Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is a very scary place to go
It's whorled and it's swirled with death like lace, you know
You may have found my views unorthodox
but now the wolf is at the door; it knocks.

-- The World Is A Very Scary Place from "The Tragic Treasury"

The island was calm, warm salt breezes drifting over the sand dunes that bordered the ocean. Violet Baudelaire sat, cradling the sleeping one-year-old Beatrice in her arms and staring across the vast expanse of blue. Her hair was long, too long for a ribbon to do much good, although she still wore her faded pink adornment out of habit. The baby stirred in her arms, rumpling Violet's crisp white dress. Klaus and Sunny walked along the shore, almost out of sight, Klaus's dark hair and Sunny's dishwater curls flying in the gusts flitting off the ocean as they searched for shells and other debris the ocean deposited on the shores of the almost-empty island after tremendous storms, the likes of which had kept the Baudelaires ensconced in their tree home the night before.

Violet sighed, and continued to search the horizon. She wasn't sure what she sought, only that her mind had convinced itself that something was coming, whether good or ill she could not say. She stood with a wobble, careful not to drop the heavy child. Her hair twisted itself around her face, and she pulled it back with long fingers before glancing once more at the sea. Off the distance, a small dot had appeared on the horizon, but peer at it though she might, Violet could not tell what it was. She shrugged, and made her barefoot way to join her siblings, the dot quickly leaving her thoughts as Sunny ran to show Violet her new treasures.

The dot grew larger as it drifted closer to the island.

The next morning dawn arrived early over the crested sand hills, and Violet found herself awakening suddenly, bathed in light from the window. She knew she was up for the day and, yawning, pulled a thin pink shawl over her lacy white nightgown, glancing at her sleeping siblings and the baby in her crib before closing the heavy wooden door behind her.

The sand was cold under her bare feet as she found the spot she had dwelled in the day before. Seagulls swooped overhead, searching for their morning meal in the shallows. Violet let her thoughts wander, trivialities coming and going as she watched the sun rise higher above the water. She suddenly remembered the dot on the horizon: had it been debris from the storm? What had it been – a barrel, or perhaps a mast. The distance had made it difficult to even guess. She shrugged in response to her musings and stood, the cold too much to bear any longer. Hoping to restore circulation, she strolled down the beach opposite of the direction she had traveled the day before, long nightgown trailing in the sand, leaving a trail of swirls in the gritty powder.

Farther along the shore, more pieces of wood and miscellany had collected. Violet saw a metal box, some rotting fruit, a tangled net…and a hand, protruding from under a tangle of planks, netting, and seaweed. She rushed over to the pile and, grunting, pulled the rubble off of the body, which she saw instantly was a man, lying facedown in a pool, dressed in torn clothing, hair gray with a hint of blond clinging to the edges.

With a heave, she turned the man over – and screamed in horror.

"Is that…it can't be." Klaus's pale expression was exactly the one Violet knew was plastered across her own face. Sunny sat trembling in the corner with her back against the wall, holding Beatrice protectively without taking her eyes off the body of the man who had caused her family almost all the anguish they had ever known.

"I think it is. I don't know how, but he washed up with the rest of the things from the storm. I just don't know what to do with him."

Klaus looked as if he was about to faint. "I would tell you to throw him back into the ocean, and pray he gets eaten by sharks but—Sunny, can you take Bee out of here? I don't think either of you needs to see bodies at your ages."

Sunny looked at her brother. "But Klaus, he's not dead."

Klaus's face turned stony. "Sunny, just go."

She frowned darkly and strode from the room, still too shocked by the man's reappearance to even mumble about her maturity.

Klaus held his head in his hands for a moment; when he looked up, Violet could see tears streaming down his face. He had grown into a serious young man in so short a time, all he had seen and experienced sobering him, yet even Violet knew the strength it took him now not to entirely break down – she too was exerting the same effort. "Why won't he just die already? We saw him die, and we buried him, and now he's back. How, Violet?"

She bit her lip to keep from trembling even more than she already was. The man hadn't moved, lying still and pale on their living room floor, deep within the tree they inhabited. "It must not have been him. It must have been someone else. Even he couldn't come back from the dead."

"Who then? His twin?" Klaus spat, his fear and anguish transformed suddenly into anger. "I don't care how he got back. I'm going to take what's left of this fiend and throw him back where he came from, and let hell swallow him. Maybe this time they won't send him back."

"We can't do that, Klaus," Violet was horrified at the thought that she would ever defend the man, but she knew what she said was true, gruesome though the prospect of notgetting him as far away as possible was.

"Why not?" The venom in his voice frightened Violet, justified though it was.

"Because that would make us just as bad as him."

The truth hung in the air, stale and bitter.

"Fine, Violet. Take him to the far end of the island, pitch a tent, and leave him there. And then come back, and pray he dies of pneumonia before he has a chance to find his way over here." He stormed to the door, where he paused to glare over his shoulder. "But don't say I didn't warn you. On your own head be it." With a slam, he stalked out of the room.

It had taken her the whole day to drag the unconscious man to the far shore. She sat in the sand with a huff, and fell back to look at the sky. The cruelty of life never ceased to amaze her. The bleak truth was that no matter where they ran, no matter how well they hid, the ugly reality of their misfortune followed behind with soft footsteps, waiting to spring and strangle them yet again. Tears poured into the sand as she sobbed, lying in the sand next to her worst nightmare.

So thoroughly overwhelmed was she that she did not notice the body twitch, did not realize he had awoken until she felt the hands on her neck, and opened her eyes to the grey-blue eyes of Count Olaf, who was quickly suffocating the life from her body.

He snarled as he bashed her head back into the sand when she attempted to sit up. "Didn't think I'd find you, did you, filthy bitch?"

Chapter Text

The count has an eye on his ankle
and lives in a horrible place
He wants all your money
He's never at all funny
He wants to remove your face

-- Scream and Run Away from "The Tragic Treasury"

Klaus checked his watch, and frowned. Violet should have been back at least an hour earlier. He peeked into the nursery, where Sunny sat reading a picture book to an enthralled Beatrice.

"Sunny, I'm going to find Violet. Whatever you do, don't leave the tree. Who knows what's going on out there – there could be three Olafs running around, the way things are going. Look after Bee."

She nodded meekly, seeing the astonishing fierceness in her brother's eyes. A fierceness that frightened her almost as much as the man they had pulled from the ocean. She shivered once, then gathered herself together and continued to read, wrapping her spare arm around Beatrice protectively.

Klaus reached the end of the island, scanning the dunes. Suddenly he saw exactly what he had wanted never to see: Olaf, fully conscious, was throttling a gasping, thrashing Violet with such a determined look of sheer rage that Klaus knew he had only moments to stop the man before his sister ran out of strength. He screamed in fury and ran faster than he had ever run in his life, ramming Olaf away from Violet and into the sand. Klaus was no longer the gangly bookworm he had been before; a year of hauling driftwood and performing feats of strength as head of a family had filled out his frame, although he had not grown much taller.

He rammed his fists into Olaf's growling face, over and over without pause. Suddenly Olaf threw the younger man off his chest, and launched himself at the boy, murder in his crazed eyes. The two struggled, screaming in rage and hatred, until Klaus hit Olaf across the temple with a blow so hard that for a moment, he believed that he had beaten the man to death when Olaf's body hit the sand. Abruptly, Olaf twitched before laying still – and Klaus knew that the fight, though over for the moment, was far from through.

But he knew that he had more important things to attend to – such as his barely conscious sister, whose neck was already ringed with young bruises that promised to be a long time healing. Gently, Klaus cradled Violet and rose, leaving the unconscious and bleeding Olaf in a heap in the sand.

Violet opened her sore eyes to find herself back in the tree, lying on her bed with the worst sore throat she had ever had. Sunny sat rocking Kit's crib, staring worriedly at Violet. Her eyes were round with fear.

"Violet, are you alright? Klaus says he almost killed you."

Violet sat up and gagged. She could barely force air through her bruised and damaged windpipe but finally managed to reply. "Yes, Sunny. Where's Klaus?"

Sunny shook her head and pointed out the door. "He's in the study…he tied Olaf up. I heard shouting earlier, but Klaus told me to stay in here and watch you and Kit. Violet, I'm frightened."

Violet made her way stiffly over to where Sunny was sitting and hugged her tightly. "We'll be fine. Be back. Stay put."

The study door was open a tiny crack, and creaked ominously when Violet opened it onto the gruesome scene within. Violet barely recognized her brother: His glasses were smudged with grime, and his rolled shirtsleeves were covered with gore. He looked almost villainous, she shuddered to think. He sat glaring at the man who was bound with what appeared to be steel wire to one of their sturdier chairs. The wire cut into Olaf's wrists, and both it and his wrists were stained brown with dried blood.

Walking around to stand next to Klaus, she got her first good look at the man who had tried to marry her for her family's fortune, murder both her and her siblings, and had very probably started the fire that had killed her parents. The side of his face where Klaus had punched him was a livid purple, as was his swollen eye. His white shirt was more brown than bleached, and his pinstriped pants were in tatters; he was wearing boots instead of his usual shoes, which hid his tattoo.

The hatred and utter loathing that clouded his eyes when he saw her almost made her step back. Olaf had been insane and viciously cruel before, but she had never seen a look so evil, so utterly filled with hate from the eyes under that eyebrow.

"I see you survived," Olaf snarled. "Had I not spent two days adrift in the ocean, I can assure you that you would not have been so lucky."

"Shut up." Klaus's voice was low and furious. His eyes glinted dangerously at their captive, as if daring him to continue.

Olaf grinned maliciously in return. "Then again, who says I won't have the chance to try again, eh?"

Klaus attempted to launch himself at Olaf but Violet held him back, ignoring the fire that erupted in her throat.

"No. Leave him. To me. Go."

Klaus froze, then nodded. She knew her brother thought she wanted revenge, the chance to return Olaf's deadly favor, and let him think that. "I'm going to take Sunny and Bee to the safe place. Meet me there in two hours." He left, pulling the door shut behind him tightly, most likely to ward away the screams he hoped would soon erupt from Olaf.

Violet watched him go, ignoring the bound man. In less than a day, Klaus had channeled all his adolescent confusion into acts of violence she would not have thought him capable of. It frightened her – and that was why she knew he could not be the one to do what needed to be done…whatever that was. He was already so rapidly transformed that Violet knew she had to protect her brother before he became any more similar to the man seated in the middle of the library. There had to be an end, and this would be it, one way or another.

She made her way back across the room and sat, face to face with her worst nightmare. 

"Well, my dear, aren't you going to kill me?" Olaf grinned, anticipating the fight that he thought was coming, in which he would clearly be the victor, battered as his adversary was.

"No."

Her simple answer caught him off guard and quenched his immediate bloodlust in an instant.

"What did you say?"

"I. said. No. Just want. To know. Something. Some things." Every word was painful in more ways than one, but she forced the air past her lips. She had to know.

Olaf sneered. "What makes you think I'll answer any of your questions?"

She shrugged painfully, pretending apathy. "If. You. Want. To. Live." Violet was surprised at herself as well; yesterday, she would not have thought herself capable of such callousness. But she knew she had two young girls and a not-yet-grown brother to protect.

His eyebrow raised in feigned shock. "Well, Violet Baudelaire, I never would have expected such a thing from you! And you say you aren't a villain. Well, my dear, I have news for you: you are just as much a villain as I am."

She shook her head. "Never. Killed. Anyone. Not like you."

He laughed, eyes shining. "So you protest. But I can see through that façade of yours, right to the black heart you deny."

