by Lorena
They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
--John Keats
--“The Eve of St. Agnes” (lines 46-54)
The snow had stopped falling, much to Quatre’s disappointment as he peered out the window of his chamber. With a soft grunt, he worked the ancient latch that refused to give way to his efforts, squeaking and groaning in protest as he threw his entire weight against it. The thick leather straps that encased his wrists didn’t give him much room for necessary movement, but the boy had learned to adjust to that impediment, manipulating his hands in certain ways to accommodate those painful limitations.
With a loud, grating sound, the latch finally gave way, and the thick window was flung open, allowing a burst of icy cold air to burst into the room, stinging the boy’s face and infusing it with a rosy glow as he closed his eyes to take it all in.
The landscape outside was completely desolate and still. White snow covered the ground, piled high in some places. Gray, moss-covered rocks jutted out of the white carpet, their tops powdered with ice as well. Quatre’s gaze roamed over the scene before him, taking in every detail. Bare and mostly dead oaks were strewn everywhere, their gnarled forms standing crookedly in the pristine snow, old and haggard sentinels keeping watch over the isolated boy.
The sky wasn’t as gray as before. Quatre noted that with mild interest as he leaned over the window, feeling his skin tingle against the cold, gritting his teeth at the rapidly growing discomfort. He was wearing only a thin, cotton shirt, after all, not exactly the best thing to have on under these circumstances. He didn’t care.
“Quatre! What do you think you’re doing?”
The boy gave a start and quickly turned around to find one of his sisters standing at the door, the all-too-familiar, massive key ring in hand. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him for a second or two before stepping aside to allow a servant to bring in a tray of food.
“Looking out the window,” the boy replied coolly.
“In just a shirt and breeches? With it being winter outside?”
“I don’t see why not.”
The young woman pursed her lips, her eyes still locked on to her brother, her gaze unwavering and, indeed, challenging. She fell silent as she waited for the servant to finish setting up the boy’s lunch. The servant, an aging woman who’d been with the family since their father brought his bride home, hobbled around painfully and almost seemed to take an eternity to get things together before she finally turned to Quatre and bowed.
“Your lunch, sir,” she said, her voice quavering a little, and Quatre noted with a pang the pleading tone in those three words. She was, after all, the one who’d raised him since his mother passed away on his birth. And he was well aware that this situation was simply killing her.
“Thank you, Agatha,” he said quietly, nodding and offering a grateful, comforting smile.
A pained look crossed the woman’s face as she bowed again, reluctantly turning away to hobble off before she got herself into more trouble with the family.
Quatre turned his attention to his sister, who stood, silent and cold, staring at him. “I see nothing wrong about looking out the window in thin clothes.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Quatre,” the young woman presently said, sighing heavily as she walked through the room toward the window, the large collection of keys on the key ring jangling loudly with every step she took. “And it’s not going to work.”
Pushing him aside, she reached out and quickly closed the windows, tugging at the latch back in its place with a sharp intake of breath. Then she turned to face her brother.
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“Twenty-three days.”
“And you’re still fighting.”
“What else is there for me to do, Iria? I can’t compromise myself—not for anybody’s sake.”
“Your aunt and uncle’s, maybe?”
“Not even theirs.”
“Your sisters’?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Your family—the entire bloodline.”
Quatre shook his head in defiant silence.
“Your parents—their memory.”
“No.”
Iria sighed again, suddenly looking old and weary. She’d put her guard down, and she was once more the sister Quatre’d known, the one who always championed him, the one who always did all in her power to make him happy.
But this—this was a completely different game now. Too much was at stake, and even Iria—with her incomparable loyalty and affection for her younger brother, was forced to err on the side of duty. And along with old Agatha, she was slowly and surely being killed in spirit by Quatre’s stubbornness.
“The physician’s coming this afternoon,” Iria said, taking a deep, ragged breath. “He’ll be calling on you the minute he gets here.”
“I’m ready.”
“Don’t do this, Quatre.”
The boy merely smiled wanly and shrugged. “I’m not backing down, Iria. You know that. It’s no use talking me out of this.”
