A/N: If you haven't read Vivian's Tower, I highly recommend it before reading this short. There's not much reference to it, but it's helpful to have the order of events in your head. Thanks!

Blood (Theme 17)

Historical Note:

Pressed among Mercer’s things in his commonplace book is the edict referenced in this tale, as well as a recording of the unfortunate death of the carriage driver. Apparently the young lady Mercer speaks of here was his sister, who committed a crime that Mercer believed so heinous that she was rewarded with death: she betrayed Beckett.

*

The edict, its seal broken, was shoved into the back corner of Mercer’s desk, where he could try to forget about it. In front of it lay the pistol he’d carried, the one he had held up to her forehead as his hand shook and his stomach roiled and the whole world spun before his eyes. It was the first time he hadn’t been willing to shoot his victim. The first time his hand had quivered since he was a boy and had learned how to hold the thing. And it was the first time, now, that he had ever willingly given up a perfectly good pistol and gone out for a new one.

The new one sat comfortably in his belt. It felt right there, if just a tad bit off. Each pistol, Mercer had discovered, had its own feel, its own life. This was one felt slightly heavier than the other. He noticed it more. But not as much as he might have noticed the other, if he’d decided to keep it.

He stood in the hall outside Beckett’s office, leaning up against the doorframe. He had to wait at Company headquarters until Beckett was done working. It was late. Beckett never finished work early. He never ate at home. Sometimes he didn’t even bother with so trivial a thing as food. Tonight would be one of those nights, Mercer thought. Beckett had been working like a madman since the betrayal. He had had nothing else to do – no one to entertain, no one to amuse.

He was looking pale and thin, but at least a promotion was coming. That was inevitable. He worked so hard that the Company could hardly deny him such. He had even caught the attention of the King with his work. It would not be long before he was granted a title, or property, or at least a great lot of money.

It meant nothing to Mercer. Few things did these days.

The door to the office swung open, and Beckett emerged, cloak slung over his shoulders. There were dark bags under his eyes, but he would not be sleeping for several more hours. So Mercer would not sleep either.

“Is the carriage waiting?” Beckett’s voice cracked a little with exhaustion.

Mercer didn’t look at him. “Should be, sir,” he said. “They may have switched drivers, of course. It’s a long time to sit out there.”

“Of course.” Beckett rubbed his eyes. “The two maids will have gone to bed.”

“I’m sure Oscar is still awake, sir.” Mercer opened his coat and checked the position of the new pistol. Still there. Still fresh. “If you need anything, I’ll be glad to fetch it for you.”

“I thought some tea, perhaps…” Beckett lifted a hand and studied his fingernails. “Good for long nights and work.”

“I’m sure.” Mercer shrugged his coat back into place. “Any work for me, sir?”

“No, there’s nothing.” Beckett started for the stairs. “Just the usual guard work, I’m afraid.”

“Not very interesting work,” Mercer observed, finally turning to follow him. “You’ve stopped giving me exciting assignments.”

“I thought you might have had… enough excitement.” The words were handled with delicacy, as though Beckett were washing thin china.

Mercer’s face was set in a stony expression. “I’ll go mad if you keep me locked up much longer,” he said. “There must be something to do. You’ve so many enemies, more by the day…”

“Not any that concern you,” Beckett said flatly. He turned the corner on a landing, and his cape swirled dramatically behind him. “As soon as I find something deserving of your attention, I will alert you.”

“Soon,” Mercer insisted.

Beckett paused on the stairs and turned to look at him. “So anxious to test that new pistol?” he inquired lightly.

Mercer kept his expression blank. “It seems to be the only thing I’m good for.”

Beckett studied him with an equally blank expression. “Certainly it is one of your greater talents,” he said. He hesitated, but turned away again quickly. “The driver will be getting nervous,” he said, starting down once more. “And Oscar won’t sleep if we don’t return soon…”

“Sir.”

Beckett stopped, but he did not turn this time. “Yes?”

Mercer shifted on the stairs. “Tell me she had to die.”

Beckett didn’t move. “It’s done, Mercer,” he said quietly. “Let’s not dwell on what cannot be changed.”

“Tell me.”

Still Beckett didn’t move. His stillness was maddening. “Fate works in strange ways, David.”

Mercer allowed himself to blink. Beckett never addressed him with his first name. “Mercer,” he growled. “Always Mercer.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mercer took a step downwards. “You’re not,” he said quietly. “You’re not at all, are you?”

“I am.” His voice was flat, emotionless. Aristocratic, even.

Mercer stopped. “Tell me she had to die.”

Beckett said nothing.

Anger was building up inside Mercer, burning in him at the core. “Why can’t you say it?” he demanded.

“It’s not easy for me either, Mercer.”

Mercer laughed bitterly. “You didn’t shoot her,” he said. “You didn’t dirty your hands with her blood.”

“Her blood is on my hands too.” His voice was still flat, expressing nothing. He was perfectly calm, his posture regal, his hand resting on the rail. A signet ring flashed there in the flickering lantern light.

Mercer reached into his belt and grabbed the pistol. He hadn’t gotten the feel for it yet, and it was odd in his hand. He cocked it and pointed it at Beckett’s head. “Tell me she had to die,” he repeated. “Say it to me.”