Tears filled her eyes, which she wiped away quickly. She knew she was not what Olaf said she was, and yet she knew her tears were those of uncertainty and guilt. She forced herself back to the task at hand: questioning the monster before her.

"How did you. Survive, Olaf?"

He watched her carefully. "So good to hear my name from your lips, you know. The disdain…and by the way, I didn't need to survive. I never died."

"But…we buried you. Next to Kit."

The shiny eyes that stared back from the dark rings on his face shone with even more amusement. "That was not me you buried. I suppose you remember a certain someone named Count Omar, hmm? Did I ever mention my twin brother and I are quite alike in appearance?"

The realization of his words knocked Violet back, and she gasped audibly, sending a painful spasm through her bruised throat. Olaf had never been on the island, never been on the boat…because his twin, Count Omar, had taken his place – taken his place easily, because none of the Baudelaires knew of his existence. They had simply thought The Daily Punctilio's typographic error was just that – a false name, nothing more. And the death of "Count Omar" that had taken place in the Town of VFD had only blinded them further: they had never known that the name had been borrowed from an actual, living person.

Violet realized this with a thrill of sheer terror, and backed away from Olaf to the corner, as far from the man as possible. Her action provoked a delighted laugh from the captive, who looked almost the happiest she had ever seen him.

"Now you see, my dear…I waited and waited, laying low until the time when I would finally be able to come to this island, where my useless brother had died just as I planned, to steal the Baudelaire fortune once and for all."

Violet felt almost relieved. "Okay. Have it."

"What?" Olaf's face had lost its triumph and now he looked simply shocked, as if he could not believe what he had heard.

"You can have it, Olaf. Just leave us alone." Violet knew she didn't need the money, only needed to know that the people she cared about were left in peace.

The man struggled to gather himself, and then smiled evilly. "You know, dearest Violet, there was a time when I would take the money and slit all of your throats before making my escape, but this time I believe I shall take your offer. Why, you may ask? Because, my dear, I have won. You are stranded on this wretched island, no friends to help you – and I get exactly what I want, and my friends will be returning to bring me home in triumph. Letting you live in misery is far crueler than a quick death."

Violet trembled in anger at his gloating speech. How dare he mock their suffering, their isolation. She stalked over to where Olaf sat, her hands balled into fists, and slapped him as hard as she was able across the face. Olaf was somewhat shocked. "Well, that was surprising. I expected your brother to resort to fisticuffs, but never such a lady as yourself. Had I made you my countess as planned so long ago, such behavior never would have been tolerated."

The leer in his eyes told Violet that he enjoyed the effect his detestable words had on her, and he continued, in a low, brusque tone. "The offer still stands, my dear. And I do believe you'll wish you had said 'yes'."

She contemplated hitting him again, but refrained because she knew he wanted her to given in to violence. Instead she turned and opened the door, hiding where Olaf could not see the paleness of her face. "Never. I'll sign over the fortune. Then you. Leave and never. Come back. Or I will. Kill you myself."

The last she heard before slamming the door was Olaf's high-pitched, victorious laughter echoing off the walls of his prison.

Chapter Text

True, there's been trouble and trickery, sir,
trembling and tribulations;
twitches from switches of hickory, sir,
you, sir, and your usurpations;
but my patience wears very thin

-- When You Play The Violin from "The Tragic Treasury"

Klaus was waiting for Violet when she slammed the door, locking Olaf in the chamber. "What did he say? Why is he here? How is he here?"

Violet led Klaus to the kitchen, where she poured a glass of cold water for herself and sat at the table, hands still shaking. The water calmed her throat enough so that she could almost speak normally.

"Klaus, the man we buried. It wasn't him, it was Count Omar…his twin."

Klaus's shocked and confused face prompted her to continue. "Count Omar really is – was – a person. Olaf's twin, who took us from the hotel. And brought us here. Omar, not Olaf, was shot and killed. Olaf was never here…he waited until we thought…" Violet couldn't continue, her throat closing as the realization of what had happened set in.

Klaus finished for her in a whisper. "Until we thought we were safe."

Silence settled as the brother and sister sat speechless. The whir of the ceiling fan far above was the only noise in the high-ceilinged room, despair catching in the blades and falling like dust.

"What are we going to do, Violet?"

She looked up at the frightened face of her younger brother. "He says he just wants the money. So we'll give it to him. He says his friends. Are coming to get him. He says he'll leave us alone here. If he gets the money."

Klaus gave her a hard look. "Do you believe him? Can we risk just signing over the money…and letting him go?"

"What would you do, Klaus? We can't kill him."

His hand hardened into a fist at his side, and when he spoke it was in a tone that scared her more than anger would. He was apathetic to the prospect he voiced: "Why not, Violet? Wouldn't that be more than justified? Wouldn't it?"

She shook her head so fast it almost made her dizzy. "No, Klaus. If we kill him, we're just like him. And we're not…we're not like him."

"I know. But sometimes…I wish I was."

She knew what he meant, and it made her heart ache.

The door to Olaf's cell opened, and the two eldest Baudelaire siblings entered, paper in the hand of one, and an antique yet still gleaming sword in the hand of the other. Violet turned to Sunny, who stood outside, key in hand.

"Remember, Sunny: don't let us out unless we give the signal. Only then. And as soon as you unlock the door, run back to Bee and stay with her until we come back."

The young girl nodded bravely, the fear in her eyes only overwhelmed by her love of Violet and Klaus. She shut the door, and the sound of the key turning in the lock sounded to Violet like the closing of a coffin lid, burying her and Klaus alive.

Olaf's eyes were closed when they walked around to face him. Violet prodded him with the sword she had been too afraid to let Klaus use; her brother instead held the contract that Violet had signed, giving their entire fortune to Count Olaf; now that she was of age, it was as simple as writing her name on a piece of paper, and what had been the source of so much grief was out of her hands. She almost felt relieved but her mind told her that Olaf was still dangerous, and she agreed.

The villain in question opened his eyes when Violet poked him and saw the paper Klaus held. "Is that it, orphans?"

Klaus nodded. "All of our money given to you, in a contract Violet signed in her own hand." He smiled wryly. "And if you're worried that she signed it with her left hand – well, I suppose it doesn't really matter once you've left the island. After all, how are we to leave and dispute your claim to our funds?"

Olaf threw his head back and laughed in delight. "Good point, orphan. Now, are you going to untie me so that I can leave?"

Violet and Klaus looked at each other, and Klaus bent to unwind the wire holding Olaf's legs to the chair. Violet kept her sword pointed at Olaf's throat, and the look he gave her was far from chaste. "I always did like a woman who could fence properly."

She glared in disgust and did not move. "If you try to run or hurt either of us. I'll slit your throat. You'll stay tied up until. We get to the shore. Then we wait for your…friends. If they try to harm us. We kill you."

"You'll be outnumbered."

"Try me." Violet's expression was so full of black rage and hatred that even Olaf questioned if he should just leave with the contract, rather than attempt the plan he had in mind. Then again, he pondered, revenge is always worth the effort, even if there was a struggle. And he might need verification for the contract, after all. Best to cover all the eventualities.

Klaus finished untying the wire from around Olaf's legs; it had stuck into the skin where the man's pants were torn, and bleeding welts had formed. Klaus felt no sympathy, and continued to untie Olaf from the chair, leaving his arms bound behind his back.

The man stood, towering over the Baudelaire orphans. For a moment, the three locked eyes and froze, Violet and Klaus tensing for a fight. But Olaf simply turned to the door and stood waiting. He spoke, facing away. "I won't harm you. I have what I want – what use are you to me now?"

Violet jammed the point of the sword into Olaf's back, standing at his side. "Quiet." She tapped on the door with her free arm, three quick raps and said as loudly as she could, "Horseradish."

The door opened to the sight of Sunny running down the passage as fast as her legs could carry her. Violet could feel Olaf's smirk but ignored it and shoved him forward.

The beach was cold despite the bright sun falling on the dunes. The water sloshed quietly against the shore, calm and regular. Klaus had led the trio to where Olaf had said the ship would arrive, and now they sat waiting for Olaf's henchmen to come for their leader. Hours had passed, and Klaus was becoming restless.

"How much longer, Olaf? You told us they would be here already."

The villain sat, feet buried in the sand, staring out at the water nonchalantly. "Maybe they got stuck in traffic," he sneered.

"Arrghhh!" Klaus reached for Olaf but Violet grabbed his arm with her free hand.

"Be patient, Klaus. Why don't you walk along the beach for a while, perhaps they'll appear farther down." She did not relish the idea of remaining alone with Olaf but she knew a skirmish was likely to occur if Klaus was provoked any further. He glanced at Olaf and back at her, and turned after she nodded in reassurance.

After he was out of earshot, Violet turned to Olaf and prodded him with the sword, pleased to see him wince. "Leave him alone, Olaf. Or I'll do more than just bruise."

The same look he had given her in the cell appeared on his face again: leering and pensive, his eyes shining. "You've turned into quite the little hellcat, orphan. Very spirited. I didn't think you had it in you to threaten a bound man. You'd make quite a villainess…or countess."

Violet felt a chill run through her. "You can't threaten my family's safety in exchange for my marrying you anymore, Olaf. I've already given you the Baudelaire fortune, there's no need."

He leaned toward her slightly, studying her face. "Who said it was a threat? If I didn't detest you so much that I wanted to strangle you, I think I might admire you, Violet Baudelaire." He looked surprised at the words he had spoken, and glowered. "Don't let that make you think I would pass up the opportunity to make your life miserable, orphan. You've put me through too much for me to just let you…be happy." He sneered at the idea of happiness.

Violet felt tired suddenly, weary of attempting to guard herself from Olaf. "You put yourself through what you've been through, Olaf. You chose to be how you are."

She looked away from his face, instead searching the horizon for Klaus, not seeing the shocked expression that crossed Olaf's face, nor the thoughtfully malicious one that appeared afterward.

Suddenly Klaus came running, materializing at the top of a dune. When he reached where Olaf and Violet sat, he yanked the villain to his feet and nodded to Violet. Olaf's henchmen had finally arrived.

Chapter Text

When a helping hand comes near
it becomes an empty glove
Things are not what they appear
starting with your hopes and dreams
Just one thing in life is clear:
nothing's ever what it seems

-- Things Are Not What They Appear from "The Tragic Treasury"

By the time the ship was close enough to see those aboard, the sun had lowered, leaving the sky a strange red-orange color. Violet shuddered, realizing that the color was that of blood. Her father had explained to her, one day long ago, the phrase 'Red at night, sailor's delight; red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.' She rather wished the phrase was reversed, and that Olaf and his entire horrible crew would drown far out at sea; glancing at Klaus, she knew by the look in his eyes that he was thinking the same thing.

Olaf, on the contrary, looked as if Christmas had arrived early. The gleeful triumph shining in his eyes below his single eyebrow was a look the Baudelaires had rarely seen before – and wished never to see again. Klaus shuddered and wished the ship would hurry and take the despicable man standing tied with wire on the beach as far away as he could be.

Aboard the vessel, which was a small ship that looked as if it had seen better days – both physically and morally – Olaf's crew watched the Baudelaires with malice, looking as if they would enjoy nothing better than slitting the orphans' throats and leaving the two to bleed out into the sand. Neither orphan could forget the long nights spent seeing those faces in the dark, threatening and terrible.

Klaus shoved Olaf, who fell to his knees in the sand. "Tell them that only one of them may come to collect you, and the rest must stay aboard."

