so maybe i shouldn't have called, was it too soon to tell? what the hell, it doesn't really matter Who: Ophion Barnard & Genevieve Albrecht What: A visit Where: The Albrecht Estate When: Yesterday afternoon Rating: PG Status: Complete.
Ophion strode onto the grounds without a greeting to the servants. A few shot scowls in way, most stepped back as he icily commanded to be let in. Only one bowed and hastily let him into the Albrechts’ estate.
When he arrived in Genevieve’s bedroom, she was still fast asleep, feverish beneath her sheets. From a distance, Ophion stood unmoving, like a shadow by her door. A few seconds passed in silence, and his hand continued to rest on the doorknob. There was, he realized now that he was in her presence, little for him to do in the vicinity of the sick. As often as he lamented the world’s situation, it rarely did him any good. A thought crossed to Orsinio, another death of this plague, and to Ophion’s magic lesson with the woman before him but a few months ago. (Were he a superstitious man, the omen of Poison and the ill would have caused his hairs to stand.)
With a gruff exhale (quieter than his usual), Ophion turned his back on the bed. Sparing her not a second glance, he pushed the door back away with a creak louder than intended.
She had been hovering on the edge of consciousness, slipping in and out of sleep. Fragments of conversations had at her bedside had drifted in and out of her understanding; all she truly recalled was that, unless a cure was found, she would die. A realization she had had the night of Orsinio’s murder. She still remembered that - remembered the vial and his dying gasps, the way darkness had slowly eaten away at her vision until she could see no more.
The creak shot through her, the first real noise she could make out, and her eyes opened. The figure in her field of vision was familiar. “Reinholdt?” Her voice was barely a whisper and rusty with disuse - how long had she been asleep? - and she had to clear her throat, try again. “Reinholdt?” Stronger this time, audible.
It was a struggle to push herself into a sitting position, and she slid back down, her arms refusing to hold her. Everything hurt and she felt weak, as though even the lightest of touches would make her cry out in pain. She tried to lift her hand, to reach for the man, but it refused to move from the comforter.
“Hm.” The noise alone was Ophion’s way of correcting her. His hand froze, and he felt more like a prey than he would’ve like, stuck halfway between staying and leaving. Neither choice would ease her back to sleep. His mouth twisted at her efforts to reach her him, contorting his face to a grotesque satisfaction.
The voice was wrong and Genevieve frowned. She was not so beside herself as to believe Alistair still alive, but her room was not a place she allowed people. What other… “Ophion.” She could not fathom what he was doing here, but somehow knowing he was gave her some comfort. “I fear I am not up to our usual banter.” Apologetic, even as she lay dying.
Olena would be proud. A proper lady at last.
She swallowed; her mouth and throat were dry. There was a pitcher on the table beside her, but as she attempted to reach for it, her vision swam and nausea roiled in her gut. She breathed shallowly, willing the moment to pass.
The nobleman scoffed. “Don’t apologize. It’s demeaning, a waste of time.” (Callous, even as she lay dying.) He had climbed out of the Tenements and always cherished his noble blood, but here in the district of his childhood, the differences between the pair of nobles could not be evident. Adolescence spent in opposite sides of the socioeconomic ladder seemed to erase what years they had spent together in their youth.
But not completely.
He began to make his way to her bedside when she was unable to bring the pitcher to her. With a wave, the mage’s hands glowed with magic and filled a glass with water. He handed to her without a word or a glance, disapproval etching lines into his face. They so rarely saw eye to eye these days, he felt.
She took the water with a word and took a sip; the second the cool liquid hit her tongue, she realized she was parched. Still, she sipped slowly, deliberately, until she felt confident her voice would hold. “I see you cannot recognize sarcasm.” (However did they come to such barbed banter? She could not recall.)
Another sip, and another. The glass was empty and she set it on the table. She would need to drink more, perhaps attempt something to eat. (What was the point when you were dying, she wondered.) “Is there something I can do for you, Ophion?” She was tired, and she wanted to reach for his hand; she may have come to terms with her own mortality, but that did not mean she did not fear it.
Her hand stayed beside her on the comforter.
Only grunt was given in response to the first comment. At her question, his dark eyes scanned her figure limp in the bed with skepticism. He scoffed again, slipping his hands into the large pockets in his coat. Inside the tweed, his hands clenched around nothing.
“Nothing,” he said coolly, brow raising.
Genevieve sighed, ignoring the sharp sensation that cut through her chest. “Then why are you here?” He was no altruist, she knew; his regard for others went only so far as they could be of use to him, and though they had known each other since childhood, he never communicated with her outside of necessity. It was something she tried not to let bother her, but because of it, she could not fathom why he was here, now.
She could not deny she was grateful for the company, however; awakening to find that at least there was someone there was a comfort she had not known she had needed.
Ophion’s lips pressed together into a thin line, his eyes narrowing the same way. “Was just leaving,” he said as he made his way back to the door.
“Do not leave on my account,” she told him. “I doubt I will be around - awake - for much longer.” A slip. Perhaps it would be best to let him leave; she could pretend this was a dream brought on by fever.
He said nothing but stopped in place as if to ponder (or if they cemented him to the floor, her words like chains). Then, the nobleman stiffened his shoulders and exited the room without a goodbye.