Choices

At this time, near the change of season,
The stars come earlier to fill
The sky and brighter burn, good reason
To watch them shine and spite the chill.
Just so tonight. The castle tower
Stands empty at the ev’ning hour,
However. Down the spiral stairs,
Within the library, there flares
A tended fire. The Graf is warming
His hands before the vivid flame.
For reasons which he will not name
Aloud, he sits alone, performing
Some ritual of heat and light
In preparation for this night.
He wrote Luzia, as intended,
Right after Galen’s brush with death,
A detail here and there amended
Of why he drew his final breath.
Congruent with his expectation,
A Heller note of confirmation
Arrived soon after. He would find
It was by Kunigunde signed.
He wonders if he should have gauged it
A warning. Then, he nearly wept
To see her name. Such fear had crept
Within his thoughts, and this assuaged it.
His love safe, none could judge him for
The fault of seeing nothing more.
“I have to see you. I’m proposing
We meet at seven, three nights hence.
The usual place,” she wrote in closing.
And that’s tonight. His mood is tense.
Perhaps it’s Galen’s circumstances.
Amata’s efforts to advance his
Adjustment were consid’rable;
He almost is presentable.
No, Galen’s not the problem, is he?
While he might easily be shunned,
The Graf must meet with Kunigund’
Alone, and this has kept him busy
Consuming extra pints of blood
And setting match to firewood.
He rubs his palm—the flesh there twinges.
He’s taken from his reverie
By knocking, and the creak of hinges.
Her voice says, softly, “Exc’llency?”
And there she stands, his angel, seeming
More beautiful than all his dreaming
Of her these days apart. Her eyes,
Though, wound. He wills himself to rise
And offer her his hand, reminding
Himself: there is no cold, no mark,
No vestige of that deed so dark.
He gasps as they make contact, finding
Just how misplaced his worry is.
Her hand is frostier than his.
Relieved that she does not refuse him
Her touch, he nonetheless detects
Some alterations which confuse him
In her appearance and effects.
She’s wearing clothing which, he posits,
Came from the back of Eva’s closets:
A wool suit, drab and flavorless.
He rather misses that green dress.
The jacket’s open…where’s her pendant?
The diamond’s gone. Now hanging there,
A cross that he’d know anywhere—
Maria’s. Borne by her descendant,
It triggers in him some malaise.
“Tell me what’s happened, love,” he says.
“I take it you received my letter,”
Says Kunigund’. “The bottom line
Is Oma has stepped down as head. Her
Responsibilities are mine.”
He’s shocked. “Luzia abdicated?
Whatever could have motivated…?”
“She found the letter that you sent
To me. This is her punishment.”
The girl’s deep frown and redness rimming
Her eyelids tell him she agrees,
Though God knows why. The vampire sees
This change a hopeful future limning
For both of them, an open way.
He asks, “What does your mother say?”
She reddens, turns. Did he embarrass
Her with his words? What more is wrong?
She says, “My mother is in Paris.
And no, I don’t know for how long.
Could be forever.” Here she shudders,
And hugs herself. The vampire utters
No words, but simply marks her pain
And gives the girl room to explain.
“My mother said that this existence,
This secret war, was just a trap.
I’m glad to know it didn’t snap
On her, and she can get the distance
She wants so much.” She stands in place.
He wishes he could see her face.
She says, “But that’s not why I came here.”
He bluntly, lest he misconstrue
Her meaning, asks, “What is your aim here?”
She whirls to face him. “How could you
Do that to him, against his wishes?
To Galen? Are you that malicious?”
Her rage, the fire. The room grows hot.
“Please sit,” he tells her. “I will not!”
She paces back and forth, eschewing
The comfort offered her. “You stole
His life,” she says. “For what? Control?”
He bristles. “’Twas the Gräfin’s doing,”
He says. “Despite what you imply,
It’s she deserves your ire. Not I.”