Olaf snarled but yelled the directions to his crew, who had anchored the ship close to the shore. As one troupe member climbed aboard a small rowboat and began rowing to shore, Olaf turned from where he kneeled and spat at Klaus, "If your sister did not have that sword, boy, I would gouge out your eyes with my fingers this moment for your insolence."

This time it was Violet who responded without thinking. With fury clouding her mind at the thought of Olaf harming her beloved brother, she bashed him across the back with the sword, just hard enough to send him gasping into the sand face-first. Realizing that Olaf's entire crew was watching, she stepped back, anxious for the man who was now coughing sand out of his mouth to be on the ship, and out of her life forever.

Klaus touched her shoulder, and Violet turned to see that the rowboat had reached the shore, and that instead of the one man, three now stood on the shore – armed with pistols that gleamed in the evening sun. It was then that she realized that Olaf had not been coughing but laughing.

"Seize the girl, men. And get my damned hands free."

Several of the burlier henchmen wrenched the sword from Violet's hands and grabbed her arms, holding her hard enough to bruise. The angry metallic glare of sunlight that gleamed off the barrels of the guns silenced any attempt she would have made to fight back; she was bitterly aware that among the two of them, she and Klaus had only a flimsy sword to defend themselves with. And even more bitter was the knowledge that this time, they were truly powerless.

The only hope she had was that Olaf would overestimate their lack of power and let her brother, who was now being held much as she was after rushing to help his sister, go back to Sunny and Bee. Visions of the maimed bodies of those she loved swelled in nightmarish clarity in her mind's eye, and she fought back nausea. She knew that Olaf was capable – and even more willing – of destroying the Baudelaires.

So as Olaf stood, hands now free, and dusted himself off, she forced tears to come to her eyes with less effort than she would have thought, and wished her voice was still damaged enough that her sentences would be stilted and seem all the more pathetic.

"Olaf…please."

At the sound of the pitiful mewl of her voice, Olaf turned, victory gleaming in his eyes. "Was that really you, Violet Baudelaire, that just sounded like a little lost kitten? This is rich!" The laughter that spilled out from the looming man as he approached her, ignoring her captive brother, was maliciously cruel. "Aren't you going to fight me, hellcat? No brave words or glares? No devious plans? I had hoped better of you, orphan."

"No. I'm tired of fighting, Olaf. I just want the fight to be over, one way or the other. Just let Klaus go…and I'll do whatever you want." She was shocked to discover that, although she was hugely amplifying her despair in hopes that her submission would quell Olaf's murderous rage, she really did feel a large portion of it within herself. If she could but save her family, it would be worth sacrificing herself to the man she loathed and feared most in the world.

He bent down and wrenched her chin up with his long fingers, so that she had to look into his pale eyes.

"You know, Violet Baudelaire, I believe I may just do that – leave your brother here and take you hostage, that is." His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in closer. "And do you know why that is? Because you have lost everything and everyone you have ever had.You have lost."

And when he said this, final and echoing as the slam of the door to a tomb, she began to cry in earnest. Klaus too, finally ceased struggling in his captors' arms, and wept, because all Olaf had said was true. Were he and Sunny, baby in tow, going to build a raft, survive the whimsy of the sea, and find Olaf wherever he ran to and execute a daring, successful rescue? Were they going to find the world a safe haven, and live in a quiet home full of laughter and comfort?

No.

And as Olaf laughed, and his henchmen threw Klaus headfirst to lie weeping in the sand, and Violet was dragged to the ominous rowboat, one phrase echoed through her mind…"You have lost everything and everyone you have ever had. You have lost."

Violet raised her head for one last look at her only brother, and struggled against her captors in a last effort to save herself. She cried as she fought, and screamed to Klaus, "Don't forget me! Tell Sunny I love her! And take care of Bee! Klaus!"

And then she was wracked with sobs, and let the rowboat take her and her smug captor back to the ship and away from all she loved forever.

Chapter Text

All alone on a Sunday morning
Outside I see the rain is falling
Inside I'm slowly dying
But the rain will hide my crying, crying, crying
And you
Don't you know my tears will burn the pillow
Set this place on fire

-- All Cried Out by Allure

Olaf's men hauled the struggling Violet into the creaking rowboat and began paddling back to the ship, where the rest of his troupe leered from the deck, Cheshire cat smiles glowing menacingly and eerily silent down at the forlorn, trembling woman seated next to the man she feared most in the world. His leg was by necessity pressed against hers, and she fought the urge to retch. When she glanced up from under her lashes at him surreptitiously, she found he was looking down at her with a look that was thoughtfully wry and she hoped he could not read her thoughts by her expression.

She did not—could not—look away until the rowboat knocked against the side of the ship. Then again, why should she? This man, the detestable, murderous Count Olaf, now…owned her. And just when she was seriously considering throwing herself headfirst overboard, she was yanked out of the boat by a burly henchman and hauled by one of her arms up the rope ladder hanging precariously from the side of the ship and thrown sprawling onto the deck.

No longer was she the woman who had bravely threatened and forced Olaf with a sword, who had put on an act to save her love ones. Lying in a heap with one shoulder burning in pain, she hugged her injured limb to her body and tried to stand. She was simply a lost girl, one who desperately wanted someone to hold her and tell her everything was all right…or just to find a place to rest, where she would not have to worry about the knife-wielding enemy at her back.

She was not sure how long she had been encircled by Olaf's wretched crew, stranded amongst the unfriendly dregs of society that chose to follow the villain, but it was when she finally stood and turned to look for Klaus on the shore that she realized that the island was so far away that only a faint speck stood on the horizon as testament to all she had lost. Forgetting her arm, she shoved past the villains and braced herself on the edge of the boat, hands digging into the wood hard enough to send slivers painfully into her skin. Violet gritted her teeth as the tears came unstoppably. When she spoke, it was in sobs: "Klaus…Sunny…Bee. No, no, no…"

She knew she was becoming hysterical but did not care. Let them hurt her—what did she care? She had lost all rational thought and was now fueled by rage and grief. Her manic eyes scanned the crowd of minions, looking for the man who was just a bit taller than all the rest. And such was the power of all she had lost, that she acted without thinking when she saw him posed smirking near the back of the crowd.

"I want them back! Let me go, you filthy monster! Let me go!" As she spoke, she rushed toward Olaf and railed her fists into his chests, pummeling him with all the viciousness she could manage. She wanted him to suffer, to feel pain, to feel what she felt. He was shoved backwards and slammed against a mast by the power of her blows; no longer was Violet a willowy girl but a solid woman who was aided by the vehemence of her anger, no matter how childishly vulnerable she felt.

Olaf reacted quickly, grabbing her wrists and pulling her to his chest. She gasped at the closeness, feeling his hard chest against hers. She blushed and then paled, her cries decaying to whimpers. He bent his head down and she struggled against his grip, to no avail.

His lips brushed against her ear as he whispered, "Make me look foolish in front of my crew again and I'll slit your wrists and throw you to the sharks, dear."

The anger that had been suppressed by the immodesty of being held to an unfamiliar man's chest rose again and made her tone bitter. "Let go of me, sir, and I'll do my best to avoid doing so."

He shoved her away and snapped his fingers. Instantly, two lackeys grabbed her arms; this time, she did not struggle. "Throw her into the spare cabin and lock her in. Post two men as guards outside—I don't want our little inventor-ess to get any big ideas of escape." Olaf smiled and blew her a kiss as she was hauled away. "I'll have a chat with you later, hellcat."

The last noise she heard before being thrown headfirst into the gloom of the cabin was laughter, a cacophony of malicious, victorious guffaws that echoed across the ship's creaking timbers.

There were no windows in the cabin that was more cell than room, nor any loose boards or exits other than the door Violet had been heaved through, she discovered in what she guessed were several hours since she had been locked into the dark space.

She had found a lamp in one of the corners and had managed despite the black murk to use her inventing skills to repair it enough that it let off a dim glow and illuminated the bleakness of her situation, both the boundaries of her physical captivity and the gloomy outlook on her future.

The worst was perhaps the conundrum over Olaf's life: she should kill the man as soon as she could, even if she was harmed in the process. He had killed, lied, stolen, destroyed, and generally wreaked irreparable havoc wherever he went, and for that he deserved to die more than anyone she knew. Yet…could she take a life? What right had she, no matter how villainous he may be, to kill Olaf? He deserved punishment, revenge, retribution…but could she do it? Could she look into his eyes as the life left his body and live with the reality of what she had done? The trembling in her splinter-filled hands told her that, at the very least, killing her worst enemy would leave scars that would take years—if not a lifetime—to heal.

As time passed and the sounds of drunken revelry filtered in from the deck, she sat and contemplated many dark thoughts. Several times Violet heard Olaf's voice rise above the others in a hoarse, laughing shout—no doubt boasting of his success in finally securing the Baudelaire fortune and herself. She hugged herself with her sore hands and let the tears leak from her eyes unheeded.

One thing she knew without a doubt: she would not go back, if she ever did escape. The horrifying image of her siblings and adopted Bee lying lifeless in the sand was enough to make her promise to herself that never again would they have to face the terror that was Count Olaf. She would protect them in any way she could—even if that meant she remained in Olaf's clutches for the rest of her miserable life.

This pact so disheartened her that she slouched, lying with her face pressed against the floorboards, and let the tears flow freely, her lids growing heavier. It was only when the door opened abruptly and light poured into her wretched prison that she awoke, aided by a swift kick to the ribs that made her gasp in surprise and pain.

It was not Olaf but one of his new henchmen that hauled her roughly up the stairs by the same arm that was still tender from the previous day's abuse. The sun had risen almost to its highest point; she guessed the time to be just before noon. Many of the henchmen lounged on the deck playing cards or talking while smoking, some of the women sunbathing as much as possible in their heavy garments. Several of the men leered at her as she was dragged past them to a door, upon which her transport knocked loudly before swinging it open and tossing her inside like so much sack flour.

Of course, she had to land on her sore arm. Violet hoped it was not sprained, and thought of materials to make a splint before remembering that she had worse troubles: she was, so to speak, the lamb in the lion's den. She rose awkwardly, rearranging her dirty dress as best as she was able before looking up—and seeing Olaf watching her reflection in the mirror that sat atop his dressing stand. Their eyes locked and she shivered in fear.

"Hello, prisoner. I'll deal with you after I finish dressing." His tone was amused at her sorry state, and still celebratory.

Had her gaze not been caught by his when she came in—or rather, was thrown in—she would have seen immediately that his state of undress was far too inappropriate, and she now turned her back with a embarrassed blush. Olaf wore a dingy neckcloth but his shirt hung unbuttoned so that his almost skeletal chest lay bare and exposed to her horrified eyes. She thanked all the heavens that at least the man was dressed properly from the waist down; she might have died of the shock. Goodness knew that she had been raised in a proper, decent family and as a modest young lady had never seen a man so…so underdressed…before in her life.

"S-sir…" Now she trembled as she had never trembled. She had had her life, her happiness, and her loved ones threatened before—but those threats felt almost old hat compared to this entirely new threat. She had barely even thought about such things, having grown up running from place to place in her quest for safety, but she knew that this was not the context in which such things should be thought about.

"Is something bothering you?" His tone was the one she had heard too many times when Olaf had thought himself victorious over her and her siblings, one of black humor that did not bode well for those it was directed at.

She chanced turning around and found to her relief that he was now fully, properly clothed: he had done up his shirt, slipped on a dark blue satin vest and a heavy dark coat, and put on a pair of shiny black boots that she suspected would probably make contact with her poor ribs at some point in the near future. He had turned in his chair and was now reclining, sly as a cat, in her direction, a smile making his eyes glint in the light.

