned. It was the Henry Jekyll debacle that brought the thought on him, nights of scraping down wanted posters from the walls of all those Paris streets, seeing his face there like some common murderer.
He left the train and strode on through the station wondering if that was what he was. He hailed a carriage to take him to his hotel. He really had no answer. Perhaps, he thought, it was best that he have no opinion; he'd leave the world to theirs and let them be his judge as he could not be his own.
It was during the early evening of January 15th that he arrived, descended from the carriage outside his hotel and stepped on inside. He had rarely travelled with much means before then, or at least not that he remembered, preferringteadtead a kind of ascetic poverty; that day he strode into one Paris' better hotels and in his gentleman's attire - and forgiving the boots - he checked into a room. The firs thing he did was to devour a whole bowl of fruit and half a bottle of good red wine. The second, he shucked his clothes and left them as they lay, crawling into his bed to sleep through 'til morning.
It was 7 o'clock or just after when he woke, oddly refreshed despite a dream that eluded his memory. All that he did remembes das darkness and cold, a vague sense of unease and a voice that had wound its way through his mind with all the insidious nature of a sweetly poisonous snake. He found it unsettling, but his dreams often were.
He ate breakfast in a small, cosy café by the bank of the Seine, at a back table out of the view of the aspiring artists and poets. There was an almost clear view between the posturing clientele and out to the river, reflecting that morning the dull, lifeless grey of a sky that seemed to have followed him from London. They had January to thank for the spiritless day, th he he almost blamed himself.
Then, after sipping one last cup of strong coffee, he left the café to walk. It was cold so he drew his thick wool coat in around him, wish dearly for the comfort of his battered though conspicuous leather trench. Enamoured of it though he was, he didn't feel that he should pay the price dead or alive for the wearing of it. Perhaps had he not been heading out to Notre Dame he could have chanced it, but to stand there in the muted daylight where Henry Jekyll had died and he had been accused of the murder seemed not just a little foolish.
He did walk to Notre Dame and he did stand in the spot where Jekyll and Hyde had died, or as close to it as he could find from his dark memories of that night. For a while as he stood he felt like a murderer, even while he reminded himself so clearly and calmly that Hyde had been dangerous, almost a triumph of science over God, and for that also a strange mode, a flavour of blasphemy. He didn't feel consoled by the thought of the lives that he'd saved; he stagnated on his questions and self-loathing until startled from his grotesque reverie by some new feeling that stirred in him, intrusive.
It was growing dark; he's stood there, unmoving, for over an hour. And the feeling he felt was the weight of prying eyes. He was being watched. Of course, when he turned, all he saw were the tourists, goggle-eyed Brits staring at the reconstructed Rose Window. As he looked up at it, remembering that night once more, the oppressive weight of those watchful eyes first lifted then was gone. In the crowd, he was alone.
He made his way back to the hotel and into the dining room, improperly dressed for dinner, but it seemed he was paying enough for the staff if not the guests to forgive his eccentricity. He ate alone under the magnificent crystal chandeliers that threw glorious refracted light all through the room like a shower of rainbows; despite the picturesque setting it was a sad affair. He has too much time to himself, to brood. Thinking about Jekyll had brought his spirits low so he had thought of Anna and the Valerious curse that he had helped, hoping to buoy his spirits up again. He had only succeeded in bringing himself down still further, to dwell in the botof aof an empty bottle of good red wine.
Sleep, when he'd shed his clothes like a skin and slinked into bed with lips stained red, was not long coming. What dreams may come, he believed that he deserved them.
***
Three
His only regret in leaving London was that he'd had to go there at all. His home was there, of course, full of his fine and deeply uncharacteristic clothing and fine objets d'art for which he had no time. He was a man of action made to be clad in leather, striding in the dark with a pistol by his breast, not some upper-class public school dandy whose only deep-seated interest lay in the cut of his clothes. He could sometimes pass as such, if it served to dto do so and he made the requisite effort, but that was surely not his life. He was glad to leave London behind, even though he'd been there less than on single day. He thought perhaps it held bad memories, though he could never be sure.
