The House on the Cliff
Part Two

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Cid/Vincent.
Warnings: Disturbing elements, discussion of child murder.
Summary: Cid and Vincent leave Rocket Town behind and seek out a home in which to start a new life. The house they buy is a bargain, but did they get much more than they bargained for?
Notes: For all my FF-loving friends. Happy Halloween! I tried to make it Lovecraftian, but I’m not sure I succeeded.

This is part two. If you haven't read part one, click here.

Cid sat bolt upright in the darkness, confused, trying to think what had disturbed his sleep. All was silent, save for the steady boom of waves far beneath the cliff. He was sweating though the room was cool, and he had a horrible feeling…

He yanked on a pair of jeans and ran out of the room, hastening down the hall to throw open the door of Vincent’s bedchamber. He thought he saw a flash of white, but it was difficult to tell with the great lace curtains around the glass doors blowing in the sea breeze. Vincent sat up, coughing heavily. Cid came to sit on the bed, resting his hands on the slender shoulders.

“Vincent? Are you all right? Vin speak to me, are you….? Oh by all the gods…”

Cid slowly drew back in horror as he saw the droplets of blood land on the comforter as Vincent coughed. Vincent hastily snatched up a handkerchief and covered his mouth.

“Vincent..?” said Cid quietly.

“It’s nothing.”

“The hell it is! I’m no doctor but I know coughing blood is never ‘nothing’! Vincent what…? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well have you been to a doctor? Oh, wait, stupid question, of course not.”

“Cid, don’t...”

“I’m calling a doctor. Now. RIGHT now.”

“Cid please! Don’t do this!”

Cid drew Vincent close, holding him. “Don’t worry. It’s all okay. We’ll get you looked at, and everything will be fine. I promise.”

Cid went out onto the balcony to use his cell phone, calling his doctor in Rocket Town. The man answered sleepily.

“This better be an emergency.”

“Hey Dr. Preston? Cid Highwind. I need you to come out soon as possible.”

“Why? What’s the problem?”

“It’s Vincent, he’s coughing blood.”

The man sighed heavily. “It takes an hour to drive there from here and it’s going to take at least that to get ready and gather my things for an examination. I’ll be there at eight am sharp.”

“You can’t come out now?”

“I could but I’ve had exactly fifteen minutes sleep and I’m not crazy about the idea of falling asleep at the wheel. Keep him warm, I’ll see you at eight.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Cid. He ended the call, then went back into the bedroom to seat himself facing Vincent. “He’ll be here at eight. How long has this been happening?”

“Years, on and off. Since Hojo.”

“Any idea what causes it?”

“The nightmares. The nightmares bring it on. I don’t know why. I hadn’t had one in years until tonight. I’m used to bad dreams but this one felt… too real. I swear my throat hurts from the feeling of fingers around my neck.”

“Well let me turn up the light and check,” said Cid.

He reached over to the oil lamp resting on the bedside table and turned it up, then looked at Vincent. His eyes became large as he stared in horror.

“Baby what happened to you?” he whispered, reaching out to touch the visible and angry red marks around Vincent’s white throat.

“I don’t know. I thought I had a nightmare.”

Cid shook his head. “A nightmare didn’t do this.” He parted the front of the long nightshirt Vincent was wearing, and gazed at the bruises he saw there. “Okay from now on, I’m not leaving you at night. I’m keeping you safe from whatever did this, because this is not the work of a ghost or a nightmare. What do you remember?”

“Very little. I was asleep, and when I awoke there was this horrible weight on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe.” He coughed. “There was this… tightness around my throat… Cid I have had nightmares before but nothing like this.”

Cid gently stroked the long hair, more silver than black now. “Let’s try to get some sleep. I’ll be here. No more nightmares will be visiting.”

Vincent nodded, and laid down, resting on his back. Cid turned down the lamp and got into bed beside Vincent. For a few minutes there was silence.

