**Interlude 26 - With rapid whirl, eternal and divine, whose bodies with matchless cunning shine

Émile became swiftly more insensible to the gentle motions of Fabien’s body beneath them as they slipped beneath the black waters of sleep. Their body grew loose, pooling like warmed wax over him, and then, without so much as a murmur, they were asleep. The warm breath that fluttered between their parted lips was even. Their heart was a steady wingbeat against his chest.

Whatever dreams chased each other, nipping at their heels through their head, they did not cry out, did not so much as stir as they slept warm and slack against him.

That quickly changed when they were jolted awake several hours later by a metallic clang. Awareness returned to them in waves - no doubt Fabien would be able to feel the precise moment of their awakening as their sleep-soft body shivered to consciousness. Eyes, made all the greener by the bruises darkening them, fluttered open as their limbs stirred, making sense of the skin and clothing they grazed.

They met his gaze at the same moment they realized, to their enduring horror, their arm was still slung familiarly around his neck. Their eyes narrowed with a contempt that was nearly scalding and, with feline speed, they recoiled away from him.

The separation of their bodies was almost shocking, and he was sure to mourn the loss of heat as he was suddenly left very cold and very exposed. The scent of them lingered on his skin, something of the ooze of tree sap and the crush of green grass, as they petulantly slid into an unoccupied corner of his cell. They did not look at him as they primly adjusted their clothing to conceal at least the more daring bits of creamy, bruise-flecked flesh that had been pressed against him moments before.

The reason for the disturbance grew clear as the rangy boy - Henri? - cleared his throat from the other side of the door. One hand rested on the square head of the dog that had been left to guard them, the other having just deposited a heavy pot to the ground. He was gawking at the pair with blatant interest.

“Food,” he said, eyeing them with the same naked fascination one would a dead frog that had just fallen from the sky. This declaration was met with a venomous glare from Émile, which the round-faced boy returned with guileless enthusiasm. A smattering of freckles speckled the bridge of his sun-kissed nose.

“I caught fish for the pottage, and Vic says she’s done talking to you so I get to bring it,” he announced with a glimmer of pride. His eyes moved from Émile to Fabien and lingered. “But I can’t open the door, so you’ll have to take it through the bars. Est-ce que je t'ai réveillé? Do you always sleep in the day?”

Unseen somewhere over Fabien’s shoulder, Colombe let out a soft snort at the chirped questions. The boy’s eyes stayed fixed on Fabien as he idly played with the big dog’s ears.

Even the most hardened and diligent sentry would have found it impossible to resist sleep. The warm, comforting weight of Émile’s body easily soothed the boy’s uneasy spirits. His limbs, now deliciously lax from spent pleasure, grew swiftly heavy. There was a pleasing familiarity in their breath stirring softly against his skin. In his dreams, it dragged him back through darkened halls to the welcoming embrace of his bed.

Fabien was not so easily roused, and he returned to their painful reality with sluggish dismay. The urchin responded to his pet’s startled movement with a low groan. The hand that had not strayed far from their waist tightened in response, to bind them to him for a least a minute or two more. His eyes opened to a crack and met the questing green of his pet’s gaze. The boy’s lips twitched, threatening to spill into a satisfied, delighted leer. Or worse, some crooning remark he might dare to press against their cheek.

Émile was spared such a display, if only because they were too fast for him. When they pulled aside, his hand relaxed to allow them to flee with cat-like swiftness. The sudden coldness that greeted the entire length of his body caused him to catch his breath. He stretched and groaned, his attention still upon his pet as he watched their fussing. The boy’s smile deepened, though was replaced by a grimace as he reset stiffened joints with further sighs and moans.

Fabien remained happily oblivious until the sound of Henri clearing his throat tore his attention away from Émile. Then it was his turn to startle, and he quickly set to right his disheveled clothing and pointlessly ran his fingers through his unkempt hair.

“Oh, ah, merci.” He said hoarsely. His grey eyes moved between the boy and the dog.

When he had reached some level of decency, he rose to his feet and nodded agreeably.

“It smells very good.”  The youth remarked amiably.

The boy’s expression caused Fabien to glance over his shoulder and issue Émile with a warning look.

“We are near a river then?” He continued softly.

The urchin eyed the pot with keen eyes, his hunger a vice in his chest which increased in ferocity. He approached the door that separated them, shirt barely buttoned and his scarred throat glinting in the shallow light.