“You’ve no idea how much you’re hurting everyone.”
“I do know. And it’s not me who’s hurting the family. It’s you—all of you. You won’t listen to me. You won’t accept facts as they are. You want something that you can’t have—ever.” Quatre leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You want a dream, and I’m not about to play into that.”
Iria simply listened, pale and worn, her eyes dulled and misty. Without another word, she walked off toward the door and quietly—almost wraith-like—slipped out, leaving a lingering scent of flowers in her wake.
Once he heard the locks tumble into place, Quatre’s figure slumped, and he sat on his bed, staring numbly on the stone floor.
Twenty-three days. He’d been locked away in a cold, empty room in the topmost part of an old turret situated at the back of the old, crumbling castle for twenty-three straight days. No outside contact save for the occasional servant and family member. No outside contact save for the physician who also acted as psychiatrist. A man who considered himself the best candidate for the task, given the “patient’s” unwavering resolve not to give in to his family’s wishes.
He was coming that afternoon. The thought was enough to send the boy’s stomach into knots, but he fought to calm himself down.
Quatre’s eyes fell on the steaming collection of food sitting on a nearby mantle. “Well—might as well ready myself for that.”
“And how’re you feeling, boy?”
“Fine.”
“No fever, no headaches, no stomachaches, no pains anywhere?”
Quatre smirked. Typical questions. None of them really helpful. If anything, they seemed to be more of a tedious, boring icebreaker for the physician, and the boy wondered if the man had ever considered the possibility that his efforts at winning his confidence had always been—and always will be—pathetic failures. Nonetheless, Quatre played along. It was the only way to get the ordeal over with.
“No. Nothing.”
“How’re the wrist bands?”
“Fine. I’m used to them by now.”
“No discomfort or pain?”
“No.”
The man stared at him, his eyes narrowing into virtual slits as he sized up his patient. Quatre’d just lied to him, really, but he’d also grown quite adept at masking his emotions, throwing everyone around him—especially those he deemed his enemies—for a loop. If truth be told, the extremely stiff leather bands had succeeded in numbing his wrists because of the forced limitations placed on his hands’ movements. If they were placed there in order to keep his wrists from going limp, they’d certainly done their job. The skin under the leather often itched as well, and Quatre couldn’t help but suspect the onset of rashes from the prolonged rubbing of the leather against flesh in addition to the trapped dirt and sweat that continued to collect there.
The physician continued to stare at him, his glance slicing through him, probing and prodding and desperately seeking something—a hint of a weakness—a wavering in the boy’s spirit—on which to pounce. It was a look Quatre had gotten used to seeing, and he simply watched the man calmly and quietly, refusing to allow even a mere half-second of his thoughts to show through the slightest change in his expression. He was a virtual statue, cold and unfeeling, as he sat before his nemesis, patiently waiting for the next thing to happen.
And as it always had been since the beginning—since the truth had been wrenched out of him about his romantic preferences—it was the physician who blinked first and looked away. A ghost of a smile lit up the boy’s face as he watched the man fumble through his weathered bag for the requisite medication.
“Your uncle has agreed to change your prescription,” the man presently said, pulling out a small, dark bottle from his bag. “Apparently what you’ve been taking hasn’t done you much good, and he’s very dissatisfied.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that nothing’s wrong with me? Wouldn’t that make it easier for you to understand why your medicine doesn’t work?”
“It’s a hit and miss situation, boy,” the physician replied curtly, obviously stung. He’d never addressed Quatre by his proper title since the trouble began. The boy seemed to have sunk low—much lower than even a filthy, disease-infected cur—to the man since his revelation. He was no longer “sir” or “my lord” or “master.” He was simply “boy.”
“Science isn’t as perfect as it’s often touted, I suppose.”
“Science is a process. What benefits you enjoy now from medicine is a result of years and years of painstaking trial-and-error. And what might be considered miraculous now would be obsolete next year, thanks to new discoveries.”
The physician took off the cork stopper and shook the bottle into his palm as he spoke. After replacing the stopper and picking up a glass of water from the table on which his equipment lay, he strode up to the boy and offered him his medication.
