Lover Unbound
Chapter Fifty-three

The following evening John didn't have class, so he sat down for First Meal with the brothers and the females. The mood in the house was considerably lighter than it had been for weeks. But sure as shit, he didn't share in the levity.
"So anyway," Phury was saying, "I went to the Scribe Virgin and told her about the bullet."
"Jesus Christ. The Directrix." Vishous leaned forward, taking Jane's hand with him. "I'd assumed it was a lesser."
V hadn't let go of his doctor since they'd sat down together, as if he were afraid she'd disappear. Which was kind of understandable. John tried not to stare at her, but it was hard not to. She was wearing one of V's shirts and a pair of blue jeans and filling them out as normal. But what was in them was... well, a ghost, he supposed.
"Of course you did," Phury said as he turned to Bella and offered her the butter plate. "We all did. But that female had one hell of a motive. She wanted to stay in charge, and yeah, with a Primale on the scene, that just wasn't going to happen. Classic power-play scenario."
John glanced at the silent blond female who sat on Phury's other side. Boy, the Chosen was beautiful... beautiful in the ethereal way of angels, with an unearthly glow emanating from her. But she wasn't happy. She picked at her food and kept her eyes down.
Well, except for when she glanced at Phury. Which was usually when he spoke to or looked at Bella.
Wrath's voice was hard from the head of the table. "The Directrix has to die."
Phury cleared his throat as he took the butter plate back from Bella. "You can consider that... taken care of, my lord."
Holy shit. Had Phury
"Good." Wrath nodded as if understanding perfectly and approving. "Who's going to replace her?"
"The Scribe Virgin asked who I wanted in the role. But I don't know any"
"Amalya," the blond Chosen said.
All heads turned in her direction.
"I'm sorry?" Phury asked. "What did you say?"
As she spoke, the Chosen's voice was lovely in the manner of wind chimes, sweet and melodic. "If it would not offend, may I suggest the Chosen Amalya? She is warm and kind and of appropriate seniority."
Phury's yellow eyes went over the female, but his face was reserved, as if he wasn't sure what to say or do with her. "Then that's who I want. Thank you."
Her eyes lifted to his for a moment, a flush running pink in her cheeks. But then Phury looked away and so did she.
"All of us are taking the night off," Wrath said abruptly. "We need some regroup time."
Rhage snorted from across the table. "You're not going to make us play Monopoly again, are you?"
"Yup." A collective groan rose up from the Brotherhood, one that Wrath ignored. "Right after dinner."
"I have something I have do," V said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Fine, but you can't be the shoe or the dog then. They always go first."
"I can live with that."
Fritz came in with a massive baked Alaska. "Dessert, perhaps?" the doggen said with a smile.
As a universal, "Yes, please," filled the room, John folded his napkin and asked to be excused. When Beth nodded, he took off, heading for the tunnel under the grand staircase. The walk to the training center didn't take long, especially as his gait was evening out and he was becoming more comfortable with his body.
When he came out into Tohr's office, he braced himself as he looked around. The place really hadn't changed since the brother's disappearance. Except for the fact that the ugly-ass green chair was now in Wrath's study, everything was pretty much the same.
John went behind the desk and sat down. Strung across the thing were papers and files, some marked with Post-it notes on which Z had written things in his deliberate way.
John put his hands on the office chair's arms, running them back and forth.
He hated the way he felt right now.
He hated that he was pissed off that V got Jane back, whereas Tohr had lost Wellsie forever. Except it wasn't fair. And not just to Tohr. John would have liked a ghost of Wellsie in his life. He would have liked the only mother he'd ever known to be around.
Except Vishous was the one who'd gotten the boon.
And so had Rhage. With Marry.
What the fuck made them so special?
He put his head in his hands, feeling like the worst kind of person. To begrudge someone happiness and luck was a horrible thing to do, especially if you loved them. But it was so damn hard to miss Tohr so badly and mourn Wellsie and
"Hey."
John looked up. Z was standing in the office, though God only knew how he'd managed to make no noise coming through the closet.
"What's on your mind, John?"
Nothing.
"You want to try that again?"
John shook his head and glanced down. Idly he noticed that Lash's folder was on the top of a pile, and he thought of the guy. Man, the two of them were on a collision course. The only open issue was timing.
"You know," Z said, "I used to wonder why me and not Phury."
John looked up with a frown.
"Yeah, wondered why I was the one who got taken and ended up where I did. I wasn't the only one. Phury still kills himself over the fact that it was me, not him." Z crossed his arms over his chest. "Trouble is, getting caught up in why something happens to one person and not another never gets you anywhere."
I want Wellsie to come back.
"I figured that's why you left." The Brother rubbed a hand over his skull trim. "Here's the thing, though. I believe there's a hand that guides us. It just isn't always a gentle one. Or one that seems fair at the time. But I dunno, I try to trust in it now. When I freak, I just try to... shit, I guess trust in it. Because at the end of the day, what else can you do? Choice only gets you so far. Reasoning and planning, too. The rest... it's up to someone else. Where we end up, who we know, what happens to the people we love... we don't have a lot of control over any of it."
I miss Tohr.
"We all do."
Yeah, John wasn't the only one who suffered. He needed to remember that.
"So I have something for you." Z went over to a cabinet and opened it. "Phury gave it to me yesterday. We were going to save it for your birthday, but fuck it. You need it tonight."
