Remi sat in the back of the wagon and gleefully poked at his many assorted bandages, “Hey, hey Harry? I think this one’s coming along nicely. It does hardly aught but squish...” and for effect he poked a slow finger at a bandage on his forearm until he winced.
Harry, for the hundredth time- nay, perhaps, thousandth- reminded himself that at least, he still had his dignity. Then jolted by a particularly large rut in the road, he renewed his grip on the edge of the wagon until the damn wood fractured. His dignity- right, correct, dignity is exactly what he’d call it. He turned back to stare in the rapidly falling away road, holding along in the cart, and trying to comport himself with as much dignity as a riding a dashing midnight sewer wagon would allow.
For the first few miles, of course, it had been worse. The sloshing of a wagon full of... well, it needed not to be described, even in his own elegant form of the vernacular. Remi’s vernacular had suited it just fine. Though Remi had made only a few remarks upon the unpleasantness, before becoming earnestly interested in whether or not vampires could vomit. Harry had most reluctantly learned that rats, in fact, cannot, and Remi labored under some entirely self-oriented doubt as to whether or not horses were able to forcibly eject food, what with their long, equine necks. The reasoning on both sides of his own argument had been as rational as they were earthy, so Harry had let it go on unpolluted by his own opinions on the matter.
Harry’s expression had been most helpful in securing the continued interest in speed in the wagon driver, who, in spite of the romanticized image of the hardworking peasant, looked entirely fit for his station. The poor beast pulling the cart was little better comported, and could only be persuaded to run for a blessedly short time, anyway. Harry wouldn’t have minded saving the animal the trouble, never mind relieving the driver of his obviously odious duty, and equally odious personality if he could’ve, but factors pressed in addition to the unescapable truth that Remi would probably never forgive him (or would forcibly try to escort him on to his eternal forgiving).
Now, as they trundled through the dark at a pathetic jog-trot, Harry was thinking about how he might mercifully put the poor beast out of its misery. At this point, he was thinking of putting a lot of things out of their misery- or rather, getting them uninvolved in making him miserable. Remi lived in a state of pleasant oblivion. Harry almost wanted to move.
The sewer cart had been their only choice, thanks to their oe’er-hasty retreat. Remi healed with a will, and was eager to go purify his soul some more- over the complaints of the doctor. Harry had deemed it wise they not linger. He’d only superficially calmed the populace of the last town with the promise that their local undead had come into some kind of arcane conflict with another group, for which he and Remi acted ambassadorially. The story had become somewhat stretched when he insisted that Remi was under his protection, and no matter how many random potentially-vampiric passer-by he killed, and no, they couldn’t hang him. As much as that now appealed, even to Harry, who often found Remi’s other charms compensated.
Remi’s charms, multitudinous in their outwards signs and more obscure (even to Harry) when coming from the inward, were part of what was complicating this already complicated evening. It had been nearly a hundred years since someone had first asked Harry that imposing question, ‘What is virtue?’, and Harry had responded with the enthusiasm of youth and surety- those drone qualities which soon left one adrift as they dissolved, their strength entirely illusory and the sea that battered them more grand and unfathomable than any ocean of Earth. He’d never lost his attachment to truth, let the disillusioned academics say what they will, and he had always staunchly preferred almost any alternative to the reins of a noble lie... but now again, the choice was before him and he was being asked what virtue was, and he would come up with any excuse other than to answer it. He just... couldn’t.
He couldn’t bring himself to tell Remi that the town which he had so admirably and at such great risk cleared of its undead inhabitants had, in fact, been working in concert with said undead. The perturbation went down what in a cruder time he would’ve called his gut, and got interestingly confused with things just below his gut – an even more tangled knot he had no interest in examining just now.
Well, the interest was there, but unfortunately it was also in absolute denial on the other side of the wagon, and this problem (the denial) made that problem (attraction to a man dedicated to eradication of his kind) less immanent – well, less immanent provided there was no fighting to be done. Remi when he was fighting... well. Those images rising up caused the problem (the interest itself) to rear its sadly neglected head in a most urgent fashion.
Perhaps that was sick, in its own way – to be enticed during the destruction of his own kind – but Harry was not overly concerned with the wellbeing of his own kind. Time was, his own kind gave nary a thought to each other except to hope for their demise. Never mind this ‘living with the livestock’ the town Remi had so thoughtfully murdered his way through did. Harry doubted Remi would even believe him both for obscure Satan-related reasons and because Harry doubted that Remi could even understand such a depth of cowardice.
Remi would never believe that those mortals were so afraid of death and those vampires so curbed in their nature that they had entered a deal of mutual sacrifice, and lived off of one another. Honestly, Harry hardly believed it – certainly vampirism had operated differently when HE was freshly made, and nobody would have even considered living in such accord. But that was some time ago.
Then again, he could be said to be living in such accord, if it weren’t the decided discordance between his intentions and dear, sweet, tragically pure and handsomely ignorant Remi’s intentions. That was all above board. And it was reasonable that he might be out of touch, having only reluctantly returned to England – a place he held no relish for, despite his chauvinism – after many decades away. He wouldn’t have returned, much less lingered, but for Remi.
Remi, who he was now following about, unto even catching a ride in a night soil wagon. Oh, it’ll be fun, he had thought, to play with a slayer a bit – they were always a bit touched – and this one was pretty. Just follow him around for a while, see what he was up to. What other entertainment would he find in Wales, of all places? Tag along and drop out when his inevitable end came around, it’ll be a short but interesting holiday.