“Take them,” he ordered gruffly.
“You know I can’t,” Quatre replied. “Not with these bands on my wrists like this.”
It was true. With part of his hands covered by the bands, maneuvering the pills between his fingers proved to be awkward, and he’d lost a number of pills that way. Not that he’d mind.
His companion sighed and irritably walked up to him, ordering him to open his mouth while he plunked the two pills down on his tongue before handing over the glass of water. Quatre mutely went through the process, even finishing his water in two huge gulps.
“These should work,” the physician said as he turned around and walked back to his bag. “I expect to see results in a week.”
He didn’t see Quatre quickly turn his head and spit out the two pills, which he’d hidden under his tongue all that time, and then wipe his mouth with his sleeve. The boy could barely stifle his snickering.
People can be such fools.
The banquet room was filled with guests that evening, and Quatre, as a courtesy—and, indeed, as a way of showcasing the family’s unity and strong bond to everyone—was forced to participate in the general revelry.
There’d been two weddings that day, both of which were unions of noblemen—close friends of the family—and tonight was the time to bask in celebrations. And with this being St. Agnes’ Eve, all the young ladies, including Quatre’s sisters, were simply gushing with excitement as they chattered giddily about the yearly ritual they performed. They laughed at their silliness over the fact that it was simply superstition, but the appeal was much too tantalizing.
The young aristocrat sat impassively in his seat, talking with whomever deigned it worth his or her time to speak with him. Not everyone knew of his troubles, but word tended to spread rather quickly, and he knew that it wouldn’t be long before the entire castle would learn of his—unusual predilections.
“Wonderful, isn’t it, nephew?”
Quatre gave a small start, feeling himself tense up at the sound of the voice that virtually hissed in his ear. He didn’t even bother turning to acknowledge the speaker, who pulled up a chair beside him and sat down.
“I suppose so, aunt,” he replied dryly, his eyes fixed on the manic scene before him.
“See how happy these couples are,” his aunt continued, her voice hushed and melodious. “Happy because they’re accepted. Happy because they’re acknowledged by friends and family alike.”
“Bravo for them then.”
“And what do you have to look forward to, Quatre?”
The boy fell silent. He knew what was coming. With a stab of annoyance, he shifted a little in his chair, still not looking at his aunt.
“Silence. Ostracism. Rejection. Contempt. Even hate. And all these from your friends and family.”
“Is that supposed to be considered my loss, aunt? I don’t think so. I’ll still be happy with him. If you refuse to share in that, it’s you who’s losing out, not me.”
“You choose to make everyone unhappy.”
“I choose to love someone who loves me back without conditions.”
“I call that selfishness.”
“I call that being human.”
A moment of silence met his curt reply. A small group of young girls danced over to his table, and he smiled at them. Giggling and laughing hysterically, they waved at him, blowing kisses and blushing as he acknowledged them with a nod and a coquettish wink. He knew them. They were all childhood friends, with whom he’d grown up. Each one a nobleman’s daughter, each one an eligible partner for him, and everyone, it seemed, were rather keen on pairing him up with all of them. Word had gotten around as well that half of them had dreamt him on St. Agnes’ Eve the previous year, and no doubt they’d be expecting the same dream this year.
If they only knew.
“See what these young ladies have to offer you?” his aunt prodded. “Joy and contentment and a family you can call your own.”
“Let them offer all those to men much better suited for them, aunt. They’re better off that way.”
“You’re implacable, Quatre Raberba Winner. Just like your mother.”
Quatre smiled, this time glancing over in her direction, his eyes sparkling in the glow of a thousand lit candles around him. “Thank you. I can’t think of a better compliment.”
His aunt stared at him, the muscles of her face tensing up as she pressed her lips in a thin line. Suppressed rage simply reeked from her at the moment, and she simply nodded stiffly at him before standing up and quitting his side, leaving him alone at the table.
All around him, people danced, laughed, and sang. Wildly colorful figures in satin, velvet, and silk swirled around the banquet room, their voices mingling almost harshly with one another, effectively drowning out the music that continued to play in the background. The yellow glow of candlelight infused the room with some warmth, soothing Quatre’s spirits a little.