“Well, ah…oui.” He replied, his fingertips scoring the back of his neck. He scuffed the floor with his heel and shrugged. “Most days.”

The youth’s pallor was a sure testament to how little sunlight his skin received. His once ruddy glow had been long replaced by wanness that was a stark contrast to the boy’s sun-tanned skin. He regarded him for a while before he spoke again.

“Je suis désolé, ça doit paraître étrange.” His grey eyes moved towards Colombe’s stall. “We keep a different time.”

Fabien straightened and indicated over his shoulder with a thumb.

“You want me to get the bowls? My name is Fabien, and you are…?”

The newcomer’s artless gaze watched with unabashed interest as Fabien hastily righted his clothes. The wolfish dog at his feet stood, shaking itself with a clatter of metal as the fierce spikes around its throat scraped the bars, and the boy quieted it with a gentle murmur. His eyes tracked Fabien with morbid curiosity.

“Henri,” he offered easily when prompted. “Salut Fabien. What’s her name?” He pointed to the pale ghost of Colombe who met his eyes without wavering. She had moved away from the back of her cell at his approach and now leaned wearily against the bars, her pallid clothes darkened and dirtied about her legs.

The captive’s praise brightened Henri's face. “Vic says it’s important you are properly fed,” he replied. “In fighting monsters, we are not to become like them.”

Perhaps something in this statement rang a tad more darkly than he intended, for he quickly gestured to the discarded food bowls in their cells.

“Grab those bowls there and I’ll take ‘em back to wash. Here, hold this,” He offered a fresh bowl through the bars, turning it sideways so it would fit. “And I’ll ladle.” He gestured with the spoon and, if obliged, dolloped a hot heap of thick stew into the bowl. The enticing steam coiling from the greenish stew smelled heavenly.

Henri nodded solemnly at Fabien’s explanation as to their schedule. “Je comprends,” he said. He looked to Émile, who was preoccupied picking the dirt from beneath their nails with a dried stalk of hay, with no small amount of pity. They caught his stare and sneered with their teeth showing before returning to their picking with practiced haughtiness.

“Vic says victims of la bête get addled in their heads, forget how to act like normal folk.” He shook his head and slid a second bowl through the bars for Fabien to hold for him to fill. “It helps keep them safe to muddle the brain. Nothing good food and rest won’t cure once it’s been killed and the shadow of its influence is gone, I bet.”

He offered his prisoner an encouraging smile as he carefully ladled the pottage into the second bowl. “For, er, that one,” he said, indicating Émile, who resolutely ignored him.

Fabien’s question was met with a pause. “Oui, near a river,” he said carefully. “But I can fish anywhere, really.”

He hesitated before moving on to Colombe, his eyes the dark brown of river silt as they met Fabien’s. “Why, is there anything else you need? I can’t open the doors but I might be able to fetch you something. If it’s small. And if you don’t tell Vic,” he added quickly. “You won’t be here much longer, I think, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

As an afterthought he amended, “More uncomfortable than you have to be.”

Fabien regarded their captor’s hound thoughtfully. His eyes moved from spiked collar, to the boy's young face. He lifted his chin at Henri’s enquiry, and his grey eyes moved towards his friend in the other stall

“You want me to say it?” He asked her softly.

If she granted him permission, he offered her name with fierce affection. “This is Colombe.”

The urchin’s head turned aside quickly after, as though looking at her was like staring open eyed into the sun.

“Oui, your Vic has... quite a few interesting ideas it seems.” He replied, this suggestion made flattering despite its questionable nature.

The golden haired youth nodded, and obeyed his young captor with an appreciative smile. When granted his portion, he wasted no time in tipping the edge of the bowl to his hungry mouth. He swallowed a few mouthfuls, and shivered with relief.

“Ah, mais c’est très bon. Merci, you are quite the cook.” He complimented with warm sincerity.

Fabien focused on Henri's eyes as he poured a fresh bowl. He flinched lightly, and ran his tongue over his lower lip. He was quiet for a breath or two, and then he swallowed and turned aside to step toward his pet.

“Is that so?” He replied over his sharp shoulder.

“Then you are doing a very fine job with the muddling. Have you seen Victorie's monster? With your own eyes?”

There was a satisfied glint in his eyes as he knelt towards Émile, bowl in hand. If they dared meet his gaze, the corners of his mouth were certain to split into a grossly victorious smirk.

“Try to show a little gratitude, hm?” The boy encouraged as he offered them a bowl.

