Title: An Equitable Exchange?

Author: Poodle

poodle75567@yahoo.com

Series: Forever Knight

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: None

Characters: Nicholas, Other, LaCroix

Summary: Nicholas spends an autumn evening with a unique young woman.

Disclaimer: Never owned them, never will.


An Equitable Exchange?
by Poodle


(17th Century)

Firelight caressed the rich wood of the wicker chair where Claire sat rocking; her knitting rested unattended in her aproned lap, and she closed her eyes to languish in the warmth that glowed against her cheeks. Evening's slanted light crept through the windows, across the hardwood floor and the dusty toes of her boots that rested on the broadloom carpet at her feet. Slowly, she rocked, eyes closed, relished the whisper of autumn's early chill as it lingered in the air. Soon, its frost would kiss the pumpkins, and Sedgwick would bring them to harvest.

Beyond the cottage walls, the children's laughter drifted across the yard, the endless play of youth, their tiny hands gathering and tossing leaves into a slate-gray sky, burnt rusts and golds painted in her mind's eye as she tried to imagine the scene. She knew her children would later describe their outing in just such a way as they gathered `round her skirts before the fireplace and excitedly told of their exploits.

A smile of contentment traced Claire's lips.

A hint of cinnamon and gingerbread filled the cozy room. The children's favorite. A treat with a glass of goat's milk before tumbling into their bed in the overhead loft. She inhaled its sweet aroma.

Evening blushed the room in rosy-haze as it filtered through the lace adorning the windows, danced across the china-cabinet and her mother's porcelain teapot, resting, its contents still warm, on its mahogany serving table next to the settee. The light grew brilliant, slowly faded as dusk washed the color from the room.

Still, Claire rocked, her eyes closed.

Sedgwick would gather the children in time for the evening meal. He was a good man, always attending to such details without a word of complaint for the burden he bore. No woman could ask for better; he was more than Claire deserved, or so her mother was quick to point out.

"*`Tis a fine catch you've made, Claire, the finest. Never forget, a woman in thy position cannot afford to be choosy.*" Her mother's voice reprimanded in the back of her mind. "*Ye'd do well not to loiter. Remember, a man resents a wife who's fat and lazy.*"

"Nay, mother." She sighed aloud in the empty room, without missing a beat in the cadence of her rock. "Lazy, ye might well deem me, but *never* fat."

The cottage was immaculate. She dusted and polished since early dawn on the chance that Lord Tenson's steward might drop by to discuss the year's taxes, as Sedgwick warned earlier in the week. He said that though he'd yet to meet the steward, rumor said he was young and brash, and unlike his predecessor, he lacked refinement in the subtle art of dealing with the peasants of the township. Rumor whispered, he was paid no less than twenty shillings a year for his services, an outrageous wage for one so young. Sedgwick wanted them all on their best behavior to insure the young man would not further gouge them with expenses they would be powerless to argue against. Serving as town magistrate since his father's death last fall, Sedgwick felt it was important to make a good impression. The people of the township depended on him to set an example before their lord's steward as his father had before him.

Her good-hearted husband was aging beyond his years beneath the heavy yoke his father had bore with such dignity and ease. Claire offered what support she could, and though it hardly seemed sufficient, he insisted the shelter of her loving arms was comfort enough, and often sought solace there. Unlike many husbands of the village who felt their God-given wives were meant for little more than cooking, cleaning and childbearing, Sedgwick included his head-strong Claire in all the decisions concerning their family, and often those concerning the community, as well. She laughed softly to herself and thought of how her mother would react if she knew it was Claire and not Sedgwick who proposed Thomas Drucker should be fined a fat sow as just penance for the wanton destruction of Zachary Livingston's front door when he carried it off in a drunken rage. A smile tempted her lips at the memory.

Sunlight's caress slowly faded from her face; she felt it wane. The fire's glow settled with its radiant heat into her bones. The air grew still, broken only by the soothing rhythm of her rocking as it lulled her into a gentle rest...

A footfall drew her attention and Claire smiled. "Sedgwick?"

Silence answered, and a frown creased her brow. If he entered the cottage, why didn't she hear the door? Surely she had not been drowsing so deeply that he slipped past her.

"Good woman," A voice smoothly responded.