And it was with some regret that he sought out his sisters and their friends, gazing at them one by one, musing over their connection and their closeness. There was pain, yes, particularly when it came to those who’d now refused to acknowledge him, but he fought hard not to be too bitter about it. He hated the loss of their friendship and their affection, but he also needed his humanity to remain intact. It was his right, after all.
He remembered, with a mixture of amusement and sadness, when, just a year ago that day, he himself had dreamt of his future partner—a young man he’d known for some time now, a young man who wasn’t his equal in status, a young man who returned his affection with equal fervor regardless of the chasm that so obviously separated them. He was accepted unconditionally—money be damned—with his beloved declaring earnestly that what faults and frailties he had made up a charming whole, and that he couldn’t have just all the good in Quatre.
“I want the complexity, Quatre,” he’d said, smiling, that day they’d declared their loyalty to one another—that same day when Quatre was forced to acknowledge the truth of their relationship to a shocked and horrified family. “I can’t have just half of you.”
Quatre felt his eyes sting as he watched his sisters, quietly speaking to them, thanking those who continued to offer their support and forgiving those who now turned the other way. He wondered if he was going to be missed at all.
The boy stared at his hands. He’d never know. No, not after tonight.
With a sigh, he picked up his glass and raised it in his sisters’ direction in a silent toast to their health.
The party was still going on when he retired to his cell, accompanied by faithful Agatha, whose shrinking frame revealed a woman who understood too well her pending loss.
She unlocked the door to the drab, gray chamber and followed her young master inside. Quatre could hear her quietly sniffling.
“Let me change first,” he said gently, and she nodded, turning around to hobble out.
The boy swallowed and forced his mind in a different direction, soundly chastising himself to keep to his purpose. And in the soft, pensive glow of a single candle, he undressed, feeling his skin tingle as his clothes slowly slipped off his body, rendering him vulnerable to the chill. Pale skin shimmered a little in the dim light as he pulled out fresh clothes, sliding them on and shivering still in spite of the covering.
He presently called out to Agatha, who was standing guard outside and who entered even more reluctantly.
“Do you have it?” Quatre asked as he watched the small, withered figure approach him.
“Yes, sir,” she choked before finally bursting into tears.
Quatre could only stride up to her and enclose her in his arms, gently rocking her and soothing her with quiet words. He never realized how frail she really was—old, worn, and thin, with a nature that was just as gentle and giving as she was delicate.
“What’ll become of me?” she wailed. “Without you, I’ve got nothing left.”
“You’ve got much more than you think, Agatha.”
“You’re practically my son. You’re the only family I have now, and I can’t even save you if I tried.”
“You’ve got to let go,” the boy said over and over. “You’ve done all you can. There’s nothing more for you to do. And I really am being saved if you think about it.”
The old woman fell silent as she continued to weep against her young charge, and it took some doing for Quatre to convince her to give him what it was he asked for. Sniffling and coughing, Agatha finally groped around her pockets and pulled out a long, slender knife, handing it to the boy with a trembling hand.
“Thank you,” Quatre said, kissing her damp cheek. “This’ll be the best service that you can ever offer me, Agatha.”
With that, he took the knife from her hand.
Trowa stood in the darkness, shivering. He pulled his cloak tightly against himself, wondering where Quatre was. Sneezing, he stepped forward and peered into the gloom, thankful that it was a clear night, with the full moon hanging above him and blanketing the area with its silver light.
His boots crunched softly on the snow as he walked toward the archway of the abbey ruins, leaving his horse behind, safely tethered to an old, dead stump.
He walked past the opening, his eyes scanning the area anxiously for signs of his lover. The snow virtually glowed in the moon’s light. The ghostly landscape was silent—more so than a crypt, and Trowa forced himself to ignore the occasional unnerving disturbances. The distant hoot of an owl, the sudden scurrying of some small animal nearby—with the dreary landscape of snow, gnarled, decaying oaks, and ancient headstones of an old, forgotten graveyard beyond the abbey walls, these sounds amplified the haunting quality of the scene.