“You'll have to forgive Émile. They are used to more … I don't know, luxurious surroundings.” He said with tender concern.

“This has been an education.”

The boy had the audacity to brush an inky strand of hair from their cheek as he rose to his feet.

He turned back, still pouring the odd mouthful of pottage into his mouth. He cocked his head at the boy's question, and then after a swallow nodded.

“Oui, something potent to drink would be good, if you can spare any?” He asked as he bent to gather their bowls.

“Or better yet, something to smoke? If you can avoid trouble, that is. Our nerves could use the soothing.”

“And voilà” he said as he presented their bowls for Henri to do away wuth. “I am sorry if I have annoyed your friends. Have you … been left in charge, alone?”

Colombe’s silhouette was moth-grey in the dim light of her shadowed cell, her face little more than a hazy suggestion of dark eyes and pensive mouth. Even so, Fabien could see clearly how she shrugged, inclining her head as though to say, “Why not?”

“Bonjour, Colombe,”  Henri replied with all the force of his best manners. She accepted the bowl graciously, their captor’s demeanor stiffening as her fingers brushed against his. He returned her nod of thanks with a clumsy half-bow before leaving her to eat, turning back to Fabien.

The prisoner’s praise brightened Henri’s face. “Merci,” he mumbled, nudging the dog’s face aside as it stuck an eager snout into the heavy pot. “Vic says we only need the basics to have the strength to keep fighting, but I think food that tastes good replenishes better than food that doesn’t.”

Émile did not meet Fabien’s eyes as he approached. Rest had softened some of the worst of the bruises marring their face, angry red fading to aching violet and the raw swelling reduced across the bridge of their nose. It revealed some of the delicate architecture of their features, though it would be some time before the slightest grazing of fingertips didn’t provoke a wince.

They raised their lip in a snarl that exposed the points of their teeth at his suggestion and turned haughtily aside, forcing him to abandon the bowl at their side if he didn’t want to continue holding it.

Émile’s skin was warm. They stilled beneath his touch, their chest motionless as even their breath fell silent until he turned away.

“Non, I haven’t seen it,” Henri said solemnly. His gaze had fallen to the floor. “But I saw the one she killed, back home. She - it - was scary. I saw enough to know that.”

When his eyes returned to meet Fabien’s, they were troubled. “It almost killed Guillaume,” he confided. “An ugly thing. And Vic says - well, this one did kill Amélie, didn’t it?”

There was genuine grief, clear and cold as spring water, in his voice. “Nothing can bring her back. But when la bête is in the ground, it can’t take anyone else. That’s something.”

He happily changed the topic when Fabien made his inquiry, nodding along as he spoke.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he pledged. “We didn’t bring much, but there’s some wine and more brandy for drinking, and maybe I can find smokes. I will try.”

He laughed. “Not friends, and not in charge, I just help with the cooking and cleaning and sometimes the fetching, mostly. Victoire and Guillaume have to go out to make their preparations, and I support them how I can. Hunting, whether loup ou bête, takes time and resources.”

Fabien’s storm cloud eyes flitted from the collared dog to the boy. His features remained soft, the set of his mouth gentle and his brow smooth. If Henri's words had set his heart racing, there was nothing in his expression to suggest it. He nodded, and presented his captor with a smile that showed his teeth.

“But you are quite right, of course. It is always important to be well nourished.” He agreed softly.

The pale haired urchin listened with excruciating care to the boy's answers. As he spoke, he examined him with feline curiosity.

“Oh, then you are now far from home?” He asked with casual, friendly interest. “You must be eager to return. It does not seem especially homely here…”

“...From what I've seen, of course.” He added with a note of amusement, before he brought the bowl of pottage to his lips.

“Scary …in what way?” He asked, before swallowing with a murmur of appreciation.

“It looked monstrous?” The boy continued, in the same even tone. “They are lucky to have survived.”

Their captor's shift in mood, the ease with which he presented a name, caused the youth to grow still. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and his eyes grew dark with sympathy.

“I am sorry. It is a terrible thing… to lose someone. And it seems she was someone important to you all?” He asked gently.

“Merci, that is very kind.” The youth replied with a smile.

“Your dedication is admirable, I am sure they appreciate it. Not friends so, they are your family, oui?” He pressed.

The boy’s eagerness had risen sharp in his throat, but he managed to suppress his frustration. His eyes moved briefly to Émile.

“But you know your beast is no wolf, Henri?” He asked, the gentleness fading from his eyes. “It would be very unwise to make such comparisons.”