Masculine and cultured, clearly that of a young nobleman, the voice was unfamiliar to Claire, but she didn't turn in the stranger's direction nor pause in the steady rhythm of her rocking. Lord Tenson's steward?

Young and brash, indeed.

Such subtle refinements as knocking before entering a stranger's home must be an outmoded custom beneath the etiquette of current nobility. Claire snorted lightly to herself; in her opinion, common courtesy never went out of style no matter what one's status, and this young man was not too old to learn it. She rested her hands in her lap atop her knitting, closed her eyes, and steadily pushed the rocker back and forth; its soothing cadence filled the sudden silence of the room.

The young man chose to respect the lull, out of insult or incredulity, Claire could not be certain as he stood in silence near the door. She could sense him lingering in the stillness of the room, and imagined she could see the look of disbelief on his face that she dared to treat him with such disrespect.

"There's tea in yon pot next to the settee and fresh gingerbread still warm upon the oven-bricks." She dispersed the quiet with a casual comment. "Help yourself, and sit, if thou wishes." Her invitation was met by silence. As Claire envisioned the young man's astonished expression, she pressed on without hesitation. "I could do with a spot of tea, myself, if ye'd be so kind as to bring me a cup."

The unmistakable clink of her mother's porcelain teapot reached her ears, and she suppressed a smile as the rustle of his movement and the sound of liquid pouring into fine bone china, quickly followed.

"I take two lumps."

"Mistress?"

She gave a start; the nobleman was suddenly at her side. He moved so soundlessly that he caught her unaware, but Claire quickly recovered, and without turning to face him, she held out her hand and accepted the cup he pressed into her palm. She slowly sipped its warm, sweet contents and listened as the stranger sat on the settee behind her wicker rocker positioned comfortably before the fireplace.

A gentle lull settled between them, almost companionable, broken only by the soothing crackle of logs within the fire. Claire slipped her tea, inhaled the sweet aroma of hickory lingering in the air, and smiled to herself...

*~*~*~*~*

Nicholas de Brabant sat quietly on the red-velvet sofa and studied the woman's back as she sat calmly rocking, the subtle brush of her profile in the fire's light, the flame's glow as it caught the apricot highlights in her hair, braided and woven into a bun at the nape of her slender neck. A most unusual woman.

He sensed no fear of his unexpected entry into her home. In fact, an aura of contentment radiated in her poise, the firm line of her jaw, her noble brow. Though she hadn't turned to face him, he could discern a face that possessed a strength of character that surprised him.

There was time enough to consummate the purpose of his visit to this home, to savor the moments ahead, in fact, LaCroix would approve of the discipline involved in such constraint. He had already exercised admirable restraint when he encountered the master of this dwelling on the path leading toward this cottage. The man obviously harbored a misconception concerning his identity and he bid Nicholas continue on without him and offered him admittance to his home. The man explained that he needed to attend to details on a matter he did not elaborate on, but that, `My home is yours.' Intrigued, Nicholas was only too willing to oblige.

So he settled back and allowed an amicable silence to settle between them.

His eyes passed over the quaint cottage, its contents tended by loving hands, lace doilies rested primly atop the polished wood of accent tables to protect their surface, china cups, delicately trimmed in cornflower-blue, sat next to the porcelain tea service. He reached out and lightly traced the rim of a single cup. Warm cinnamon wafted in the air, the aroma of fresh bread, gingerbread, the woman said. Although, such morsels held no interest, the scent somehow fit the ambiance of the room's charm, and the tranquilly of the woman's profile as she sat sipping her tea and staring into the flames.

Nicholas found himself wondering what it would be like to pour a cup of rich brown tea and settle back with a saucer balanced on his knee, boots crossed at the ankle atop the woven rug at his feet, and savor an evening in this woman's company as little more than a guest...

A guest.

Such a simple word -- guest. A caller whose presence was expected and welcomed by the family, perhaps even missed when absent. How simple, yet profound the concept truly was when applied to the modest indulgence of an autumn evening, quietly reposed before the fireplace in the presence of friends. He envisioned telling, at his leisure, of his recent studies in Berlin, and his adventures as he traveled across the Russias, returning to these familiar shores just last evening. The opulence of the golden-domed churches of the sprawling Russian capital, the outrageous exploits of its Czar, an unorthodox giant of a man whose grand design was to Europeanize his barbarian nation...