Z came back to the desk with an old, battered leather book in his hands. He laid it on top of the piles of paper, his big palm over the front.
"Happy birthday, John."
He lifted his arm and John looked down.
All at once his heart stopped.
With a shaking hand, he reached out and traced the worn lettering that read: Darius, son of Marklon.
He gently opened the cover... In a beautiful, formal flourish were words and symbols beyond measure, the reflections of a life that had been led long ago. His father's writing in the Old Language.
John snapped his hand back and covered his mouth, terrified he was going to break down sobbing.
Except when he looked up in shame, he found that he was alone.
Z, with his characteristic grace, had allowed him to have his pride.
And now... having given him his father's diary... some joy as well.
Right after First Meal, Vishous materialized to the Scribe Virgin's courtyard. He was a little surprised that he got permission, considering the way things were, but he was glad he did.
After he took form, he frowned and looked around at the white marble mountain and the colonnade and the portal into the Chosen's area. Something was different. He wasn't sure what, but something
"Greetings, sire."
He turned around. A Chosen was standing by what he'd always assumed was the door to the Scribe Virgin's private quarters. Dressed in that white robing with her hair twisted onto the top of her head, he recognized her as the one who'd come to check on Cormia after the presentation ceremony.
"Amalya," he said.
She seemed surprised he remembered her name. "Your grace."
So this was the one Cormia had recommended as Directrix. Made sense. The female did seem kind.
"I'm here to see the Scribe Virgin." Although he figured she knew that.
"With all due deference, sire, she is not receiving this day."
"Not receiving me or anybody?"
"All comers. Is there a message you would like to proffer her?"
"I'll come back tomorrow."
The Chosen bowed low. "With all due deference, sire, I believe that she will as yet be indisposed."
"Why?"
"I do not inquire why." Her tone was ever so slightly disapproving. As if he shouldn't ask either.
Well, shit. What did he want to say exactly?
"Will you tell her... that Vishous came to say..."
As words failed him, the Chosen's eyes were wells of compassion. "If I may be so bold, perhaps I shall tell her that her son came to thank her for her generous gift and for her sacrifice for his happiness."
Son.
No, he couldn't go that far. Even with Jane back, the label seemed disingenuous. "Just Vishous. Tell her Vishous came to say thank-you."
The Chosen bowed again, her face saddened. "As you wish."
He watched the female turn away and disappear behind the small, ornate door.
Wait a minute. Had she said sacrifice? What sacrifice?
He looked around again, focusing on the fountain. Abruptly the sound of the water struck him as odd. When he'd come before
V slowly turned his head.
The white tree with the white blossoms was empty. All the songbirds were gone.
That was what was missing. The Scribe Virgin's birds were no more, the tree's branches empty of their color, the still air devoid of their cheerful calling.
In the relative silence, the loneliness of the place sank into him, the hollow sound of water falling amplifying the emptiness.
Oh, God. That was the sacrifice, wasn't it.
She had given up her love for his.
In her private quarters, the Scribe Virgin knew as soon as V left. She could feel his form go back over to the world outside.
The Chosen Amalya approached quietly. "If it would not offend, I would speak."
"You have no need to. I know what he said. Leave me now and return to the sanctuary."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Thank you."
The Scribe Virgin waited until the Chosen had retreated then she turned and looked across the white expanse of her suite. The rooms were largely for naught save pacing. As she did not sleep or eat, the bedroom and dining area were but square feet to travel over.
Everything was so silent now.
She floated from room to room, disquieted. She had failed her son in so many ways, and she couldn't blame him his refusal of the name. Yet the hurt was there.
Joining another.
With dread she looked to the far corner of her quarters, to the place she never went. Or least, had not been for two centuries.
She had failed another, hadn't she.
Heavy of heart, she went over to the corner and willed free the double-locked door. On a hiss the seal was broken, a fine mist wafting out from the shift in humidity. Had it truly been so long?
The Scribe Virgin stepped inside and regarded the shadowed form that hovered in suspended animation over the floor.
Her daughter. V's fraternal twin. Payne.
The Scribe Virgin had long subscribed to the notion that it was better and safer for her daughter to so rest. But now she was unsure. The choices she had tried to make for her son had ended badly. Perhaps it was the same for her young of a different sex.
The Scribe Virgin stared at her daughter's face. Payne was not like other females, hadn't been since birth. She had her father's warrior instinct and urge for battle and was no more content to dally with the Chosen than a lion could be caged satisfactorily with mice.
Perhaps it was time to free her daughter, as she had freed her son. It seemed only fair. Protection had indeed proven to be a dubious virtue.
Still, she hated to let go. Especially as there was no reason to expect that her daughter would have any greater love for her than her son did. So she would lose them both.
As she struggled under the weight of her thoughts, her instinct was to go out to the courtyard and be soothed by her birds. There was no succor awaiting her therein, however. No cheerful calls to ease her.
And so the Scribe Virgin stayed in her private quarters, floating through the still, silent air in an endless track through the empty rooms. As she passed the time, the infinite nature of her nonexistence was like a cloak of needles lying upon her, a thousand little pinpricks of pain and sadness.
There was no escape or relief in sight for her, no peace nor kindness nor comfort. She was as she had always been: alone in the midst of the world she'd created.