He took the train from London, crossed the Channel overnight then carried on by train to Paris. The crossing was choppy and the train quite overcrowded but he didn't seem to mind; he had focus that lifted him above it, strangely aboven ven seasickness. Then the train came to a stop and for a while that concentration, focus, lapsed - he had a feeling that more than one person there in Paris would be more than a little surprised that he'd returned. It was the Henry Jekyll debacle that brought the thought on him, nights of scraping down wanted posters from the walls of all those Paris streets, seeing his face there like some common murderer.
He left the train and strode on through the station wondering if that was what he was. He hailed a carriage to take him to his hotel. He really had no answer. Perhaps, he thought, it was best that he have no opinion; he'd leave the world to theirs and let them be his judge as he could not be his own.
It was during the early evening of January 15th that he arrived, descended from the carriage outside his hotel and stepped on inside. He had rarely travelled with much means before then, or at least not that he remembered, preferringteadtead a kind of ascetic poverty; that day he strode into one Paris' better hotels and in his gentleman's attire - and forgiving the boots - he checked into a room. The firs thing he did was to devour a whole bowl of fruit and half a bottle of good red wine. The second, he shucked his clothes and left them as they lay, crawling into his bed to sleep through 'til morning.
It was 7 o'clock or just after when he woke, oddly refreshed despite a dream that eluded his memory. All that he did remembes das darkness and cold, a vague sense of unease and a voice that had wound its way through his mind with all the insidious nature of a sweetly poisonous snake. He found it unsettling, but his dreams often were.
He ate breakfast in a small, cosy café by the bank of the Seine, at a back table out of the view of the aspiring artists and poets. There was an almost clear view between the posturing clientele and out to the river, reflecting that morning the dull, lifeless grey of a sky that seemed to have followed him from London. They had January to thank for the spiritless day, th he he almost blamed himself.
Then, after sipping one last cup of strong coffee, he left the café to walk. It was cold so he drew his thick wool coat in around him, wish dearly for the comfort of his battered though conspicuous leather trench. Enamoured of it though he was, he didn't feel that he should pay the price dead or alive for the wearing of it. Perhaps had he not been heading out to Notre Dame he could have chanced it, but to stand there in the muted daylight where Henry Jekyll had died and he had been accused of the murder seemed not just a little foolish.
He did walk to Notre Dame and he did stand in the spot where Jekyll and Hyde had died, or as close to it as he could find from his dark memories of that night. For a while as he stood he felt like a murderer, even while he reminded himself so clearly and calmly that Hyde had been dangerous, almost a triumph of science over God, and for that also a strange mode, a flavour of blasphemy. He didn't feel consoled by the thought of the lives that he'd saved; he stagnated on his questions and self-loathing until startled from his grotesque reverie by some new feeling that stirred in him, intrusive.
It was growing dark; he's stood there, unmoving, for over an hour. And the feeling he felt was the weight of prying eyes. He was being watched. Of course, when he turned, all he saw were the tourists, goggle-eyed Brits staring at the reconstructed Rose Window. As he looked up at it, remembering that night once more, the oppressive weight of those watchful eyes first lifted then was gone. In the crowd, he was alone.
He made his way back to the hotel and into the dining room, improperly dressed for dinner, but it seemed he was paying enough for the staff if not the guests to forgive his eccentricity. He ate alone under the magnificent crystal chandeliers that threw glorious refracted light all through the room like a shower of rainbows; despite the picturesque setting it was a sad affair. He has too much time to himself, to brood. Thinking about Jekyll had brought his spirits low so he had thought of Anna and the Valerious curse that he had helped, hoping to buoy his spirits up again. He had only succeeded in bringing himself down still further, to dwell in the botof aof an empty bottle of good red wine.
Sleep, when he'd shed his clothes like a skin and slinked into bed with lips stained red, was not long coming. What dreams may come, he believed that he deserved them.
***