“Cid? When you came in, did you see something small and white?”

“I thought I did, but the curtains were blowing in the wind.”

There was another brief silence, as if Vincent was considering this. “But I did not open the windows. It was too cold tonight.”

“Well somebody must have. They’re…” Cid sat up to look at the tall glass doors, and froze. They were shut tight, and the heavy lace curtains drawn over them. He could not have seen them blowing in the breeze. “I guess I was mistaken. Or maybe I’m just used to seeing them open.”

“That could be it, I suppose.”

Cid stared at the doors for a little while longer, then lay down beside Vincent, slipping an arm around him. Saying nothing further, they both fell into a restless sleep, listening to the clock in the hall chime eleven pm.

***---***

The doctor examined the bruises around Vincent’s chest and throat, even locating a new one on his right wrist. He shook his head.

“Cid if I hadn’t known you forty years I would say you were beating this fellow.”

“I wouldn’t hurt my Vincent,” said Cid softly.

“I know. It’s not your way. But someone’s been rough with him.” Preston examined Vincent further. “Do you have night terrors?”

Vincent laughed quietly, bitterly. “Yes, sometimes.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Cid.

“Well night terrors would explain these marks. If he is throwing himself around to escape some dream-induced monster, he would definitely get a few bruises.”

“And the hand marks around his neck?”

“Psychosomatic. If the nightmare was real enough his brain might…”

“Oh bull fucking shit,” said Cid. “Vincent did not imagine those bruises into being.”

“Then that leaves us two alternatives; he either choked himself, or you did.”

“It could be psychosomatic,” said Cid, abruptly changing his tone. “What about his coughing up blood?”

Dr. Preston shook his head. “If he’s had it for years and he’s still walking and talking I doubt it’s anything terminal. Untreated, ailments like tuberculosis or lung cancer would have claimed him long before now. My guess is a recurring stress-induced low grade infection. I’ll give him some penicillin, and some mint and camphor oils for the humidifier. That should fix him up.”

“Will penicillin work on him?” asked Cid anxiously.

“It’s always worked for this sort of thing before. I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”

“Well Vin’s a bit… special.”

Preston chuckled. “Cid every man on the planet thinks his beloved is special.”

“Yeah well Vincent’s undead.”

Preston paused in packing up his things, and gave Cid a sidelong look. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s undead. He’s… uh… kinda… he’s a late gunslinger.”

Preston continued to look at Cid, then slowly drew out his stethoscope, putting in the ear pieces and then pressing the cold round listening disc to Vincent’s chest.

“Let me guess, Hojo of Shinra?”

“That would be the culprit,” said Cid.

“Uh huh.” Preston put away the stethoscope, then looked at Vincent. “Do you have a heart that can function without, say, devouring virgins and such?”

Vincent nodded.

“Well use it. The medicine will work better if you have an active circulatory system.” Preston put away his things. “And those bruises will heal… although how you were bruised in the first place without a heartbeat is anyone’s guess. Now be a good little vampire and do what the doctor told you to do.”

“Gorgon,” said Vincent softly.

“Just take your medicine and stay warm, or I’m returning with Dr. Hugo Frankenstein.”

Vincent smiled very slightly. “I’ll be good.”

Preston left, and Cid seated himself on the bed with Vincent. “How about resting while I make breakfast?”

“I don’t want to rest. I’m bored. Take me to the library, since I’m not allowed to go on my own.”

“All right. Just let me get it ready first.”

Cid went to the third and highest floor of the house to start a fire in the hearth of the library. He then brought up tea, breakfast, and Vincent’s medicine before going down to the second floor to fetch Vincent. He found him standing before the wardrobe, changing into a clean nightshirt, black velvet house coat, and slippers.

“All ready?” asked Cid.

“You really don’t have to carry me.”

“Don’t be silly, I would never drag you by your feet.” Cid scooped Vincent into his arms. “Let’s go.”