Beneath the cozy atmosphere of the cottage, lingered the rich aroma of the woman's essence; it beckoned below the surface of her flesh, called to the beast that would consume the tranquilly of this stolen moment. Her unique fragrance had summoned Nicholas to her home with its thatched roof, lavender shutters and window-boxes, past the threshold and into the welcome warmth beyond. It tempted him, even as he fought to retain the vestiges of serenity.

A sigh escaped his lips as the familiar tingling of arousal pulsed through his jaw. His eyes locked on the supple nap of her neck where her hair lay braided in a modest bun; its apricot highlights caught the light and beckoned. Without conscious decision, he found himself at her side. He inhaled deeply, eyes closed, and relished her scent.

The woman gave a start.

"There is nothing to fear, mistress." He gently pressed his hand to her shoulder in reassurance. "I shall bring you no pain," he told her with deepest sincerity, never more certain of his words than at this moment. An evening spent in the presence of such a noble lady, however brief, was deserving of the respect with which he would savor her final moments. His hand fell to the back of her neck and gently caressed as he anticipated the ultimate consummation. All she was, the splendor of her simplicity and grace would soon be his, dancing through his veins. "Look at me, dear lady," he breathed into the sudden stillness of the room, turned her chin toward him, allowed the fire's light to play across her face...

Nicholas gasped.

*~*~*~*~*

"Since birth."

"Excuse me?"

Claire sensed the astonishment in the young man's tone. "`Tis the first question they always ask," she continued smoothly. "How long have ye been blind? The second is generally, how can you bear it? I suppose, I could ask the same of you, assaulted daily by colors and light, whether you welcome it or not. The narrow perceptions of beauty that govern thy life. Those are burdens I shall never have to bear."

"Good woman, I'm sorry." The words escaped his lips in a breathless rush.

"I won't insult your intelligence by saying that I'm *not* sorry, that I prefer it this way; because, of course, that would be a lie. Although, I'm comfortable with my life, even content, I've always wondered what it would be like to watch a sunset, to gaze into a summer sky or see my children's faces. Tell me, sir," her voice fell to a whisper, "how blue is blue?"

Silence claimed the moment as she felt him struggle for a response.

"I could tell you how warm a scone is, fresh from the oven-bricks." Claire broke the hush. "Describe the softness of my daughter's cheek, or the sweetness of a flower's scent, but thou art powerless to convey the depth of wonder in so simple an aspect of everyday life as color. Sometimes, I fear, though God might curse me, I would exchange my soul for but a moment of this mystery called light."

He sank to his knee at her side, rested his hand on the arm of her chair. "I must confess, I've never considered such things."

"Most gentlefolk do not. Though many have tried to share their experiences with me, their efforts were in vain."

"If you'll forgive me for saying, you bear your affliction with dignity and grace."

Claire burst into laughter at the man's assessment of her demeanor. "Nay, I'm no more an example of dignity--" She brushed the tears of amusement from her eyes, "--Than you're Lord Tenson's steward."

*****

"Lord Tenson's steward?" A frown creased Nicholas' brow.

"A misconception on my part; `tis no matter," she responded softly, a hint of resignation in her tone.

"My name is Nicholas de Brabant." The words escaped his lips before he realized how easily he revealed himself to this mortal.

"I'm Claire, and you, sir, are trespassing."

*Alas, much more than that...*

The thought whispered through his mind as he gazed into her face awash in the fire's glow. The rhythm of her mortal heart drew his passion; it flamed his eyes to amber. "Mistress Claire," he softly breathed and leaned near...

The woman froze.

The warmth of her blood rose and filled his senses. He felt the stirrings of desire near the base of his fangs and a shudder passed through him as restraint slipped away.

"*Leave my home.*" Compliance gave way to anger as she challenged him with sightless eyes that held her wrath.

"Forgive me...*Je ne peux pas.*" Heavy with lust, his voice trembled as he reached for her arm. "I cannot."

"Thou art a reckless young fool if thou believeth my husband won't come running at the sound of my scream--"

He brought her wrist to his mouth, pierced the tender flesh...

A gasp escaped her lips.