The young man sighed when he saw no signs of Quatre, and a sudden gust of wind forced him to pull his hood over his head as well as tightening his hold on his cloak.
It was surely at least midnight, making it officially the Feast of St. Agnes. And with this in mind, Trowa couldn’t help but smile at the notion that his own sister would be in her bed at the moment, having followed the ritual to the letter, dreaming of her future husband. He often chided her about it, calling her silly for heeding superstition, but he himself had dreamt of his future partner on the Eve of St. Agnes in spite of his not performing the ritual.
He was about to turn around and go back to where his horse stood when he heard the sound of hurrying footsteps in the dark, and his heart leapt. Without even thinking, he darted back out, his eyes eagerly piercing the gloom for signs of the newcomer.
“Trowa?”
“Yes,” he stammered, a smile slowly broadening in his face. “I’m here.”
A small figure finally broke out of the darkness, running toward him. “I’m sorry I’m late—but the knife Agatha gave me wasn’t sharp enough to cut through the wrist bands. And it took me longer than I expected to…”
The two figures met halfway and flung their arms around each other, holding on tightly. Quatre couldn’t finish his statement as his face was pressed against Trowa’s shoulder.
“I never thought you’d show up,” Trowa presently said, still holding the boy close. “I didn’t even think you got my letter.”
“I did. Agatha gave it to me two days ago.”
Trowa grinned, feeling relief wash over him. “You probably didn’t think I was going to come, did you?”
Quatre could only smile at that. He pulled away only to wrap his fingers in the back of Trowa’s head, and, pulling his lover toward him, he kissed Trowa deeply, the latter finding comfort in the other’s presence, feeling the warmth of Quatre’s mouth and tongue breathe new life in him. His nerves slowly calmed down, and he felt a flush slowly creep its way up his cheeks.
It had been almost two weeks, after all, since they last saw each other, and news of Quatre’s ordeal had horrified him. It took some doing, but he’d managed to calm himself down long enough to figure a way out of this mess. And after several days of extensive traveling, he’d finally found a place for them to call their own, a quiet sanctuary tucked away where no one would ever find them, one that was far, far removed from their current homes. He’d immediately written to Quatre, dispatching the letter in secret and hoping against hope that his lover would receive it.
They finally broke apart after what seemed to be eons, with Trowa protectively pulling up Quatre’s hood to cover his head. “Are you ready?” he asked, his gaze suddenly arrested by the boy’s wrists.
He quickly took them in his hands, frowning at the rashes that had formed from the leather bands that held them before. Quatre simply laughed.
“They’re only rashes, Trowa,” he said, gingerly rubbing his wrists. “I’ll live. The worst that can happen is for scars to form, and that’s pretty unlikely.”
Trowa forced a smile. “I hope not,” he said. “The last thing I want is to see reminders of what you went through.”
Quatre shook his head and took hold of his hand, tugging at it gently as he walked toward the abbey ruins.
“You worry too much,” he said, laughing, his voice ringing clearly and lightly in the solemn stillness around them.
Within minutes, the two were mounted on Trowa’s horse, and with a cry, Trowa spurred the stallion onward, the lovers disappearing in the night, never to be seen again.
Meanwhile, in a distant farmhouse, a young woman lay asleep, her face glowing as she lost herself in her dreams. In the castle further north, the revelers retired one by one, with all the young ladies having gone to bed way before the others, themselves lost in their own vague dreams, hoping for love to touch them on the Feast of St. Agnes.
Many of them were eventually blessed, but none of them as much as the young lovers who stole away from the abbey ruins that clear, winter night.
Notes:
While this fic was inspired by John Keats’s poem of the same title, it’s not a fusion fic. The only things similar between the two are the presence of an old woman/confidante and the lovers fleeing.
St. Agnes (d. 304) is the patron saint of virgins. The superstition surrounding her feast day (Jan. 21) is that on the eve of the Feast of St. Agnes, a girl could see her future husband in a dream if she performed certain rites—if she went to bed without eating, without looking behind her, and lying on her back with her hands under her head. Her future husband would appear in a dream, kiss her, and feast with her.