Vincent smiled, draping his arms around Cid’s neck. “And what are you going to do today?”

“I thought I would do something mad and impulsive and buy some little goats to keep the lawn mowed so I don’t have to do it.”

“I want doves.”

“DOVES? What the hell would you want doves for? They’re useless for lawn care.”

Vincent smiled. “I think they’re beautiful. And there’s an aviary for them outside.”

“Then doves you shall have,” said Cid. He kissed him softly. “And what else would you like? Fine horses? A golden carriage? Brave hounds?”

“Doves will do. I doubt I have strength enough to look after a dog or a horse. Cid?”

“Yes?”

There’s a nursery downstairs. I was wondering if you would open it, maybe clean it up? It belonged to the little girl who was murdered.”

Cid winced. “That’s kind of morbid, isn’t it Vin?”

“I supposed. But… I want her to know she’s welcome, this is still her home. I was murdered too. I… can’t help but feel sad for her.”

“Okay,” said Cid softly. “I’ll do it. But not today. I’ve got other things to do.”

Cid carried him into the library and placed Vincent down in the chair before the fire, then brought him some books he requested.

“Now I will not be gone long, two hours at most. You going to be okay?”

Vincent nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sit here and read and think pure thoughts.”

“Right.” Cid kissed him. “I’ll be back.”

Cid departed, and Vincent closed his eyes. Within moments he was asleep in the large padded chair.

***---***

When Vincent awoke the library was dark, and the house was cold. The fire had died in the hearth, leaving only a few coals, and outside the library windows night had fallen. In the hallway the great clock chimed eleven, then there was silence.

“Cid?” said Vincent, looking around, but he saw no one. “Cid?”

Only the silence answered.

Carefully he slid out of the chair, feeling weaker than he had in days. Seating himself on the floor before the fire, he carefully built it back up, feeling a sense of relief as the flames awoke and stretched and grew high. He lit a small oil lamp with a twig from the fire, then, carefully getting to his feet, he walked out of the library and into the hallway.

The air was cold, and the windows were all open, white lace curtains fluttering in the dim light of the lantern.

“Cid?” he called once more, unable to believe Cid would leave him alone for so long. It was not like him. Cid wouldn’t do something like that, not unless… something had happened to him…

Vincent walked slowly down the stairs, all too aware of the fact that in his weakened condition he had to be very careful. He reached the main floor, then walked out through the arched doors with their stained glass panes and onto the wide patio were once a little girl had vanished, driving her mother insane. The wind was high, and Vincent’s hair blew, as did his velvet housecoat. He gazed around the stone patio with its low railing of carved marble, suddenly realizing there were toys scattered about, and in the middle was a dead dove, its neck broken. He bent to pick it up, feeling his heart break for the poor little thing, its head and wings hanging lifelessly, its small body still warm.

“Who would do such a thing to a creature so small and helpless?” he asked quietly.

Then something fell screaming out of the night, landing on him with force enough to knock the wind from him, long bony claws clutching his throat…

He sat up screaming, knocking over the chair in which he had been seated and falling to the floor. The sun was out, and it was a beautiful early autumn day. The fire was lit, his tea was still hot, and Cid had been barely gone an hour.

Vincent sat on the floor, coughing, a few fine droplets of blood landing on his robe. He reached up to touch his throat, and found more blood, long claw marks torn into his skin. He parted the neck of his coat and nightshirt, and saw fresh bruises.

“This is a nightmare,” he said softly, “but not one that I dreamed. There is a darkness in this house, but I am not strong enough to go find it.”

There was a soft thump off to his right, and Vincent looked towards the sound. A book had slipped from a shelf. It had to be as old as the house, and as Vincent reached out to pick it up he saw the title.

“‘A Young Lady’s Book of Tales of Fancy’,” he read quietly aloud to himself. “Well, young lady, what have you to tell me?”