Beckett didn’t even flinch. “Don’t be an idiot, Mercer,” he said, disdain infusing his voice. “You can’t kill me.”

“I could,” Mercer said through clenched teeth. “I could do it now. If I can shoot my own sister – ”

“You can’t kill me,” Beckett said. He sounded tired now, and old, far too old, as if he had seen all the evils of the world and they were finally beginning to wear on him. “You chose me over her. What point would there be in such a sacrifice if I too were slain?”

The pistol’s position did not waver. “Why did you ask me to do it?”

Beckett shrugged slightly, the first movement he’d made. “There was no one else.”

The pistol was steady in Mercer's hand. He was getting used to the feel of it. It was hardly familiar, but his hand was learning it through the dark leather glove. “There are many men for hire who could have done it.”

“I don’t have the money to hire such a man,” Beckett said. His voice was perfectly level -- infuriatingly so. “You know that. Perhaps if it had been another time… but it was now. Fate works in strange ways.”

The pistol shivered a little, finally. “Do you believe in fate, sir?”

Again Beckett shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “It is impossible to be certain of anything before death.”

Mercer’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Do you fear death?”

Beckett was very still again. “I have things left to do,” he said. “I have a world to put in order, people to civilize, a world to save and claim. It is not time yet.”

“You can’t know that.”

There was a smile in Beckett’s voice. “Oh, but I do.”

They stood there, minutes crawling by. Mercer held the pistol steady, and Beckett stood below him, hand still poised on the rail as though he were descending into a ballroom. They did not move. They breathed quietly, so that there was no sound within the whole of the building. Mercer’s palm began to sweat inside the glove, but he didn’t move. Every muscle was tense, on fire, but he stayed still. So did Beckett. If he’d moved, if he’d twitched, maybe Mercer would have shot. But neither budged an inch.

The silence was broken as the front door banged open. “Mr. Beckett?” The carriage driver’s voice was both worried and irritable. “Mr. Beckett, are you here?” There was a pause. “Mr. Mercer? Is Mr. Beckett done with his work for the night? Hello?”

Neither responded. Neither moved.

“Mr. Beckett?” Footsteps. The driver was coming towards the stairs.

Mercer took a small step downwards. “Say it,” he ordered.

Beckett shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“Say it.” He took another step.

“Mr. Beckett?” The driver sounded confused now, and much more worried. He must have heard Mercer speak. “Hello?” He was starting up the steps now. He would turn on the landing and see them standing like this.

Mercer walked down to another step, closer. “Why can’t you say it?” he demanded.

“Why are you asking me to?” Beckett questioned.

“I need to hear you say it. I’ll believe it only if you tell me.”

The driver was hurrying now. “Mr. Beckett?” he called again, panting a little.

Beckett turned in a sudden flourish, his cloak whirling behind him, a wave of dark fabric in the shadows. His gaze pierced Mercer’s, and Mercer nearly jumped. His eyes were so cold… why had he never noticed?

“Mr. Beck – oh!” The driver turned the corner and paused on the landing. “Mr. Mercer! What – ?”

Beckett raised a hand, silencing the underling. “You’re certain?” he asked softly.

Mercer nodded tensely. “Most certain, sir.”

Beckett gave a replying nod, his eyes never leaving Mercer’s face. “If you are sure…”

“Just say it.” Mercer ground his teeth together; his trigger finger was beginning to itch.

“Mr. Beckett?” the driver asked.

“Shut up,” Mercer snarled. He kept the pistol level with Beckett’s head. If he didn’t say it… if he couldn’t say it… if it was all a lie…

“Perthina had to die,” Beckett said, his face a mask of calm.

The words sent a rush of heat and fury pumping through Mercer’s veins. He held perfectly still for several seconds, internalizing the words. She had to die. He has told you so. Believe it. Believe it.

He whirled, pistol still raised, and shot the driver.

The driver stumbled backwards, blood arcing grotesquely from the wound as he fell. He squeaked in surprise as he fell to the floor. Mercer shot again, eyes narrowed. The driver groaned and twitched violently. Mercer watched awhile, then took aim and shot him through the head. Gore seeped from the wound, and the man was still.

Mercer stared down at the pistol in his hand, studying its shape, noting its feel. It had been baptized. It had been used. It was truly his now, an inextricable part of him. He studied it blankly, focused on it and not his victim. It was lovely, he realized. It had a soft, dull glow to it in the lantern light. Its shape curved beautifully, and there was some nice detailing here and there. It was a good pistol. It would serve him well.

He let his arm drop to his side and turned to face Beckett, expressionless. Beckett, too, wore an emotionless face. “Satisfied?” Beckett asked.

“Yes, sir.” Mercer slipped the pistol back into his belt, hardly noticing. “It should be a useful weapon. Just needed a little testing.”

Beckett watched him carefully, eyes clouded. Then he turned away and started down the stairs once more, with his distinctively aristocratic walk. His hand had not left the rail since the beginning of the incident. “Clean that up,” he said, stepping over the driving and the spreading pool of blood. “I’ll wait for you in the carriage.”

Mercer watched as Beckett disappeared, nodding to himself. “As you command,” he murmured, and started down the stairs.