But then… Remi. Just… it was hard to say… but Remi. Instant unsavory intentions, of course, but then… A silly attachment. A growing concern. A deep sort of amusement he hadn’t felt for… oh, perhaps ever. And now he was bound to him, in all ways except the one very specific way he wanted (and that, barring illogical, doctrinally-defined scruples, Harry was sure Remi also wanted).
And rather than watching a slayer perish due to his own folly, Harry was sniffing piss and trying to decide whether he could even tell him the truth, for fear it would hurt his feelings. It wasn’t supposed to be about feelings – or piss, or even the degree of danger he had found himself forced to brave in merely keeping up with Remi – it was supposed to be rather more physical.
Nor was it supposed to be intellectual, or moral, or ethical – the physical was delightful in that way. Harry’s pride prickled at playing Meno and multiplying virtues like bees, but... come on. He could hardly be expected to say anything, not now... not while Remi was injured... not when Remi was just feeling better...
But it couldn’t be ‘not ever’. Harry’s only consolation is that if his plan played out well enough, Remi would have a very long time to work things out. And, of course, there would be plentiful distractions which Harry would be pleased to provide, for as long as that lasted.
Back to problem number two – which should have been number one – the physical. It’s funny how that one cropped up so regularly. Harry could put off telling Remi his work’s moral foundation was shaky, at best, for some time; telling him would destroy him. He seemed perfectly able to carve out an exception for Harry while believing all other vampirically-touched beings partook greedily in the most vile evils (oh, the evils Harry wanted to do to Remi were so far from vile, if only he could be convinced…)
Yet it was important to the slayer that his mission remained, for the time being. So Harry wouldn’t do it... no matter how appealing destroying him occasionally appeared as the conversation in the wagon meandered back to crude bodily functions. (It wasn’t like riding a shit-wagon led Harry to talk of Shakespeare. Though if they could avoid returning to subject of vomit, Harry would be pleased. Perhaps he could bring up some of Shakespeare more dubiously directed sonnets, and see how long he could make Remi blush...)
Bright-eyed as a hypomanic squirrel Remi moved on in topic to trip ahead, asking, for perhaps the hundredth time, why they weren’t going to London. Needless to say, Harry felt visiting London unwise.
“I assure you, Remi, that you wouldn’t like London.”
Harry had already likened the place to Paris, to which Remi had developed an aversion, but it was only deterring his urge to contact what Harry assured him were a plentiful number of Brotherhood members there, already handling things well enough (certainly not having been wiped out nearly a century ago by plague and their own extra-suspicious brand of stupidity).
“Better you free more of these hamlets from the yoke of tyranny, where the small populace is generally more easily oppressed.”
At this logic, Remi’s eyes would brighten considerably. A few hours ago it was an amusing and worthwhile effect, though the close proximity of noxious fumes did make it somewhat wear after a while. Harry’s vampiric senses could only handle so much sloshing excretion before they began to be overwhelmed by the sheer indignity of it all. The next time Remi spoke his voice was calmer- Harry would say almost playful.
“We’re headed to Cambridge, aren’t we? Where you used to be schooled?”
Harry’s attention was forced off of his own misery for a moment. Remi appeared perfectly innocent, his feet dangling off the back of the wagon, and that unusually charming insipid grin on his face. Of the unusually wide variety of things to be damned, Harry thought, damn that unusually charming insipid grin.
“I don’t recall telling you I was schooled at Cambridge.”
Remi shrugged, feeling the wonderful slide of bandages, padded armor, and plenty of pointy bits of wood. Remi was reminded that he had perhaps been over-zealous with the doctor’s ‘relaxing’ medicines yet again. At some point, he would surely be upset about it. Now he was fine. Very enormously fine. He turned his attention back to Harry, upon whose pale, rather haggard-looking face there shone a fair amount of pride trying to cover up suspicion.
Remi had suspected from the start that Harry, though a dandy, was an educated one, and was pleased to see his guess had hit the mark. The vampire was obviously not used to the travails of the hard-worn road, and some good would be accomplished in toughening up his fashionable friend, but if it helped ease him, Remi saw no problem in letting him vent some pride (a very deadly sin, but surely okay in very small doses, when one is tolerating travel by night-soil cart for the sake of one’s companion).
And Harry did look pleased. A caution about the sin of pride would be uncouth. He thought he ought not hurt the unholy evil’s feelings, as he was, after all, buying dinner and giving him a tour.
“You didn’t. ‘Twas only passing difficult to discern, given a bit of thought. Uneducated though I may be, I have nature’s fair share of common wit,” Remi was proud that he didn’t find that sentence difficult to say at all.
Harry arched a brow, some of his un-color returning to mock. “And an unfair share of nature’s less common interests? Perhaps nature merely tipped her balances, for you, dear Remi.”
Remi coughed, forcing him to inhale a bit much of the damnable odor of the cart, and reminded himself while he beat his chest for air. “Er.. Not.. Unfair... more uh, unnatural, unholy-type nature-ish...uh... stuff...? My own, personal, wicked, nature, I mean.”
Harry smiled a near-human smile (what fascinatingly dissembling creatures these night-beasts be!), and stared into the road behind them.