He opened the old book carefully, smiling at the delicate and beautiful drawings of gentleman foxes, roguish weasels, and knightly hounds. It was a beautiful thing, full of tales, all with a moral of course. It was a lovely thing, and it made a small part of Vincent sad that he had no children to give it to, and he was far too old to have any now. Nor was he likely to with Cid, but still, it would have been nice….

He turned a page, and gasped at the sight of old blood staining the paper, and a tiny handprint in the middle.

“Poor baby,” he whispered. “Oh poor small baby, what monster would do such a thing?”

He glanced at the tale the child had been reading the night her father murdered her. It was a story of a fox who longed to be a knight, and so dressed in knight’s garb, and rode an old donkey, looking for people to save. Charming, but hardly useful.

“I do not see what you are trying to tell me,” said Vincent. He raised his head and looked around. “And you are trying to speak to me, aren’t you?”

There was no answer. Vincent sighed quietly, and carefully rose to his feet, putting the book away.

“Face it, Valentine, you’re losing your marbles. There’s nothing here but a book perched too close to the edge of the shelf, and an old Turk who has outlived himself.”

He coughed heavily as he returned to his chair, righting it and sitting down once more to eat his breakfast. Afterwards he moved over to the window seat and lay down to sleep, falling into a heavy dreamless slumber.

***---***

Autumn slowly passed, and winter came. Vincent’s cough grew worse, and his body weakened, as if the failing of the year was somehow drawing the life from him. He no longer went to the library, and Cid cared for the five doves. The outside cage was no longer suitable now that the weather was so cold and wet, so he moved them into what had once been a plant nursery with great glass windows and trellises. The doves seemed very happy in their new home, glad to be warm and dry. They flew about the room, perching on the trellises and bathing in the shallow fountains Cid had brought in. The birds seemed to be in excellent health and spirits. Yet a few months after Cid brought them home, the first bird died.

Cid buried it in the garden, and said nothing to Vincent, whose health was growing steadily worse. The doctor came almost daily, but it seemed nothing could be done. Vincent was wasting away, covered in bruises, his thin body wracked with a wet, incessant cough that seemed to be slowly strangling him. Cid and Preston tried staying awake all night and watching over him, but it seemed to do no good. Always there were new bruises, and despite their best efforts the coughing would not abate. But worst of all were the night terrors, when Vincent would awake screaming that something was sitting upon his chest, strangling the life out of him.

The doves continued to die.

“I do not understand this,” said Preston wearily, packing up his things to return to his home. “I can think of no virus that would affect both man and bird in such a way.”

Cid held the latest dead bird in his hands, the third to die so far, and the two remaining doves did not seem long for that world.

“Could you… do an autopsy? Maybe what’s making the birds sick is what’s making Vin sick.”

“I can try I supposed, run a few tests. Here, pass me the poor little thing. Poor wee birdie. Seems such a shame to…”

Dr. Preston stopped speaking, and carefully examined the bird he held. “Did this dove fall when it died?”

“I dunno, I wasn’t there. Why?”

“Well the neck is broken, as are the wings.” He carefully felt under the feathers, fingers moving over the small breast. “The ribs are broken too, almost as if someone squeezed the very life out of this bird.”

“Vincent’s nightmares didn’t do that,” said Cid.

“Well people experiencing night terrors do some very strange things but… there’s absolutely no way Vincent had strength enough to come down here, catch a bird, crush it to death, and get back to his bedroom. He’s far too weak, just making it down here would be too great an effort.”

“Would that have happened in a fall?” asked Cid

“The bird may have broken a neck or a wing, but these ribs… no my friend. Someone grasped this bird and crushed the life from it.”

Cid gazed at the dead bird, then walked over to the other two. He caught the sickly birds easily, and put them in a small cage, which he then carried over to Preston.

“Take these birds home and see if they get better. I… I have to check something. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Preston nodded. “I’ll be back at seven in the morning.”

“I’ll be here.”