“But she required your permission,”
She answers, “and your letter said
You gave it, of your own volition.
You are the Graf. It’s on your head.”
This stings him, yet it serves to show him
How deeply she has come to know him;
Her words, in righteous anger spilt,
Reflect his own view of his guilt.
But cautious, prideful, he won’t show this.
She asks him, “Did you…see this done
Because you knew he planned to run
Away that night?” He did not know this.
If she did…oh, tormenting doubt.
He could have let the man bleed out.
“If he ran, I would not prevent him,”
The Graf says. “This, at least, is true.
But Galen didn’t run. What sent him
Back home to us when he was through
Escorting you?” And something alters
In Kinge’s eyes. Her anger falters;
Her tough expression starts to crack.
She tells him, “I made him go back,”
With shaking breath. “When Galen said you
Would murder him, his fear was real,
But I told him he should appeal
To you. You’d help him. And instead, you
Have damned him, and made me a fool.
Just tell me why you’d be so cruel.”
“Oh, Kunigund’.” He would caress her,
Tell everything, put all to rights
With her, his lover and confessor.
But then he catches, hard and bright,
Her cross’s gleam, and it repels him.
No matter how his heart compels him,
He may, if this is how things are,
A Heller only trust so far,
With so much truth. He tells her, “There’re
Things you don’t know. I made the call
That caused the least death. That is all
I’ve done for seven decades. Error
In this means, simply, our peace fails.
That is what being Graf entails.”
She’s quiet. Is this declaration
Of his enough to mollify?
“So, Galen was a calculation?”
She asks, lip trembling. “What was I?”
“You ask me that?” Of course, she has to.
He would not be so foolish as to
Expect her faith in them abides
Suspicion from so many sides.
“You are,” he says, “a valiant beauty.
That has not changed, and never will.
No calculus does that fulfill.
Your love distracted me from duty,
From cynic thoughts and lonesome moods.
You were…redemption,” he concludes.
As if she finds this all too wearing,
She sinks into a plush bergère,
Her focus distant. Firelight flaring
Brings burnished highlights to her hair.
She gazes at the fireplace, stilly,
And says, “It feels a little silly
To ask about eternity.
But had you thought of turning me?”
She picks at loose threads in the battered
Upholst’ry. It may be he had,
He might. “Would you have wanted that?”
He asks. She says, “Would that have mattered?”
He hisses softly as this dart
Strikes true, its poison in his heart.
Her look of triumph soon collapses,
Her eyes screwed tightly shut. A pang
Of guilt or grief the cause perhaps is—
Soon tears upon her lashes hang.
“I’m sorry. God, I’ve done this badly,”
She says, breathes deeply. “I would gladly
Go back to how we were before.
I think this week that I’ve learned more
About my fam’ly than I care to.
But neither are your hands so clean.
This role I took puts me between
You both. I don’t have anywhere to
Escape to. Like my mother said,
I’m trapped.” She sniffs and hangs her head.
The Graf says, softly, “You were weeping
Your first night here with me. To dry
Those eyes, I do remember sweeping
Us up the stairs to see the sky,
And ’neath that canopy I kissed you.”
He sighs. “For I could not resist you.
You said that night that we were free.”
“And you were right to laugh at me.”
Her speech, so sad and weary, causes
His very soul to ache. He feels
Such tenderness for her, he kneels.
“I wasn’t, Kunigund’.” He pauses,
And with his fingers, lifts her chin.
“We’re freer than we’ve ever been.”
She pulls her head back. “I’ve been reading,”
She says, “About his suicide.”
“Ath’nasius?” he says, conceding.
“The details would have been inside…”
“…Maria’s letters. Yes. Took ages
To read them through. In all those pages
She never once assigned you blame
For his demise. But all the same,
There’s something diff’rent, almost brittle
In what she wrote you once he died.
If she called you her friend, she lied;
Maria feared you, just a little.”
The Graf looks down. This last he long
Had thought, but hoped that he was wrong.