Salted-passion danced over his tongue, burned into his veins as he drew her life into the darkness of his soul...

*~*~*~*~*

Light.

It flooded Claire's mind with cool, white brilliance, and at first she was uncertain of what she was seeing.

Sight!

Did such a concept as sight have substance and meaning? For surely, this was light! It blazed though her, illuminated the shadows in the corners of her mind, filled her with a tangible warmth that defied description.

Visions slowly swam into focus, wisps of thought that coalesced into images. Her cottage. A walnut cabinet filled with china trimmed in cornflower blue...

Blue.

Vast and endless, a summer sky. Lying on a hillside, plush green in the summer sun. Falling into eternity, the sky above her beckoned...drew the passion from her soul.

A man, his hair spun with golden light like the sun, his eyes whispered, summoned the stirrings of her heart from the deep, cool blue of their depths...

How blue is blue?

His lips caressed her slender wrist with tender urgency, and her world dissolved into clear, pure light --

A sunset, liquid gold slipping beneath the far horizon, a sky splashed fuchsia in its wake. Colors bled, mingled one into another in a brilliant haze slowly fading into indigo...

Velvet blackness, pierced by a pinpoint of light, brighter than before.

Claire felt its eternal summons, and she struggled against it. She thought of her family, her children, and drew upon the strength of her spirit to fight...

The light grew intense, brighter than the sun as it chased the shadows from her heart, beckoned to her soul.

Solemnly, Claire submitted to its warm embrace.

*~*~*~*~*

Reclined upon the carpet before the fireplace, Nicholas cradled the woman in his arms and studied her face bronzed by the fire's glow. A wisp of apricot hair, freed from its braid, rested on her cheek; he brushed her brow with a tender stroke and felt the final vestiges of warmth as they slowly faded. The flickering light heightened her pallid cheeks with color and cast her face in a semblance of its former radiance and life.

He caressed her brow, lifted the wayward lock of hair from her cheek, and with nimble fingers, wove the strand into her braid, smoothing it into place. He gathered her close to his chest as silence settled around him in the stillness of the room, and held her until the dying embers of her essence grew cold...

"Well done, Nicholas."

He turned at the sound of a familiar voice, looked up into a pair of ice-blue eyes that studied him from the face of an aristocratic man who towered above him.

"I sensed the stirrings of your return from Saxony, and your excursion across Russia. I trust, your wanderlust has been satiated and that you've returned to the fold." LaCroix stood, luminescent in the fire's glow and stared down at him. "Later, we must talk at length of your adventures. It is rumored, that the House of Romanov's paragon of idiocy has decreed a tax on beards."

Nicholas returned his attention to Claire and said nothing.

LaCroix coolly appraised the woman cradled against the younger vampire's chest, and commented, "An enviable repast. Alas, mine was not so fair, an unfortunate young man I encountered on the roadway, a steward of these holdings, robust and hardy, but lacking the refinement of a more seasoned vintage."

"Something happened here, tonight, that I don't understand!" The words rushed from his lips as his eyes searched his mentor's face for answers. "Claire was blind, but when I took her...she saw, LaCroix! Through me, somehow, I know she saw."

"Truly?" The ancient vampire raised a sculpted brow. "You will find that each and every experience is unique, *mon protégé,* some more so than others. It is what makes the conquest so sublime."

"There are so many things I could have shown her," he lamented softly. "If, only, I'd brought her across."

"And cursed her with eternal blindness?"

"What?" His eyes grew wide in surprise and he protested, "But she would have healed."

"There was nothing to heal, Nicholas," The master calmly replied. "This broken dove of yours was born blind, and blind she
would have remained throughout all eternity. You offered her the only true gift of vision she will ever receive."

"Her life...for a moment of sight?"

"*Un échange équitable;* would you not agree?"

Nicholas pulled in his breath and turned away.

Silence settled between them and he lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, kissed cool by death...

*An equitable exchange?*

A rustling near the door drew his attention and Nicholas raised his eyes, turned, and fell into the wide-eyed gaze of a diminutive reproduction of Claire. Her cheeks were flushed by autumn's nip, the pale oval of her face surrounded by a cotton-candy haze of apricot.

Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut as darkness eclipsed his soul.

Another child promptly followed...

...And another.



The End