Preston departed, taking Vincent’s doves with him. Cid went upstairs to the bedroom to stand beside the huge four poster bed he had bought for Vincent to get well in. Not to die in. And he would not let Vincent die if he could help it.

He stroked Vincent’s hair, wincing as some of it came off at a touch. He held up the hair, gazing it thoughtfully. Then a thought came to mind, and he picked up Vincent’s hand, examining the finger nails. White lines, running across the width of the nail. He closed his eyes, and tried to think, turning the symptoms of Vincent’s illness over in his mind. Headaches, some confusion, drowsiness, coughing, lines across the nails and hair falling out. Dammit, he knew that he knew what that was, but the name escaped him…

Was that door open when he came in?

Cid walked over to the glass doors, meaning to close them when he saw something white on the beach, just a flash, moving quickly, racing down the sand. Growling, a violent rage rising up in him, Cid ran out of the room, across the wide marble balcony and leapt the railing, dropping fifteen feet to land heavily in the deep sandy soil beneath the ledge. He felt his knees and ankles threaten to break, and was certain something in his left foot had snapped, but he scrambled to the path and ran down it, chasing after the small bundle of white. It stayed only a little way ahead of him, clearly in view though he was not certain what it could be; his best guess was some sort of tiny ghost dressed in a wedding gown. He chased after it, until it turned a corner and vanished.

Cid paused on the sand, looking about for the white thing, but did not see it. Then he noticed a vague light ahead that seemed to be coming out of the cliff. Curious, he walked quietly down the sandy beach, approaching the light, realizing as he drew near that he was looking at the narrow entrance of a cave, just a few feet above the high tide mark. The light was coming from within it, and Cid cautiously approached, not wanting to be discovered.

He peered inside, realizing that the cave had been long ago carved out by the sea, and then craftsmen had come to turn it into a well-hidden crypt, likely for the family that had once lived in his house. It was a beautiful place, with resting places for the dead as well as chairs and a welcoming fire for the living, that grieving family members may come and spend time with the departed. There was even a heavy stone door with a weighty iron bar to hold it closed, and protect the sleeping dead from the wrath of a storm-tossed sea.

Cid stepped further into the cave, and froze as he saw that someone was sitting on one of the stone benches, back towards the door, reading a book. Resting on a slab once meant to hold a casket were bottles and boxes and Bunsen burners, strange herbs and shellfish, and all manner of devices for extracting and creating poisons.

“Didn’t want him to die too fast, did you?” said Cid.

Shera jumped to her feet, dropping her book, staring at Cid with wide, startled eyes.

“Cid! What are you doing here?”

“This is my beach. I paid for it. Better question is what are you doing here?”

She backed up, her eyes large. “I… I just… I…”

“You just thought you would hang around and slowly poison my husband.”

“I would do no such thing!”

“Uh huh.” Cid picked up one of the small shellfish. “So what’s this little guy doing here? Is he a pet? Seems to me that this little guy has a tiny gland in his body that excretes a poison that behaves very similarly to arsenic.”

“I had no idea, I was going to…”

“What? Fry him with butter and eat him and then spent the next five days shitting and puking blood?”

“I had no idea it was poisonous!”

“Right. Okay, well how about these herbs, then? Were you going to eat these along with those little clams and hallucinate as well as crap blood? You’re a hell of a cook. Seems to me one of the most notable symptoms of eating this stuff is the person becomes extremely susceptible to bruising. Eventually the body tissues break down to the point that you die of internal bleeding.”

“Cid I just… I just wanted to be with you, please believe me, that was all I wanted. I knew if he was gone you would…”

“Would what? Love you? Marry you? Devote my life to you and your pathetic dipshit games?”

She snatched up a knife from a table. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you and then myself. We’ll be together in death, and he can die of slow starvation. This knife is edged with the most vile toxin in my collection. The smallest scratch will kill you.”