He says, “The manner of his dying
I, to this night, do much regret,
And, too, its part in multiplying
Maria’s grief. She was beset
By troubles that her father brought her.
I know it also scarred her daughter,
And I am sorry.” “Yes, she knew,”
Says Kunigund’, “and I do, too.
It’s just…” Then, looking apprehensive,
She trails off. “After all we’ve done,”
He asks, surprised, “belovèd one,
Do you fear me?” Her face turns pensive,
A shadow falling like a hood.
“No more,” she tells him, “than I should.”
“I see.” The Graf, in his dejection,
Sits back and rests upon his heels.
He contemplates the next direction
For him and her—there’s one. He steels
Himself against the blow that’s coming.
He hears their hearts in frantic drumming,
Together now, but ne’er again,
And says, “You do not love me, then.”
While it would shame him to admit it,
He cannot bear to look at her
While she responds. He hears her stir
Against the velvet. Then she’s quitted
Her armchair, slowly sinking down
To join him, kneeling on the ground.
He breathes her fragrance, feels her twining
Her fingers through his hair. Her touch
Is soft, but it insists. Divining
Her want, he reaches out to clutch
Her shoulders. Kunigunde kisses
Him so intensely that, if this is
The last time, he would soon delay
Its end. As tightly as he may,
He holds her, feeling such completeness.
Some moments pass. The kisses stop,
And from her eye a single drop
Lands on his lips. It bears the sweetness
He’d tasted in the blood she gave
Him, sweetness he has come to crave.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, feeling newly
Courageous, “Please, we’ve come so far.”
She says, “I love you, Georg, truly
I do. But I know what you are.”
She kisses him once more, her lashes
Against his cheek. They feel like ashes,
The kiss like…nothing. She withdraws
And gains her feet. Without a pause
She turns to leave him. He would never
Insist she stay. She knows her mind,
And that he loves, though left behind
Is some soft part of her forever.
All good on balance but, bereft,
He wonders if there’s one thing left.
“Frau Heller!” calls the vampire to her.
She turns and waits before the doors.
He rises, but does not pursue her.
He says, “My library is yours
To visit as the spirit moves you.
And should you think that it behooves you
To talk, some night, of poetry
Or music, then would I agree.”
A breathless moment while she muses.
She smiles, a little. “Possibly,
In time. My thanks, Your Exc’llency.”
He nods. It will be as she chooses.
He bows before her, whereupon
The doors sweep open, and she’s gone.
She makes it twenty paces. Gripping
A molded archway for support,
She feels her sweaty fingers slipping
Against the wood. Her breaths come short
And fast, and she can’t comprehend it.
Did she not come back here to end it?
To look the vampire in the eye
And tell him they were through? Then why,
With all she knows, why does this ardor
Persist, which she should disavow?
Why does she miss him, even now?
And why did she think he’d fight harder
To keep her? This was her success,
And leaves her heartsick nonetheless.
This stupid jacket’s fabric itches.
Oh, how on Earth will she survive
The path she’s chosen, if the hitch is
That she must frequently contrive
To meet with him, but not as lovers
(And well before her heart recovers)
To talk of treaties, wars, and hunts?
She wishes that she had, just once,
Her Oma’s practiced knack for closing
Emotions down at times like these,
If not her painful memories.
She smooths her skirt and sighs, supposing
She’s caught the worst this night can throw.
“Nice outfit, kid. Does Mother know?”
She finds the stomach not to shatter
As he, in his familiar style,
Approaches her and starts to natter.
“Well, Kunigund’. It’s been a while,”
Says Galen. “I was not expecting
To see you—not that I’m objecting.
Thought you’d be in the library
With… Come on, you can look at me.”
He speaks so casually, she forces
Herself to turn and take him in.
He still wears that annoying grin.
The line of teeth it shows, of course, is
Much changed, and it’s an awful sight,
His brand-new fangs so sharp and white.