She sighed and when she spoke, the desperation of grief, hunger, pain, and fatigue prevented her from tempering her speech in a more self-protective manner.

"Is something bothering me? How many times will I have to suffer through this, this always looking over my shoulder? You have what you want—you said yourself that I have nothing left. So can't you just leave me be? Or would it make you feel better to just 'murder me with your bare hands', as you once put it so eloquently?"

His eyebrow rose so high she thought it would fly off his face and run for safer shores. "Well, well! First I am threatened with the sharp end of a sword by Violet Baudelaire, and then I am verbally accosted with her sharp-edged wit! Those two years alone on the island have changed you, I see."

"What changed me was watching everyone I loved or befriended taken from me by you and your henchmen, Olaf. I'm not the girl that you tried to dupe so long ago—and I'm no longer blinded by my stupidity. I know that I'm only alive because your whim allows me to be. "

Olaf no longer slouched but stood, hands balled into fists. "And I have not lost anything? You were not the only one to lose parents, orphan! All I wanted was your damn money." His voice had turned into a growl and anger colored his eyes.

Violet was terrified of the villain that now stood before her where before there was only a contemptible but—for the time—nonviolent man. But she could not stop the words that spilled from her lips, as if they had built up all the time Olaf had been chasing her over hill and dale, and now could not wait to be voiced.

"If all you wanted was our…money, then why am I still standing here? You don't just need money, you need power—you feed on greed and fear, because otherwise you would see how weak you really are!"

With a roar, Olaf shoved Violet against the door and held her upper arms captive, hard enough that she cried out in pain. "Do you want me to kill you? I'm not the sort of man that refuses the wish of a man, or woman, who wants to die!"

His face was inches from hers for the second time in as many uncomfortable days, and his proximity reminded her of just how stupid she had been to challenge a man she knew was far too capable of killing. She could not speak, only trembled, as their eyes remained locked—his clouded with rage, hers with fear.

"I just want to be left alone." Her voice was a tiny whisper that she could not keep from shaking. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to fly into a rage that would this time be fatal…but no blow fell.

"Don't we all…" She was not sure she heard him speak, but then he spoke louder, more roughly. "Open your eyes."

Her lids raised with the weariness of constant heartache and worry but tempered with the surprise of continued existence. The depth of feeling that welled in the brown orbs that met Olaf's grey eyes almost made him look away. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of his many victims—but had he ever really paid attention, ever really cared to look for the pain and fear he saw there?

"I'm not going to kill you, so stop flinching around or flying into rages, orphan. You and I both know that's what you want, and I have a feeling you'll turn out to be useful somewhere along the line."

She believed him, foolish as it may be to do so. Her eyes searched his, wondering for not the first time how such a cruel, twisted man had come to be.

She spoke quietly, without rage, only a sad sort of pity that she did not realize existed within some dusty corner of her grieving heart. "What has the world done to you, that you must ruin what it has given others? What do you want, that you keep trying to find or steal?"

Her soft, sincere words were unexpected—as was his reaction. His arms gripped hers even tighter but he could not look at her, suddenly intense with some feeling she couldn't name.

"Would it be too much for me to have the power that I need to make myself happy? Everyone seems to think so. I had everything taken from me, so I am taking it back. What is so damned hard for the world to figure out? Do I not deserve what everyone else has, and more, for what I have struggled through?"

Suddenly Violet realized with clarity so intense that she almost shook: Olaf was not simply the murderous madman that killed and lied and destroyed so many lives. He was far more complex than she had ever had much time to think about, a man with a life of his own—and a heart more damaged than any she had ever encountered. Perhaps he had begun as a boy much like her brother, slowly becoming more and more rage-filled and violent with every passing disappointment. She had seen what Olaf's pursuit had done to Klaus, what havoc it had wreaked. Violet thought the effect of the weeks, months, years of hate and bitterness that Olaf had lived through…

"You once asked me, 'What else can I do?' You can stop, Olaf. You can take what money you have from my family and let others be. You can be satisfied knowing that you have a captive and a fortune within your power. You can stop and…" She paused, and then spoke. "…find somewhere where the world is quiet."

He laughed bitterly. "Is that what you think? That things can go back to the way they were, with that wretched V.F.D. 'making the world better.' Never mind the fact that they too killed in the name of what they thought was right. No one is strong enough to change themselves that much, Baudelaire—not you or I, not your precious parents, not…The world is not the happy place you and your siblings want it to be, and it never will be."

Violet hoped, wished, prayed that somehow, if she could make this bruised man see what she tried to see in the world, maybe another family like hers would be able to live in peace and never have to survive what she had. A glimmer of hope, fragile and transparent, lurked at the corner of Olaf's battered soul—and she knew that if she could not change him, no one else would ever be able to. She had to try, for her family's sake…and her own.

Before she could attempt to speak, a rough knock landed on the door inches above her head, making her jump. Olaf did not let go of her, and his eyes did not leave hers, but he growled, "What is it? You'd better not be disturbing me and the prisoner for anything trivial, henchman."

A dry cackling chorus met this statement, and Violet blushed rosily at the thought of what the sailors must think was occurring in the cabin.

"Cap'n, we've spotted land ahead. A few more minutes and we'll reach the shore."

"Get to work then!" As the henchman's footsteps faded away, Olaf finally released Violet but did not back away, rather leaned in close enough to make her heart begin pounding with anxiety. "Just remember this…you have always thought of yourself and your precious friends as righteous and true and people who want what they deserve as evil. Let me tell you, child, the older you get the more muddy that water becomes—and I cannot wait to see the day when you finally learn the truth behind the lies."

Olaf turned, laughing evilly, and Violet ran to the corner farthest from him, holding herself and praying she had the strength she needed to do what needed to be done—and trying to convince herself that what Olaf said was not true. She barely noticed his show of searching for the contract giving him the Baudelaire fortune and kissing it gleefully when it was found, a show geared entirely toward provoking her misery.

"LAND HO!"

The cry that rang from the deck made Olaf race out of the cabin, and Violet followed—she did not want to be locked in the cold and dark again. When she reached the deck, all the crew were bustling about their assorted jobs, and Olaf stood at the front of the ship next to the steering wheel in an outrageous pose, one leg resting on a ledge and one arm bent with a fist on his hip, as if imitating the figures of epic art.

Violet walked past him, ignoring his ridiculous pomposity, and peered across the foggy water to try and make out their destination. She did not notice Olaf glance around to see if anyone was watching him act handsome and triumphant, and stalk towards her when he realized that he was being ignored by all.

She turned to him, reluctant to speak but curiosity had the better of her. She realized with a sinking feeling that the true test, whether she would survive once Olaf returned to his stronghold to attempt gaining the Baudelaire fortune legally and put into place whatever other horrid schemes he had planned, would soon be upon her.

"Where are we?"

He looked down at her with a disdainful, thoughtful frown.

"Briny Beach."

Chapter Text

Something mysterious falls to the earth
Maybe a blessing, maybe a curse…
The brightest flash begins our darkest of days
Something sinister appears in the haze.

-- Look To The Skies by Creature Feature

Violet wished for nothing more than to go back in time to that day on the beach so long ago, one so similar, with fog roiling in the air and the water cold and bleak, when she had learned of her parents' deaths. It had been so long since that day, when she had naively thought the weather to be her biggest concern—or perhaps whatever invention she had been working on at the time. Her friends would still be alive, she would be with her family, and she would never have met Count Olaf. The miserable day at Briny Beach when her life had changed forever would have been ordinary–nothing more than a boring, foggy day.

Yet here she stood, alone, with the wolf not at the door but standing right next to her.

While Olaf and his henchmen unloaded what they needed from the ship, obscured from the view of distant passersby by the fog, she wandered down the beach as far as she dared, still within eyesight of her captors but far enough away that she could breathe a sigh of relief. Spotting a boulder to perch on, she sat and gazed as far out to sea as the fog allowed. In some ways, her past was now as separate from her as the sea was from the land, divided by either fog or cruel twist of fate.

Her gaze drifted across the sand, to where a smooth stone stuck out of the grains. It felt cool against her sweaty skin when her fingers plucked it from the ground. She flipped it over and over again, studying its contours. At one end, a small spiral shell's fossil was a bright spot against the rest of the dark stone. Had she really ever been that girl, so innocent, that had once tossed a stone like this one into the deep water only a few feet from where Violet now sat?

Yes. Her fingers curled around the stone and slipped it into her pocket. It would serve as a reminder not to be led astray. If indeed Olaf had at some point been good, something had led him down the path to villainy and cruelty…and she would do everything in her power to prevent taking that same path. The small fossil in her pocket would be a symbol of all she had been through—and her link to the poor girl that had been destroyed, turned to ash and dust just as her home had been.

A rather lopsided, egg-shaped henchman with several days' stubble on his chin and very few teeth lumbered down the beach towards her. She stood, expecting to be pulled back to the crowd, and was not disappointed. His callused hands dug into already-present bruises but she did not wince, simply let him tow her back to where Olaf stood bantering with his troupe.

"Well, I see you've finally decided to join us again, Miss Baudelaire!" He grinned with gusto, posing again for his amused lackeys. "Didn't think you'd get away that easily, now, did you?" Laughter broke out sporadically, and then increased with Olaf's glare; most of the henchmen were, however, in good spirits, anticipating the rewards that lay ahead if their leader's plan succeeded. And this plan, more than any so far, seemed to be headed in the right direction—

"To the bank!"

As the group lurched forward towards Mulctuary Money Management, Olaf yanked Violet away from his toothless cohort and pulled her alongside him, so that to the unknowing eye they appeared to be strolling arm-in-arm just as any loving couple might on their daily walk about town–accompanied by a large group of society's worst and least clean citizens. He smiled down at her, looking almost happy.

"Now, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but try running or making a scene—"

"—yes, yes, you'll cut my throat and kill me. Isn't this all getting a bit repetitive? I'm not going to run. I've already told you that, Olaf."

His face darkened and he squeezed her arm until she yelped. "Good. Don't get uppity with me, wench, or I may find killing you to be preferable. You're still my captive, don't forget."

She wasn't likely to need reminding. Compared to her past experiences with the man, he was almost being civil. Violet wondered if his mood would last past the trip to the bank…and shuddered to think of what would befall her if the transaction did not go through.

Walking the streets of the city she had once considered her home made Violet's stomach twist with cruel sadness. The last time she had travelled to the bank…she shook the bleak memories from her mind as they reached the bank's massive doors.

Olaf dragged Violet up the steps and raised his fist to the henchmen behind him in triumph. "Wait here, and in a few short minutes, a fortune shall be mi–ah, ours!"

The small, frightening group cheered with malicious glee and greedy celebration as Violet was pulled through the heavy doors, which slammed behind her and her captor with a thud not unlike the crash of a casket lid on a corpse. Violet almost expected to see the phlegmatic, nervous Mr. Poe behind the desk but instead the two were greeted by a squat, dour matron whose nametag read: "Please ask me how I can cheer up your day!"By getting me out of here, Violet thought.

"Well, now, what can I do for you today, sir?"

Olaf smiled, eyes shining brightly, and presented the paper Violet had signed for the woman's inspection. "I would like to withdraw the entirety of the account. My wife and I are moving, and we will unfortunately have to switch banks."