Cid stared at the knife. He was stronger than Shera, and a better fighter, but he didn’t know if he was faster. And he had come down unarmed. Crap. Think, Highwind, think. He drew out a cigarette, putting it between his lips and lighting it, trying to buy time.

“So who is your little accomplice? The little kid or whatever it is, wearing a white lace wedding dress.”

“There’s no one here but me. You think I wanted to bring somebody else here? No. No way. You’re all mine, I’m not risking my schemes on some underling.”

Cid raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure you’re alone?”

“There’s no one here but you and me.”

“No. No there is somebody else here, a little… I think it’s a child. A little girl. In a white lace gown with a veil. She led me here.”

“I’m telling you there is no one else!”

“And I’m telling you I followed a kid here, down the beach. She was right outside, that was how I found this cave or crypt or whatever it is.”

“Show me.”

Cid turned and walked out of the cave, Shera not far behind him. She wasn’t stupid, he knew that, but she wasn’t a warrior either. She might not be expecting him to do anything. On the other hand she might very well expect him to do something bone-headed and stab him with a poisoned knife. What to do, what to do, what….

Cid suddenly darted outside, grabbed the stone door of the crypt and slammed it shut. He heard Shera scream in rage, her fists pounding against the rock as he slowly drew the massive iron bar across the door, locking it from the outside. After all, no one in a crypt had use of a lock from the inside, did they?

He checked to make certain the door was firmly locked, then pulled out his cell phone and called Dr. Preston.

“Preston? Yeah it’s Cid. Get up here, I found out what’s the matter with Vincent. And bring the police!”

***---***

It was sunrise when Cid led the police down the long path to the beach, and followed the narrow sandy strip to the crypt. He led them to the door and unbarred it, and stared at the hideous mess lying on the floor. Shera had made herself a meal of the toxic herbs and shellfish, and had haemorrhaged to death through every single orifice in her body. Sickened, Cid turned and walked away, leaving the police to their business. He made his way back to the house and up to Vincent’s room, entering the chamber. Vincent was asleep, and Dr. Preston was getting ready to leave.

“He’ll be fine now,” said Preston. “Now that we know what he was poisoned with, we can treat him.”

“What about the feeling that someone was sitting on his chest?”

Preston shook his head. “My bet is Shera was trying to strangle him. He wasn’t dying fast enough. That’s where the hand prints and scratches were coming from, and because of the poisons he was bruising very easily. Look here, you can even see the ring on her right hand pressed into the flesh.”

“Will he be all right?”

Preston nodded. “It will be a little slow but he will be just fine. The best thing to do is just let him rest, and make sure he always has something on hand to eat. It will help work the poison out of his system. Where’s Shera?”

“Dead. She ate her own cooking.”

Preston shook his head. “I’ll be back this evening to see how he is. But I think you’re both going to be just fine.”

Preston left. Cid laid down on the bed, wanting to be close to Vincent.

“Poor baby,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be all right from now on.”

Vincent made a quiet sound in his sleep. Cid kissed the back of his head, then picked up the book from the bedside table. It was the history that Vincent had been reading. Settling himself against the pillows, Cid opened the book… and froze.

He was staring at a photo of a small girl, no more than five, wearing what looked for all the world like a white lace wedding gown. Beneath the photo was a note in the author’s handwriting.

‘Elizabeth Chandler, in her favourite dress, a miniature version of the lavish gown worn by Princess Sekoura of Wutai for her wedding day. Elizabeth so loved the version her mother made for her that she wore it almost daily, and was buried in the family crypt wearing it after her murder. The crime took place at eleven pm, October thirty-first.’

Cid stared at the little girl, thinking about the tiny phantom he had chased to the crypt in the cliff wall. She had not been able to prevent her own murder, but she had prevented Vincent’s. Leaving Vincent to sleep, Cid went downstairs to open the old nursery and clean it, so Elizabeth would always have a place to play. He owed her that much at least.