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It was indeed a logical question.
Eileen belonged to Cesare.
Until he himself would reject her, in her even memory of a thought didn't arise to break out beyond the fence built by him.
When Eileen slowly nodded, strength left from Cesare's hand.
With a loud clang the folding knife fell on the floor.
And again these eyes.
Destroyed, as if after a catastrophe, empty and dead like ruins...
Cesare with an ashen hand stroked Eileen's neck.
Slowly lead with fingers over the tracks left on her skin, then closed eyes.
"Why..." He caught breath and again met with Eileen's gaze.
"Why did you not resist?"
At the quiet question Eileen slightly parted lips.
"You... had... a reason..." She wanted to say that Cesare surely had a reason.
But, when from chest only a hoarse whisper broke out, Cesare didn't give her to finish.
"Promise me, Eileen." She completely understood nothing.
Eileen with eyes wet from tears stared at him.
Cesare spoke with the despair of a person driven to the edge of a precipice.
"Promise that you won't die for me."
Once she’d already heard from him something similar.
But Eileen couldn't give such a promise.
However, when Cesare impatiently leaned forward, to her nothing remained besides how to agree.
Scarcely had she pronounced the words of the promise, as Cesare firmly hugged Eileen.
Eileen felt a light tremor.
At first she thought that she herself was trembling, but no—it issued from Cesare.
Unconsciously Eileen answered the embrace.
The body, only just having balanced on the brink of life and death, protested, requiring rest, but she couldn't restrain herself from the desire to press to herself the man before her.
Cesare silently squeezed her in embraces a little stronger.
Tension left, and the world before eyes immediately floated.
The body having spent the last forces signaled its limit.
With all forces fighting with the surging gloom, Eileen whispered so quietly that he might and not have heard: that with her all is in order.
That to her it is not at all painful.
Her voice, hoarse and cracked, was barely discernible, but Cesare, it looks like, didn't hear correctly.
In the last that she saw before losing consciousness were his eyes—all those same empty and destroyed like ruins.
***
The sound of rain irritatingly struck the ears.
Drops without ceasing knocked on the window while Cesare, watching how they spread over the glass, didn't move his gaze to Eileen lying in the bed in the chambers of the Grand Duke.
Fearing that in the brick house she might do things, Cesare brought here the unconscious Eileen.
Personally wiped her ashen cheek with a wet rag, changed her into a clean shirt and laid her in bed.
Having stood by the window and watched her, he glanced at his palm.
The wounds left by the penknife were already halfway closed.
Probably, by tomorrow not a trace would remain.
But, although the wounds healed quickly, this didn't mean that he didn't feel pain.
Cesare again and again caused himself harm when reality seemed to him unclear.
Pain was one of the few ways to be convinced that the world in which Eileen exists is real.
Staring at the palm, Cesare crookedly smirked.
The more he remembered the moment when he squeezed Eileen's neck, the stronger memories were tangled, mixing reality and illusions.
The intensifying noise of rain finally knocked him from the sense.
Rain went also then when little Eileen was falling asleep in the bedroom of the Prince, and when he killed her in the bedroom of the brick house.
And when he came to the tavern where they’d exhibited Eileen's head.
Having gathered into a fist the scattering memories, Cesare built them anew.
He returned in time seven years back, to that moment when, having returned with victory, he learned of Eileen's death.
When he learned that Eileen was beheaded on the guillotine.
Cesare didn't immediately realize the happened.
As if locked in a nightmare, he cherished a vain hope that, enough it was for him to wake, and Eileen would again be alive.
But in the end he understood.
Understood that this was cruel reality, even not a nightmare.
It happened on that day when he set out to the tavern where they’d exhibited Eileen's severed head.
On that day rain drizzled.
Under the unexpectedly gushed streams of water Cesare entered inside.
When his knights in civilian clothes followed him, a servant hurriedly jumped out to them, carrying a stack of dry towels.
Cesare wiped himself and distractedly looked around.
The largest tavern on Fiore Street was packed with people.
While he looked at the crowd gathered despite the bad weather, the servant stealthily stared at him.
Although Cesare had pulled the hat low down to the very brows, his powerful figure betrayed him. and his knights generally didn't hide faces, attracting even more attention.
Ignoring curious gazes, Cesare gave the servant a gold coin and asked to show him a table.
A tall man and woman entered the hall, forcing all to turn around.
But interest quickly withered, and loud conversations resumed.
The tavern where they sold drink and women was packed with excited people.
In the lustful drunkards' eyes shone from lust, and they were already quite far from healthy mind.
They threw around obscene jokes and sniggered, looking at the woman performing on the stage.
Before them the singer continued to sing, not turning attention.
*“Why can't I return to that day?
I still remember you.
You remain such clear in me...”*
Cesare's gaze slid over the visitors.
Then he still thought only of the necessary and gathered soon to go away.
"Most of all I liked her eyes.
Bitch, pity that the bitch is dead."
But this was before he heard of Eileen.
Cesare's gaze slowly stopped.
The drunkard didn't notice the red eyes directed at him.
He only obscenely sniggered, rubbing the crotch.
"A, nu, I was a little late, and she already began to decompose, but all the same was class.
Probably, the owner then made big money on this.
What there Fiore—they would have cleaned out the whole capital."
His buddies caught it, having laughed and adding their comments.
*‘The owner held her eyes open by force because she’d croaked in a noose.
Who would have thought that that executed whore was a witch.’*
Even a noble young lady after death wouldn't have excited so as this one.
*‘Pity, the corpse didn't survive.
It would have been possible to hang here and amuse oneself.
Until now all in the tavern only speak of her...’*
Cesare listened to all that they said.
Didn't miss a word, and then unexpectedly laughed.
Having laughed, he slowly pushed away the chair and rose.
Then approached those who still were chatting and laughing, remembering the head of the young executed female.
Unexpected approach of a stranger forced the men to startle.
Cesare looked over their table.
There lay a long knife for cutting meat.
Cesare without hesitation took it.
The man chatting loudest of all only just managed to gasp.
He rounded eyes and grabbed for the throat, but didn't feel anything.
This was the end.
The knife was pulled out, and a fountain of blood spurted up.
Aylya splashes flew apart, the body toppled back.
A dull thud echoed over the tavern, and for a moment in the noisy room a frightening silence hung.
In the frozen silence the first to move were Cesare's knights.
Rotan, Diego and Senon blocked all exits.
Michele threw himself on the stage and thrust the singer into a corner—the only woman in the hall.
And the slaughter began.
This was the first day when the sword defending the Traon Empire turned against its people.