The woman squinted at the writing on the crumpled page, studying it much as a jeweler would inspect a diamond for imperfections. She looked at Olaf, then Violet, then Olaf again. "Violet Baudelaire? This you, then?"

Violet hesitated until the viselike grip of Olaf's fingers almost made her yelp. "Y-yes, that's me. Is everything in order?" She attempted to sound confident but knew she sounded more like a lost little girl than an assured young woman.

Suddenly, a thought tore through to the front of her mind, sending an icy shiver down her spine: did the woman recognize Violet's name as that of a fugitive from the law? If the teller suddenly knew she was assisting an alleged criminal, would the police arrive to arrest her, only to have Olaf free to flee? Or worse, return for another of the Baudelaire siblings to try again?

She knew that the only way to ensure no trouble would be to play along with Olaf's wretched ploy of their being a young wife eager to arrive at her new home. Swallowing her disgust in favor of self-preservation, Violet pouted like a spoiled debutante.

"Darling, how long is this going to take? The movers will arrive before we do, and they won't know where I want to put things!"

Olaf turned toward her, completely flabbergasted. "What?"

"Time, darling! It's such a long drive and you know how tired I get after car trips. I don't want to start out too late." She widened her eyes meaningfully in Olaf's direction, praying that he understood, and leaned against his shoulder as if exhausted.

An invisible switch clicked in his mind. He was shocked by the ingenious of the plan Violet had come up with–and wondered why he had not thought of it. "Ah…honeycakes, it will only be a minute, I'm sure. Are we all set, then–er, ma'am?"

Smiling slightly at the display of ridiculous love in front of her, the clerk nodded and headed to the back of the bank, disappearing behind a thick metal safe's door. As soon as she was out of sight, Violet scrambled to return to a safe distance from her captor and received a raised eyebrow and a smirk from Olaf.

"Well. You're quite the little liar, aren't you?"

"I'm just trying to save my own skin, Olaf, you know that." She did not like the leering look he gave her.

"I don't know about that, orphan. You seemed rather eager to rest your weary head on my shoulder, after all."

"You disgust me. Let me go." She tried to pull away from him but he jerked her closer to his side.

"I think not." The sound of footsteps caused both of them to freeze. "Back in place. Now."

She obeyed, wrapping an arm around Olaf's waist in what appeared to be a loving embrace, and staring at him in a manner that she hoped seemed dumbly adoring. Their eyes locked, and each searched the other's eyes–but neither would have been able to say what they were looking for.

The clerk reappeared, carrying several black paper binders. "Well then, here's the entire account, in high-denomination bills. Would you like to examine them?"

Olaf broke eye contact with Violet and turned to smile joyfully at the clerk. "No, no need, my good woman. We must go, it's a long trip and I wouldn't want my precious dear to grow fatigued while I count bills. Er, I hope you have a pleasant day."

He stacked the folders in one arm, catching Violet's hand with his free one. They turned to leave and had almost reached the door when the clerk's voice stopped them in their tracks. "Wait a minute."

Olaf turned, thunderclouds forming on his brow. "Yes?" Violet did not dare turn, simply closed her eyes and waited for the accusation to come.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought…your wife looks awfully familiar. She isn't famous, is she?" The clerk's jovially conspiratorial tone would have been more expected from a giddy schoolgirl than a bank worker.

Olaf turned back, a quizzical smile on his face as Violet's eyes met his. He turned back to the clerk. "No, no, she just looks like one of those girls…you know, the ones in that movie." Before the clerk could reply, he had dragged Violet through the doors and out into the dim sunlight.

Olaf and Violet had barely let the doors close behind them when they were surrounded by henchmen pawing at the folders, each lackey worked into a frenzy by the success of the plan–one of Olaf's few plans to, well, go as planned. Their leader smiled benevolently for a moment, enjoying the celebration of his victory, before barking, "Enough!" and forcing the henchmen down the steps to a safe distance.

"Now then, friends! We finally have the Baudelaire fortune!" Olaf struck a pose, much to the delight of his cheering assistants. "After long years of tragic defeat, we have succeeded in obtaining the riches we so deserve from the bratty orphans!"

Violet ignored the rest of his speech and instead began looking for ways to escape. Now that Olaf had what he wanted from her, she doubted her life would last much longer if she remained where she was. She had dreaded this day for so long: the day when the lives of her and her siblings would no longer be protected by the elusiveness of their money.

The henchmen had formed a circle around the steps that looked impenetrable – and she did not want to call attention to herself by attempting to shove past them. She was rapidly becoming more and more panicked, desperately searching for an escape she knew was not going to appear…but her attention snapped back to what was taking place before her when angry cries echoed from the mob that fenced she and Olaf in.

"What do you mean, we don't get the money now?" "Yeah, you told us we'd split the fortune!" "Yeah!"

Olaf looked annoyed. "You heard me! You'll all get paid once I find somewhere to set up base, and–"

"Hey, wait a minute! We want our money now!" "He's trying to trick us so he gets to keep all the money himself!"

More and more angry voices raged up from the mass. Panic returned to flutter in Violet's chest. Suddenly, someone shouted, "Get him!" and the henchmen surged forward. She turned to run but one of the henchmen saw her movement and screamed, "The bitch is getting away!"

Now, cries of "It's all her fault!" and "Kill her!" joined those calling for Olaf's blood–exactly the situation Violet had prayed would not occur. As the henchmen raced up the steps, Violet closed her eyes and prepared for the end. Would it be best to try to run, or stay and fight while she could?

A yank on her arm made her eyes pop open, and then Olaf was dragging her down through the sparsest side of the mob towards the main road. As they tore through the mass of bodies, several of the irate men and women managed to land sturdy, rage-filled blows on her face and body before she and Olaf were through, and he was hailing a taxi with the arm still carrying the black folios.

Almost as if by magic, a black car appeared. Violet was dragged inside, and the car sped away from the now-running mob into the grey fog. She leaned back against the seat and let a sob of fear and relief escape her before she remembered exactly who she was sitting next to. Olaf, having given directions that she had not heard to the driver, was turned sideways, watching for his betrayed lackeys through the back window.

"Why did you save me?" She could not believe that the man who had tried to kill her so many times in her not-so-long life had just saved her from what would have been, for him, a most convenient way to rid the world of the annoyance that was Violet Baudelaire. She was completely, utterly surprised. Had Olaf actually…done something good?

"You're bleeding, orphan." He glanced at her face without emotion, and threw a handkerchief at her that looked like it sorely needed the attention of some water and laundry soap. Violet lifted a hand to her face and winced when her fingers touched a rather large cut across her forehead. She pressed the handkerchief against the wound and repeated her question.

"Why did you save me, Olaf?"

He looked as if he was not exactly sure how to answer her query. He sneered to hide his confusion–a front whose transparency she suspected he knew she was able to see through. "Well, I'm not going to doing everything for myself–you might come in useful as a servant until my other men arrive. Besides, I suppose you did just give me all your money…that's not to say I won't decapitate you later, but for now I need someone to order around."

"Other henchmen? But …"

Olaf laughed mockingly. "Stupid girl, you didn't think I'd just keep those idiots around, did you? Especially when I never planned on giving any of them even a cent of my money?"

"My money, you mean. My family's money."

"No, my money. Anyway, my second group of assistants should be arriving at our new headquarters a day or so after we get there, so don't go trying to escape. I'm not unwilling to just shoot you if you try anything, orphan."

Violet was very confused. One minute the man saved her from his lackeys, the next he was threatening her with violent death. It seemed to her that an unconscious battle was beginning to emerge from within her captor's twisted soul…maybe she still could change him, at least make him give up whatever plans he had…

"And why do you need your henchmen? What are you going to do now that you have the money?"

He smiled evilly. "That's for me to know, and you not to know, orphan."

Violet checked to see if her head was still bleeding but the flow appeared to have ceased. She looked at the handkerchief, embroidered with a large, simple "O" in the corner in what was now both dirty and bloodstained blue thread. She wondered who had done the sewing, a mother or sister or lover now long gone from his life. The pathetically homey touch, splattered with gore, made her eyes tear up suddenly with a feeling she couldn't name.

She stared at the handkerchief and said quietly, "My name is Violet. Not orphan or wench. Violet."

Olaf studied her bent head thoughtfully, and then forced her chin up with his hand not gently so that she was forced to look at him. "It never ends, you know. Never…Violet," he almost spat.

It was then that she realized that Olaf appeared a bit blurry. "Why not?"

Olaf seemed to notice as well, and watched her eyes carefully, sizing her up almost as if he was a dog groomer studying a canine for show. "You're not going to be much good to me as a servant if you have a concussion. I suppose you'll have to do, though, won't you?" His disgusted tone indicated more concern for his own inconvenience than the fact that she had a serious wound.

She felt dizzy, as if the stress of all she had endured, coupled with the gash on her forehead, had drained her of all her strength. Not quite sure if it was a good idea or even if she had decided to do so, she suddenly grabbed both of Olaf's wrists desperately.

"Why can't it end? Why can't you just give up hurting people? Why can't you just begood?"

Not for the first time that day, Olaf was shocked by the daring of his captive. Would he have had the strength…dare he think, the bravery…to confront his captor–and more than once, at that. He was about to reply with his usual facetious mockery when Violet's eyes rolled upwards and she slumped forward against his chest, unconscious.

He could feel the heat of her now feverish body against his, burning through his shirt. The girl was probably seriously ill, perhaps dying. He knew he should just throw her out of the cab to be found alongside the road…but he hesitated, and in that moment, saw something in himself that frightened him more than he had been scared in a long time. He did not know why but he could not bring himself to throw Violet Baudelaire, plague and fouler of almost all of his plans, to her death.

And he had actually saved her life earlier–actively prevented one of his worst nemeses from meeting a death that he should have relished. What was happening to him?

He did not move her off of his chest but rapped sharply on the glass separating the driver from his passengers. "Are we about there yet? It really isn't that far away, fool."

The driver glared at him with bloodshot eyes. "It's right there." He slammed his foot down on the break, jerking Olaf and unconscious Violet almost into the seat backs in front of them.

"Good. Here's your fee, now get the hell out of here." Olaf threw the money at the man, and the bills fluttered around the front of the cap like green butterflies.

Ignoring the man's comment of "Hey!" Olaf picked up Violet and carried her away from the idling vehicle, past unkempt but strangely shaped bushes to the building that loomed from the fog, greenish windows condensed with dew.

Olaf moved Violet to hang over his shoulder, and, switching the black folios to the hand holding Violet, forced open the rusty and dented metal door with his free hand.

The room he entered was large and open, filled with stacks of books and empty containers. Light came in from above, tinted a strange verdigris. Olaf set Violet on a moldy, vermin-chewed chaise lounge and the folios on a splintered table before standing to look around him at not-unfamiliar surroundings.

"At this hour lies at my mercy all mine enemies...merrily, merrily shall I live now. Merrily indeed."

He threw back his head and laughed the laugh of the triumphant, and the sound echoed off the ruins that he had helped create.

Chapter Text

Within the heat of passion's war,
Lust is spilled upon the floor.
Staining red the wasted metaphor
The selfish need for something more,
Claws in vain at closing doors

-- Violet by The Birthday Massacre

Almost a third of the money from the black folders had been counted into piles on a table in what had been the dining room. Olaf stopped for a moment to crack his fingers and chuckle gleefully to himself. A half-empty liquor bottle lay next to another drained bottle on the floor next to his chair. Now that he had the Baudelaire fortune, perhaps he would buy himself a house—a real house, not the dump he had lived in while housing the orphans. A huge place, like the one he sat in…only more suited to his style. Maybe toss up a few paintings of eyes here and there to add to the décor.