His flesh, however, that’s turned duller,
His handsome face turned gaunt, all planes
And shadows washed of human color,
Picked out in spots with darker veins.
She realizes she’s been dreading
This meeting with him. Galen, spreading
His arms out, asks, “Well, what d’you think?”
The question brings her to the brink
Of tears again. She almost buckles.
Somehow she manages to say,
“Oh, God. Oh, Galen, why did they
Do this to you?” But Galen chuckles
As he replies, his glance askew,
“They did it ’cause I asked them to.”
It’s possible that he keeps talking.
She can’t be sure; a droning whine
Sounds in her ears. She stands there, gawking,
A tightness pulling at her spine,
And strains for sense. There isn’t any.
He told her things, perhaps too many
Those nights ago, when last he warned
Her from this place, and bleakly mourned
The life he lived among these creatures.
She blinks and tries to wrap her head
Around this. “That’s not right. You said…”
He looks at her with blankened features,
Then smiles what might be sympathy.
“Of course. You’re jealous they chose me.”
“I’m what?” she sputters. “That’s deluded!
I never wanted…” “Is that so?”
Perhaps. The thought, now quite precluded,
Had never had the chance to grow.
He says to her, “My claim was stronger
Than yours because I’ve been here longer.
My lady’s love is not a game
She plays. Now, can you say the same
For him? And if another gap in
The roster comes along? You’re young.
Can you be sure you’ll still be hung
On him by then? Strange things do happen.
I like you human, anyway.
It suits me if that’s how you stay.”
This thing, so close she almost smells him,
Is not her friend. It makes her sick.
“Just stay away from me,” she tells him.
His teeth close with an icy click.
“What’s wrong?” he asks her, softly. “Might you
Be scared that I would try to bite you,
As if I can’t control my thirst?
I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first.”
Then, suddenly, like thunder cracking,
A door slams in the hall, from where
The Gräfin scowls upon the pair
Of them. Her look sends Galen backing
Away from Kunigund’, who draws
A thin breath through her tight-clenched jaws.
The Gräfin, like a prison warder,
Her footsteps pounding on the floor,
To Galen barks, “You heard the order.
The Hellers, none of them, are your
Concern. Don’t talk to her. I hear she
Is Heller chief now, and I fear she
Has not your interests at heart,
If once she did.” His pale lips part,
Then close. He looks disoriented.
The Gräfin’s fingers brush his cheek
As she leans in to him, to speak
Words in his ear. By these contented,
It seems, he bends to kiss her hands
And leaves without a backward glance.
She almost follows him. She nearly
Calls out to her lost friend, but shame
Has paralyzed her so severely
She cannot even say his name.
This is her fault. When he confided
His plan to leave, well, she decided
That she knew better, and dismissed
His fears, a foolish optimist.
Might she, her fam’ly, have availed him?
No wonder that he’s acting strange,
And lied to her about the change.
He’d needed help and she had failed him.
She feels, that chance now long gone by,
At last too hollowed-out to cry.
“He can’t remember,” from behind her
The Gräfin says, her pale arms crossed.
Her words sound sadder. Almost kinder.
“Some portions of his mind were lost
When he endured his transformation.
But take it as a consolation
That any pain was worth the trade.
The little sacrifices made
Don’t matter.” She continues, smugly,
“It’s done now and, if I were you,
I’d move on and forget him too.”
In Kinge something raw and ugly
Wells up and turns her vision black.
She doesn’t try to hold it back.
Her heel against the flooring screeches
As she spins round to bring her foe
Within her line of sight. She reaches
Inside her jacket for…but no.
The holster’s empty, and the weapon
Was locked away ere she could step in
The castle. Standard protocol.
The Gräfin’s laughter fills the hall.
“Be careful. I, like you, live under
His lordship’s aegis. He would take
It poorly if you were to make
A move against me, Kunigunde.”
She bares her teeth. “Or have you, dear,
Forgotten I am Gräfin here?”
