Convenience of Marriage

Snow fell in long, random whimsical patterns as the black car pulled into the secluded estate. The villa looked straight out of a horror movie and the tall bulky trees surrounding the property definitely did not ease the look. 

The rear door opened with a soft click, and Soren stepped out.

Charcoal wool coat, black gloves, the faint gleam of a gold pin tucked beneath his collar. His eyes seemed tired. His eyes were bloodshot and dry, with noticeable puffiness under the lids.

He reached for a cigarette. A new young subordinate waiting by the entrance snapped a lighter to life without being asked, offering the flame with both hands like an offering.

Soren leaned in, lit the cigarette, and exhaled slowly. Then he gave the man a small, almost affectionate smile and lightly patted his cheek twice with his gloved fingers.

"Good boy. Don't freeze to death waiting for me," he murmured, before turning toward the villa.

The massive doors opened as he approached. A line of staff awaited him inside security, medics, aides, their faces all tense with unmasked worry. At the center stood the butler, face pale, hands folded.

Soren didn't waste time. "How is it?"

The butler gave a small bow, eyes downcast. "Worse, Your Highness. The tremors have returned. And the outbursts."

Soren exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Useless."

He tossed the cigarette into the snow outside, then walked into the house.

The east wing was warmer, too quiet, like something was listening. The guards stationed outside the door straightened as Soren approached but didn't move.

He opened the door himself.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. A fire burned low. A man stood near the window in a navy cardigan and pajama pants, arms folded, staring out at the snow.

He turned when he heard Soren enter.

"Hey," he said, smiling faintly. "You came."

Soren gave a short nod and shut the door behind him.

Ben looked thinner. His cheeks sunken a little more. His posture off.

Still, his voice was soft. Warm. "Wasn't sure you'd show. You had that thing in the city, didn't you?"

"It was done hours ago," Soren said.

Ben's smile grew a little. "You always make time."

He walked slowly over to the table, gesturing at the teacups already laid out. "Want some? It's chamomile. I think. Or maybe one of the weird ones the nurse likes."

Soren didn't move to sit.

Ben looked over his shoulder. "You don't have to hover. I'm not going to break anything today."

Soren studied him carefully. His face was thinner than before. Shadows under his eyes. Fingers twitching in tiny, involuntary spasms.

"I brought you the books you liked," Soren said, placing a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table. "Poe. And the opera scores."

Ben's eyes warmed. "You remembered."

"You never shut up about Don Giovanni."

Ben laughed, and for a moment, he seemed normal. Just another man living life exploring his interests. Grateful. Human.

Soren sat in the armchair across from him. "How are the symptoms? Getting worse?"

"Right." Ben nodded slowly. "They come and go. Dreams are worse. I get the falling ones now. Used to be the water ones."

Soren's eyes flicked to the marks on Ben's neck. Older injection sites. Fading, but still visible.

"They're trying a new cocktail," Ben muttered. "Doesn't help."

"Anything feel different?"

Ben hesitated. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I think… I think something's burning out."

Soren finally stepped closer. "Burning out?"

Ben nodded. "Like a light going. In the chest. Or maybe the spine. I don't know." His hand twitched again. "I just want it to stop."

A pause.

"You said she could help," Ben murmured. "The one from the compound. You're still looking?"

"I haven't stopped."

Ben swallowed, jaw tightening. "If you find her… don't tell her I'm worse."

Soren looked at him for a long moment. "Ben—"

"Don't," Ben cut in. "If she knows, she might not come."

Another silence.

Then.

"Can I show you something?" Ben asked.

Soren didn't answer. But he didn't say no.

Ben moved to the far corner of the room where a sketchpad sat on the windowsill. He picked it up with slow, deliberate hands and brought it over.

"I drew this last night," he said, holding it out. "I think it was a memory. Or maybe a dream."

Soren took the sketchpad.

It was rough pencil work, but detailed. A narrow hallway. Bright lights. Something or rather, someone crouched in the corner, limbs too long, eyes scratched out.

He didn't say anything.

Ben's voice was quiet behind him. "You remember it too, don't you?"

Soren set the pad down.

"I remember a lot of things," he said.

Then Ben laughed, soft at first. Then sharp. Wrong.

Soren looked up.

Ben's face had gone still. Blank. Then twitching.

"You shouldn't be here."

Soren didn't move.

"You shouldn't be here," Ben said louder. "They'll see you. They always see you."

And then he lunged.

The table crashed to the side. Soren caught him mid-swing, but Ben moved fast, faster than he should have in a normal state. Fists slamming. Nails clawing. He was screaming something, but the words broke apart into guttural noise.

"DOCTORS—NOW!" Soren barked as they hit the ground.

Boots thundered in the hallway. Two medics burst in, syringes ready. One stabbed into Ben's thigh, the other into his arm.

It barely slowed him.

He thrashed wildly, eyes white, snarling like something feral.

A third needle and a fourth and then a fifth. Ben froze for a heartbeat. Then sagged.

Soren shoved him back into the armchair as the medics restrained him with wide, padded straps.

Ben's breathing slowed. The fire crackled.

But his eyes. His eyes were still open.

He looked up at Soren.

"Don't stop looking for her," he whispered, voice barely a rasp. "Don't stop. Or I'll die for real next time."

Soren didn't answer.

He just stood there, watching as Ben's head dropped sideways, the drugs pulling him under.

The snow outside kept falling heavily.