Olaf's head was full of similar drunken musings when a shrill, frightened scream sliced through his foggy consciousness. He was instantly awake, startled into sobriety, and grabbed the knife resting under his chair before creeping cautiously into the hallway. The scream had come from the library where he had left the girl…and if something had attacked her—well, he wasn't about to be its next victim. Having reached the doorway unscathed, he quickly pushed aside what was left of the rotting wood to see Violet no longer sitting on the chaise lounge but instead sobbing on the floor in the middle of the room.

He did not approach her rapidly; instead, he continued to keep one eye on his surroundings as he brandished the knife. "What the hell is going on in here? Is there a reason for the drama, or do you just like annoying me, orphan?"

Violet looked up and her face contorted into a horrified expression so full of fearful loathing that Olaf was taken aback. She babbled to herself, more afraid of him than she had ever appeared when they had met face-to-face in their long history of confrontation.

"P-please don't hurt me, Count Olaf! I swear, I'll run away and n-never turn you in. J-just leave us alone, don't hurt us!"

It was then that Olaf realized that the fever that had caused Violet to faint was now causing her to hallucinate, her worst fears becoming reality to an overwhelming degree. He was not sure how to approach her, only that he had to stop her from doing anything too crazy—he would decide exactly why he felt the need to do so later.

Setting down the knife none too eagerly, Olaf attempted to move closer to Violet, which only made her back farther away. Sighing, he tried a technique that he had been taught with animals as a young child…one of the only things he still cared to retain from his distant childhood.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He tried to keep his voice low and soothing, and kneeled to one knee in an attempt to make himself look less intimidating. He reached out a hand slowly and let it hang open in front of him, outstretched towards the scared young woman.

"Y-you're going to kill my family! You killed my parents, and then Uncle Monty! You'll k-kill me too!"

Her fear was so pure, almost childlike. She could have been five and speaking of the monster hiding in her closet…except that her fears were all too based in murderous reality. A wrenching feeling flickered in his chest, a painful spasm that he could not identify.

"I won't harm you or your family. Come here…it's going to be all right."

She still would not move, only trembled like a small mouse facing a giant, hungry cat. Then an idea formed that he prayed would work.

"Please, Violet. Come here."

Violet jumped at the sound of her name…and that sound above all convinced her that she was not in immediate danger—after all, the real Count Olaf would never call her anything but "orphan" or "wench" or "girl", never her given name. Even in her fevered, weakened state—or perhaps because of it—she thought this true, and took the crouched man's hand timidly.

Olaf helped her stand and then realized he had very little idea of what to do with her. The wound on her head had begun to trickle a thin stream of blood down the side of her face, which she had not noticed in her state. Perhaps he could put her in the room she had stayed in so long ago…back when she and her siblings had first escaped his clutches and come to stay with their snake-crazy uncle.

He studied her ashen face carefully. "Can you walk, girl—ah, Violet?"

In response, her eyes rolled back and she slumped over, caught seconds before she crashed to the tile by the now somewhat annoyed man who held her in his arms for the second time that day. Somewhat disgusted, he bent his long limbs and scooped up his prisoner in his arms.

As he made his way out of the library and up the stairs, Olaf felt the girl shift restlessly in his arms, still delusional from her fever. Though her hands reached out and clung to his shirt-front, her eyes remained closed, restlessly moving behind their lids. She began babbling a mixture of sounds and words in which his own name was almost as common as those of her siblings.

Olaf pushed open the rotting door to the room and unfolded the bed sheets with one hand, finding the layer least covered in debris to place Violet upon. The spacious bathroom down the hall held a supply medical items that was extensive but probably expired; he grabbed what he needed anyway and returned to the bedroom.

It took him almost half an hour to sew up the cut on her forehead, and to do so he was forced to tie her arms to the bedposts to stop her thrashing from causing further injury. Olaf doubted she could feel much through her raging fever but had still applied some ice from the kitchen freezer while he searched for the needle and thread in the kit. After he had finished, a small dose from one of the amber bottles stopped her violent movements and allowed her to sink into sleep, but he had not been sure enough to give it to her before fixing the wound. A voice in the back of his mind asked him why he didn't simply dose his captive with the entire bottle, a notion which bothered him almost as much as the fact that it bothered him.

He returned to the kitchen, where half a bottle of liquor and a large sum awaited him, both to be taken care of before his new henchmen arrived.

Violet woke feeling as if she was lying in a cloud. At first, her vision was blurred and she could barely move, but after several minutes the fog had lifted enough for her to sit up…and realize where she was. She did not scream, despite everything in her being that desired to do so, but simply gazed around her at the room she had lived in so briefly after escaping Olaf's clutches for the first of many times.

Despite its decrepitude, the room that had once been hers there in Uncle Monty's house was relatively untouched by time and weather. A small portion of the ceiling had caved in and a thick layer of dust covered just about every surface, but Violet thought she could still smell the now-crumpled violets that had crusted to the glass vase atop the dresser. Monty had spent so much time making the room seem cheerful.

Spotting her reflection in the grime-spattered mirror next to the vase, Violet was surprised at how haggard she appeared. Someone—Olaf?—had stitched her wound shut tidily…but she did not remember anyone tending to the cut, only sitting next to Olaf inside the cab, and a horrible heat that she knew was fever. Her clothes and body were dirty, the only clean spot around the gash. She looked like she had throughout her ordeal at the Caligari Carnival and her journey up Slippery Slope…like she was on the run from the law, a filthy fugitive. The eyes that watched her from the mirror were cold in their appraisal.

Violet forced the door of the closet open, fighting a small pile of debris, and discovered that the clothes Monty had bought for her and her siblings still hung, albeit limply, on their hangers. She dug to the back of the closet to where Monty had reverentially placed a few of his deceased wife's dresses. Violet remembered him fondly telling her, "The poor dear would have loved to know you were wearing her fine dresses, darling. You'll look wonderful in them...as beautiful as your mother, you are." She missed his kind eyes, and had to stop to wipe her own before choosing a long, midnight blue day dress with a delicate white lace collar that had thankfully not been devoured by moths. A slightly heeled pair of black shoes, still new in their box, still fit her feet.

Before turning back to the mirror, she dug through the rest of the closet until she found a lone white ribbon—somewhat dirty but still useable. This time, she trembled at her reflection. Her face was still dirty but the dress and ribbon had transformed her into a new woman…but whether that woman was Uncle Monty's wife or Violet's own mother she could not say. She looked as if she belonged to the group that had cost the two women, and so many others, their lives. She looked like one of the VFD – all of whom had been slain by the man who had saved her life.

She hugged herself and willed herself not to cry in confusion, instead leaving the reflection of the past and quietly descending the stairs.

While checking one of the sitting rooms, she heard boisterous voices coming from what sounded like the library and laboratory. She made her way there briskly, unsure of what would occur between her and her captor…but filled with a new resolve. She was capable, healed if not whole in body and mind, and prepared to continue her mission. The fact that she was alive stood testament to the spark of good she had so long sought in Olaf, and she was resolved to make him see that it existed.

Violet pushed the glass door open, and Olaf and the large group of henchmen—perhaps twenty-five, perhaps fifty—that stood inside the laboratory turned. She had expected their attention, but what she did not expect was the reaction that her appearance prompted: Olaf leapt backward as if she had pointed a gun toward him.

His pale face indicated to what degree he was shaken—and the fact that he had been unable to maintain composure in front of his henchmen. "Christ, orphan. I-I thought you were Beatrice for a moment…Christ."

The sound of his voice, and of her mother's name, sent a thrill of apprehension through Violet as she waited for what would happen next. Olaf's henchmen had arrived, he had the Baudelaire fortune at his command, and enough bitterness to cause the world an eternity of painful penance.

Chapter Text

Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions,
Oh let's go back to the start…

I was just guessin' at numbers and figures,
Pullin' the puzzles apart.

Questions of science, science and progress,
Do not speak as loud as my heart.

-- The Scientist by Coldplay

In an instant, Olaf had recovered…and the look in his eyes told Violet that she would probably pay dearly for causing him to lose face in front of his followers. The shock had been glazed over by pretension and bravado, and whatever weakness she had glimpsed had been hidden. Yes, she had her dress and her faith in herself, but Olaf had cruelty and a mob. The resolve she had so recently renewed began to falter despite her attempts to cling to it.

Olaf stood and dragged her roughly towards him, calling for the attention of his henchmen. "For those of you who have not met this little wildfire, I introduce Violet Baudelaire – the very generous beneficiary of our quest!" The laughter that sounded was far from amused, falling closer to menacing. Olaf's hand was bruising Violet's arm, and she squirmed to get away. He glared down at her with dangerously shiny eyes and hissed, "Move again and I'll kill you with my bare hands."

He chortled indulgently to his henchmen, who looked at her as if they had similar intentions. "But, my friends, not only is she the source of our budget, no! She will be working alongside us, gentlemen! A daughter of V.F.D. vermin is going to help us destroy everything left of that cursed group!"

A crazed look had filled his eyes, and the henchmen went wild. The group went frantic, wild, animalistic at the irony of the situation and at the thrill of victory within their grasp—until one henchman had the ignorance to ask, "Hey boss, she's cute and all, but what can she do to help us? We have lots of decoys already workin' for us."

"I should kill you for daring to question me." A hush fell over the room, and the man trembled in anticipation of a quick, painful death. "However, it is a valid question, I suppose. As you know, there are still three more families untouched by our wrath, happy remains of V.F.D. that we must introduce to the touch of fire! And Violet, cunning little inventor and scientist that she is, will use her skills to make our takeover and kidnapping seamless as never before. With her help, we will burn the three remaining houses to the ground, dispose of V.F.D.'s remaining members—and force their children to help us in our schemes just as I am now forcing Violet to aid us!"

Now Violet finally knew his plan. Her money was not the end but the beginning, the beginning of the end of V.F.D.—the final removal of the great and good that her parents had worked so hard to create into the vast maw of darkness and despair. Violet wanted to protest, to scream out that she would never aid Olaf and his lackeys to destroy so many lives, but she was frozen in dread and shock. She only realized that Olaf had dismissed his henchmen when they began filing out of the laboratory, and she remained alone with the villain in whom she had foolishly thought there might have some good.

He jerked her arm roughly before releasing it. "It really would have been disappointing if I had had to kill you for causing a fuss, after taking all that effort to save your miserable life. And what in the hell is the idea with that dress?"

His voice broke Violet out of her stupor. "So that's it then. You're not going to just be happy with my fortune, you want to ruin more lives and cause more destruction—for what? Some misguided, petty idea of revenge?"

Olaf stood angrily, walked over to the lab doors, and slammed them so hard that Violet jumped. She almost expected him to growl as he approached her. "Did that blow to the head knock all the sense out of you? You forget that you're my captive, orphan, and you'll do as I say. That includes shutting the hell up and helping me in whatever business ventures I choose to pursue with your aid."

Violet realized that, yet again, her sense of self-preservation was fleeing quickly with rage—why did Olaf of all people possess the ability to make her forget everything and just speak her mind? "What bothered you so much about my dress, Olaf? Is it that it's the dress of a woman you slew in cold blood…a woman you burned alive in her own home, along with her children? Or do you just not like the color?"

His hand found her throat, and she felt herself lifted to slam against a bookshelf. Yet again, she had worked Olaf into a murderous rage. She knew she had to do something, quickly, before the life was strangled out of her. She took as deep a breath as she could and spoke. "Olaf, wait, please! I shouldn't have…"

Olaf's eyes were like glass. "No, you shouldn't have, but that's really not my concern, is it? I can always change my plans, and find a new orphan to help me."