These two, despite the hatred in their
Expressions, halt when Kinge sees
That Timoch (how long has he been there?)
Is watching them. He stands at ease
But eyes them dangerously, mutely,
And Kinge steps back. Resolutely
She squares her shoulders, breathes, collects
Herself. Then, cooly, she directs
These words toward the Gräfin: “All that
You say is true. Perhaps. I don’t
Have means to fight you, and I won’t,
Not now. But if he should recall that
Protection, watch your back. Because
I will destroy you when he does.”
The Gräfin puffs with indignation,
But Kinge sees a muscle twitch.
Or is it her imagination?
The vampire, scared? A welcome switch.
Her eyelids closed to narrow slivers,
The Gräfin perfectly delivers
An undead monster’s evil eye.
“Oh, little girl,” she says, “you’ll try.”
Then, smiling once again, she glances
At Timoch, who returns her no
Attention, like he doesn’t owe
Her any. Swiftly she advances
Past both of them and off she goes,
A whiff of myrrh in Kinge’s nose.
It’s Timoch—brisk, unsentimental—
Who breaks the quiet. “Time to leave,”
He says. And yet his touch is gentle,
His fingers pressing on her sleeve
As he escorts her. She, still shaken,
Is worried that she will be taken
To task for what she might have done
Had he not locked away her gun,
But he says nothing to accuse her.
The two move swiftly through the lair
And silently, as if aware
That any further talk would bruise her,
He takes her where her things are stored,
Cold comfort all he may afford.
Towards the car she heads out, shrugging
Against the cool air. Suddenly
She feels, about her heart, a tugging
That slows her steps. Reluctantly
She turns, and her emotions ravel.
Her eyes along the turrets travel
And up to where, absurdly high,
The tower punctuates the sky.
She cannot pinpoint how she knows this
To look upon that pile of stones,
But she can feel it in her bones:
The Graf is there. It’s like he chose this
Prime spot to watch the ground below
And, from a distance, see her go.
The tugging at her heart grows fiercer.
She could go back, climb up the stair…
She doesn’t, though such longings pierce her.
She knows that isn’t why he’s there.
He doesn’t mount that lofty spire
Because he has some deep desire
To watch what happens on the ground.
He’s on that tower to surround
Himself with stars and stand among them.
He told her once, one summer night,
How he drew solace from their light,
As if the Lord Himself had hung them
To give immortal creatures peace
When other forms of comfort cease.
She’s stung by this, betrayed, offended
That his attention elsewhere lies
With their affair but newly ended.
It isn’t fair. But then, she tries
To see the sky from his perspective.
Its stars and planets, in collective,
Majestic patterns wildly strung,
Look as they have since he was young
And as they will for ages longer.
There’s power in their constancy,
And Kunigunde finds that she
From their light feels her own grow stronger,
That veil of brilliant points a scrim
Behind all she has learned from him.
To know the calm of deathless skies is
The vampire’s final, finest gift,
Beyond the other things he prizes:
His library, his name. She lifts
Her eyes and sees the faintest shimmer
Atop the tow’r. Could that be him, or
A trick of light? Perhaps she’s wrong,
And he’s been watching all along.
Imperfect solace, then. His vigil,
It changes nothing, now. It can’t.
But never will the Graf recant
A promise made that bore his sigil.
Recalling what he once had vowed,
“Until they’re dust,” she says aloud.
She stops to readjust her pistol
Within its holster, takes her key
And starts the car. As clear as crystal,
But dark, this night. Her path will be
The same. But she can make it brighter,
Somehow. She’ll be a fairer fighter
Than Hellers gone before, and still
Beware the vampires’ natures. She’ll
Remember Galen. So much sorrow
And hope for her to reconcile.
It hurts, and will do for a while.
For now—her classes start tomorrow.
She’ll need her rest when that arrives.
She puts the car in gear, and drives.

THE END