She could feel tears forming, and choked out, "I'm sorry." To her surprise, this simple statement led Olaf to release her from his iron grip and let her fall to the floor. He turned to stalk away from her but a sound stopped him. It was the child-like sound of sobbing, the type of sobbing when one does not have words for what one is feeling but can only choke and cry. The wrenching feeling that he had felt before, the one had not been able to name, returned—and this time he knew what it was: pity.

He was shocked to discover that much as he pretended otherwise, to himself and others, somewhere along the way he had started to care for the orphan girl that wept before him. He imagined comforting her, wiping the tears from her soft face, and shuddered at these new thoughts, unfamiliar and perhaps not entirely unwanted, he realized. She was not the young girl he had first met; the dress she wore now made that infinitely clear. She had grown to be a woman as spirited as her mother and the other women of V.F.D., who had not simply waited like war widows at home but fought and died alongside their husbands—and sometimes, yes, their children—in the schism's aftermath.

He realized that Violet's sobbing had taken a turn into hysteric. She could not stop crying, her panicked emotions make her weep harder and harder. Olaf knelt next to her—much as he had before, but she was never to know that—and reached out a hand, his only thought to calm down the frightened, confused young woman before she began hyperventilating. "Violet, I…am sorry."

She squeaked out a surprised hiccup, shock freezing her sobs within her. "You…you said my name." Then she realized that not only had he called her by her given name but he had apologized—for what in specific she did not know, but to hear an apology from Olaf was like expecting gravity to suddenly reverse.

Olaf could not meet her eyes, and instead reached out a hand. "Here." He led her to one of the many couches near the dirty greenhouse windows and sat beside her. When their eyes finally met, hers were full of awed, uneasy wonder, as if she knew of his epiphany, even though he could barely reconcile with himself his suddenly realized attraction. He felt as if she had torn him open to rifle through all his secret thoughts, and felt naked under her gaze.

"The truth, that's what you want, isn't it? You want to know why, why I'm the way I am, why Count Olaf is a villain who fought against the brave and true V.F.D., who ruined so many lives, and all that? But no, no matter what I say, it's going to be a pack of lies compared to that utter garbage fed to you. You're not going to believe a word I say."

The man before her had just attempted, for the umpteenth time, to kill her, and Violet found she no longer cared. The anguish in his eyes was real, the intensity of his glance at her stunning. She saw something different when their gazes met, glimpses of which she had seen before—during their encounter in the lobby of Hotel Denouement, and on many other occasions. She did not know what had changed in the few minutes since she had arrived and learned of Olaf's plans, but she could sense a shift in his emotions toward her…dare she say it, something more forgiving, even gentle, had clouded his fierce anger.

It was not unlike the time, so long ago, when he had eaten raspberries with the Baudelaires in his kitchen, and proposed that Violet play his bride in his twisted sham of a play. Yet then the feel of his hand stroking her cheek had been one of malice, of contempt and masked fury. Now…she trembled at the fact that he appeared to have let down his guard, to have begun to react to her attempts to change him. Was it another ploy to gain something from her, allegiance perhaps, or something more?

Violet could bear the suspense no longer. What Olaf was about to say could be the key to her quest to make him realize the good in himself—the nobility and caring that appeared to be buried deeper within with each passing day. The thread she was grasping was a thin one…and she was looking for any way to make it more tactile.

"Tell me. Please…I need to know."

He cleared his throat but did not speak, and they sat in silence in the thin light, Violet studying Olaf's face and Olaf studying Violet's small hand, which he held in his own rough one, turning it over and over again as if the courage to speak was held in its whorls and lines.

"My parents raised me well, to be polite to women and friendly to children and the elderly. I was taught manners and chivalry. They took me on picnics and held me while we read together in front of the fire on chilly winter nights. Sometimes, they went out for the night, telling me they had meetings for a club they had joined and not to worry, that they would be back soon. I loved them, and they loved me. We were a happy family, and I knew no sadness, no hate, no anger. Until…"

Violet felt a draft flit through the room, as if her body knew what was to come in Olaf's story that was not fiction but truth, concrete and unchangeable.

"I now know that any one of those nights, one or both of my parents could have walked out the front door of our mansion and never returned. VFD asks everything of its members, who are glad to fight and risk all for their precious ideals. Yet none of them suspected that the fight would soon turn inward."

He gripped Violet's hand so hard that it burned, but she did not want to let go and gripped his hand back just as fiercely. This was the story she had waited years to hear…the story of the truth.

"By the time I was a young initiate into VFD, still restricted to menial chores and simple missions, my parents began to disagree with other members of VFD over the effectiveness of their tactics. My parents wanted to use more extreme, more controversial methods to fight the enemy, while others were content to keep to their slow plodding.

Eventually, plans were made in secret to silence those who wanted to veer from the traditional VFD's ineffectiveness. A box of poison darts was relayed into the hands of two of VFD's most trusted agents, known to have completed hundreds of missions with few glitches or errors, and a small group of their closest friends among the other agents. They would then follow the dissidents – my parents, and another man whose name I never learned – to a mission at the theatre, pretending to back up my parents and the man."

Olaf fell silent, and then met Violet's eyes with a look of such burning ferocity that she became frightened again. Yet she was enraptured, and could not have run if her life had depended upon it.

"Your parents killed my parents that night in the theatre. They found the bodies full of enough poison to kill a dozen men."

Now, Violet yanked her hand from his, knowing that what she had heard could be nothing but the truth but longing to prove it false. Why Olaf had burned her family's house to the ground, why he had sought her family's fortune so ferociously, why he killed and stole and tortured…all the gruesome pieces snapped together. "How do you know it was my parents, Olaf? How?"

"Because…they told me themselves."

It was this last sentence that ripped away any remaining illusions, and thrust Violet into the harsh light of reality. Her worst nightmare was no longer a dream, but the truth…nothing but the truth.

Chapter Text

You confuse me
With the many faces that you wear...
Why do you take me for granted? (Why do you do this to me)
Why won't you try to let me in?
You are learning
What your life would be like without me
I am burning
But I can't let go
You have to know that you are killing me

-- Why (You Confuse Me) by Mandi Perkins

Violet stared blindly at Olaf, unable to move or speak. It was not only Olaf's simple admittance that had convinced her that her parents had done what he had said. It made too much sense – provided the reason for everything, perhaps even for her own predicament. Or perhaps when her parents had joined VFD, her future had been set in stone – or when the VFD had been created, or…Her mind swirled with thoughts of the past, and how bleak they made the future seem to her, at this crossroads between the girl she could never again be, and the woman who had watched her last hopes trickle away like so many thick, intangible raindrops.

"Please take me to my room. I need, I-I need to lie down. Please."

She felt herself being helped up, and then swept into thin but strong arms and carried through hallways and up stairs, and laid on soft fabric and pillows.

Olaf eyed her carefully, studying her face as if he knew her thoughts. He stood to leave but she caught his arm with her trembling hand, and he sat back on the edge of the bed, more out of surprise than out of conscious thought.

"I understand why now, why you did it."

She sat up and pulled her hand from his to wrap her arms around herself. "If your parents had killed mine, I would have at tried to exact some kind of revenge."

"And you've tried to kill me, because I killed your mother and father. Yet you have not finished the task."

"There's just too little left of myself to lose that last piece in murder. I hate you, but I won't kill you. You've taken everything from me, but I can't take something that isn't mine to take."

Olaf did not know what to say to a simple view of the world that he had abandoned so long ago. He could not believe that after all that Violet had been through, altruism would still live in her heart and mind.

"You're a better person than I am, Violet Baudelaire. I could never forgive myself if I let this world keep everything it owes me, and simply turned away from the past."

Her gaze was like a spotlight, burning into his eyes. "But I would forgive you. Would that do?"

He very nearly convinced himself to say yes, but he choked on the lie that he wanted so much to believe. Anger and self-hatred bubbled, threatening to overwhelm him.

"In two days, you and I and my henchmen will travel back to the city to kidnap two children after burning their house, and their parents, into ashes. I wonder if you will still forgive me then."

Violet's eyes filled with tears and she rolled to face away from him. As he left the room, the sound of her quiet sobs burned his ears. He had not hated himself as much as he did on this day in a very long time.

Violet spent the better part of those two days in bed, when not forced by one of the henchmen lurking in the house down to the laboratory on Olaf's orders to work on inventions for the upcoming arson. The devices were not difficult for her, a seasoned inventor and mechanic, to create, leaving her hands busy but her mind free to wander. Several times, she planned elaborate escapes, and even tried three of them only to be dragged back from however far she had succeeded in running. She did not see much of Olaf, even after these failed attempts, save listening to his bloodthirsty speeches at the meetings he held in the laboratory or kitchen, which she crept downstairs after dark in robe and nightgown to clandestinely eavesdrop upon.

Many times she was overwhelmed by confusion over her feelings for Olaf. Was he truly just a killer, doomed to the wretched desire for revenge, or did was he truly capable of good, trapped into misdeeds by desperation? But though she puzzled over his motives, it was other feelings which occupied her time and thoughts quite often…especially when memory served to hint that Olaf also had similar feelings for her, the idea of which made her by turns both disgusted with herself and curiously, dangerously intrigued. She was grown now, no longer an innocent girl, and her thoughts very much reflected this newfound maturity.

And finally, it was the morning of the crime, and Violet could think of nothing but the horrible acts which she would witness and had helped to create.

Olaf knocked on her door at dawn, and she blearily woke, and dressed after he left, putting on the outfit which made her look like a very rich young heiress. The house they would destroy was situated in one of the best guarded, well-moneyed sections of the city, and the troupe would have to perform their instructions to the tee in order to succeed. She and Olaf would be a wealthy young couple, accompanied by henchmen dressed as servants.

When she finally descended to where the cars awaited, not a smile or joking jostle was seen, the men and women assembled as serious as if they were facing criminal trials – which, she thought, were quite possibly in their futures. Their uniforms sparkled in the decay of the garage, where weak sunlight leaked in from the windows.

And suddenly, Olaf had arrived, and gave an uplifting speech during which the troupe cheered and boasted before returning to their former restraint. Olaf escorted Violet to their car, swallowing thickly like a gawky adolescent at her intricate emerald green dress. With diamonds sparkling at her ears and a gold cameo clasping the neck of her dress, Violet looked every inch the heiress – which, he thought with a sharp pain, she was. He had simply kept her on the run so long that Violet had never had the chance to don the clothes she now wore, and search for an equally wealthy, charming husband among the city's well-to-do. And now, she would never have that dashing young man of means, because he had her money and held her captive…he sighed within and handed Violet into the car a bit more roughly than he intended, sliding in beside her.

Violet studied Olaf carefully and realized that he was nervous, although moments before he had seemed cocky and entirely sure of himself. His kid-gloved hands sat entwined in the lap of his immaculate grey wool pants, gold cuff links shining at the sleeves of his white shirt under his inky black, long coat. The barest hint of stubble brushed his face, lending it an almost rugged quality. Much as she and her siblings had used to think Olaf filthy and greasy, she blushed to think, he had really been no more so than the average man living a life of constant travel, and the man sitting before her looked every inch a count.

Against all logic, her body seemed to act of its own volition when she reached out to clasp his hand, and said, as the car rattled out of the garage onto the road to the city, "Being tense is not going to help you, Olaf. You're going to need to relax a bit if you're going to do this without hurting more people than necessary." She balked at her phrasing when she remembered – how could she forget – that people would be hurt, and killed.

"Relax? Relax? Strange advice from someone who wishes that I would fail and be thrown into prison to rot, Violet."

She shook her head and sighed. "What would I have to do to get you to simply give all this up and, and—"

He sneered at her speech. "And what? Run away with you, give up being the evil bastard that I am, and live happily ever after?"

Now she took both his hands in hers and faced him as the towers of the city suddenly loomed above them, twisting in her expensive gown heedless of the fabric or anything but the man before her. "Yes, for God's sake, yes! I would give anything, name it, if you would do just that. Just turn the damn car around and leave with me to go away and live.Olaf!" Her last word was almost a sob, and her small hands gripped his tightly in anguish. Never had he looked more aloof and regal, and yet dangerously seductive, as he did before her now in the true attire of his title.

He was taken aback by her sudden vehemence, the strength of her emotion evident in her utter desperation. One of Olaf's hands reached cupped her face. "Anything may be more than you're prepared to give Violet. And though I should be ready to demand just that from you, villain that I am, I find myself incapable of forcing myself upon you in exchange for my retirement.

I wish, Violet, you don't know how much I crave the kind of freedom that you're telling me I could simply reach out and take. But I just don't see how I could do it, I honestly don't. I've been this way for so long, I cannot just –"

The passionate feeling that had been filling her to bursting finally flowed over, and before she realized what she was doing, Violet had leaned over to plant her lips firmly upon Olaf's in a desperate kiss. He crushed her to him, deepening the kiss that neither of them was willing to stop. They clung to each other desperately, the pent up frustrations that had been locked away finding an outlet. Their lips parted and met again, each short of breath but not ceasing their contact until the car stopped and they leapt apart, astonished at what they had allowed themselves.

With the slamming of the doors of the cars behind them, Olaf seemed to snap out of a reverie, and a storm appeared in his eyes. His voice was a dangerous growl when he choked out, "Damn it, Violet. I have no choice." He dragged her from the car without further words, and set his arm upon hers. One of the henchmen behind her shoved a gun into his pocket and followed them closely as they began their stroll towards the largest mansion on the street, Olaf slowly scanning the street for pedestrians and other potential witnesses. Violet had yanked her gauze half-veil across her eyes, hiding the tears that threatened to spill. Curse it, she was so confused – she wanted to kill Olaf, she wanted to kiss him, do more than kiss him…she remembered the feel of his body pressed against hers, and when she looked up and their eyes met, he was seemed to be caught up in much the same mindset.

"Do you have it with you? And do you remember how to set it?"

She reached into the small clutch pinned to her sleeve and felt the detonator within. Olaf's henchmen had been able to plant miniature explosives outside the house at night but had yet to infiltrate the house to place the detonator, which she and Olaf would do, setting it to explode less than two minutes after its placement. It would be Violet herself who would put this murder into motion, at Olaf's insistence, and it sickened her to her very core that she could not refuse. Olaf knew where Sunny and Klaus lived, hopefully in peace, and she shuddered to think that they would come to more harm and pain than they had faced already.

They stopped briefly in front of the mansion, and then suddenly Violet had no more time to think. Olaf, Violet, and one of the henchmen burst into the house. The two men bounded upstairs and Violet waited in the entrance, turning to run. She had reached the door again when the sound of a gun being cocked behind her made her turn to see Olaf and the henchman, each with bloody hands holding an unconscious child.

Several of the women outside crept inside and removed the children, taking off in one of the cars for Montgomery's mansion, leaving Violet to be watched by the henchman and Olaf as she hesitated to set the detonator. The henchman looked impatient, and pointed the gun at her head. "Hurry the fuck up, bitch, the parents ain't gonna be unconscious forever!"

Olaf glared at him as she set the detonator on the floor in the room's center. "You would do well to point that damn gun elsewhere and keep your mouth shut, lackey." He watched Violet set the device to begin its countdown with a click.

She would never know if he meant to pull the trigger, or if the stress made his hand slip, but a bang sounded from the gun in the henchman's hand. Her head smashed into the floor, and it wasn't until she sat up that she realized that she had fallen not because she had been shot, but because Olaf's falling body had landed on her as he dove to stop the bullet from blasting itself through her brain. Instead, the small scrap of metal had ripped through the side of Olaf's torso, and a red stain began to spread across his snowy shirt.

The henchman turned and ran, throwing the gun away from him as he sped outside to the last waiting car, and the rest of the assembled troupe hastily began the journey back to Montgomery's abode, leaving Violet to wonder if there would be not two but even four victims of this plan now gone horribly awry.

Chapter Text

For a moment time slowed, allowing each tick of the detonator and drop of Olaf's blood to stand independently. Violet felt her breathing slow as she blinked at the speed of a crawl. If only this calm, sedate pace could continue…yet, as this thought floated through her mind, time returned to its normal passing and the deluge of delayed panic and dread choked her almost instantly.

She would never know how she managed, in the short time left, to drag Olaf in a bloody smear out of the house to the farthest reaches of the yard, moving as far from the explosives as possible before her arms gave out and she collapsed sideways across Olaf. The man's eyes were closed and she shook him, hoping he was still alive – if only to find out why she herself was still breathing and sound and he was the one bleeding in the dirt.

Inside the house, the detonator's count reached zero and an explosion rocked the street, throwing pieces of debris flying at Violet's hunched figure where she huddled over Olaf. The crashing of splintered timbers and tinkling of falling glass filled her ears as she clung to Olaf and consciousness, her eyes shut against injury and sight of destruction.

Then fire began to devour what was left of the grand mansion and all Violet could think of was the man and his wife, whose fate was to be unimaginably horrific. Her parents had probably died the same way, their bodies drugged or already cold with death as flames consumed them.

At that instant, Violet wanted nothing more than to simply leave the man who had caused so much grief and horror to bleed out on the ground, or far better, to be arrested, tried, and executed for his crimes. It would be simple for her to just stumble away, back to the faraway island where her siblings waited for her return. Yet she owed something to this man, who had saved her in repentance or desperation or some other reason her heart refused to fathom.

As she struggled to decide, Olaf's hand found hers and interlocked their fingers as his eyes flickered open and tried to focus on her. What his eyes found in Violet's seemed to sadden him; she could see him resign himself to his fate. He parted his lips and whispered, "Don't be a fool."

She wanted nothing more, it was all she had desired for so long, but she could not bring herself to rise and run, leaving a man to die alone sustained in her defense, no matter how she loathed him...and yet. She brushed the earth from Olaf's face and studied him for a moment, then rose.

As she stood, Olaf's face fell and he turned from her. A lonely death would be his reward for the suffering he had caused. For killing parents and destroying the happiness of so many children and their families, for lying and cheating and stealing, hell would welcome him years earlier than expected. He could not, in death, run any longer from the shadow of his deeds. Violet turned and stepped away to the noise of ringing sirens in the distance.

Olaf began to panic, drawing painful gasping breaths. Wildly, he thought of his parents and the life he might have had, had they lived to help their son grow into a better man. Was this the pain that Violet had tried, again and again, to make him understand – when she had begged for mercy and an end to the mad chase that had consumed all of their lives? Olaf knew that none of the belated, burning remorse that now poisoned his heart would ever be able to make right his actions but allowed the guilt and repentance to suffocate him in its flood.

A sharp, sudden pain brought tears to his eyes and a cry of pain from his lips. No more of Olaf's life appeared to him as he slipped closer to death, save one moment: the desperate kiss Violet had bestowed, in the hopes that it would bring to Olaf all the realizations that his mortal wound now freely released.

He felt a pull, a jerking movement, and he rose…and saw no more.

Bright lights were all he saw when he awoke. With a groan, Olaf realized that the heaven he thought had been denied him for his misdeeds was actually denied him because he was in fact not dead. His waist was swathed in a plaster cast and bandages, and fluids dripped into his veins through a bag tied to the bed. He was alive, and in the hospital – and, he established with an anxious glance around him, alone. Violet was nowhere to be seen.

And, as he also quickly discovered, he was tied to the bed with the kind of padded handcuffs reserved for the mentally unstable.

He seethed until a nurse came in with a meal that looked as if it had already been eaten at some point and then regurgitated back onto the tray. He was left with no choice but to try and bite her hand so that she would cease to try to feed him and leave him the hell alone. Luckily, as he heard her complain to another nurse in the hallway, he was still too weak to be given any sedatives or other mind-altering medications.

He was left with no distraction for the better part of a few hours but to simply stare into space and contemplate his brush with death. Obviously Violet had somehow saved him…those sirens had been some sort of emergency vehicle. He suddenly realized that she could have told them, the police and the hospital and anyone else who had arrived, exactly who it was that they were saving – and would have told them that he need to be chained, to be kept under control. Was he only here until he could be thrown into prison, perhaps executed?

And where was Violet? Had she seen that he was alive and fled, back to the island to be reunited with her siblings? Or perhaps she had only stopped there long enough to tell her siblings that they had to leave their home and run again, run from the man who had stolen their fortune but might seek them again for their lives. Might he do just that: somehow escape, kill those who had betrayed him and left him for dead, find a new crew, and set out again in search of innocent lives to claim? Was he still that man, he who had come so close to death because of the past he had already begun to question when it had caught up with him?

More importantly, did he want to be? Could he believe that after all he had done, all he had to do was simply decide to be the man he was supposed to be all his life – a good man, fighting to save what he loved instead of dooming it? He had thrown himself in front of a bullet to save someone else, for God's sake – wasn't that the act of a good man? Saving someone he loved?

Love. Could it exist, could it breathe through the pollution that clogged his damned soul and find impossible hope? It rested now on another's shoulders to decide if he could be redeemed…and now he knew that he would not resist her attempts to convince him. If she would but return, he decided that was all that mattered, he would do all that she asked…if only she would return and tell him there was still a chance. The memory of that kiss lingered, and gave him hope that if she reappeared she would offer again the chance that he had scorned so many times before.

He waited, listening to the room's caged clock tick away the minutes of his life, studying the shift of the sun's rays through the drag curtains, waiting. He had drifted off into a light sleep, caught between dreams, when the noise of the door creaking open brought him back to consciousness to see Violet standing by his bed, face bruised and tear-streaked. She had changed out of her gown into more somber attire but looked wholly harried and disheveled.

She sat on the edge of the bed, just out of his reach. "The doctor says that you should be fine. They removed the bullet and stitched your wound, but you'll have to stay here for a few days to heal before they'll allow you to leave. You'll be also be in a wheelchair for a while, but…"

She trailed off and looked away from him, playing with a small tear in the blanket.

He tried to meet her eyes again unsuccessfully. "And the handcuffs? Has the law finally caught up to me?"

The fright and shock in her eyes startled him out of his wry humor. "I came to see if you were awake, and to tell you what the doctor said. As to the restraints, I told them that you were frantic with pain and might end up hurting yourself. They don't know who you are, and I'm not going to tell them."

He reached for her hand, and when she saw that she was too far away, she carefully moved so that he could entwine his fingers with hers. "Violet…I know I have no right to ask you to stay with me…"

Never had he sounded so pathetic, lying restrained and wounded and altogether alone. She inhaled and leaned forward, not letting her eyes leave his, almost close enough for her lips to touch his, but then stopped, and moved back, confusion glaring like sunlight from her eyes. "I'll stay with you until you've healed."

His hand tightened in hers, and he smiled with wry happiness, but her next words cut through him as deeply as the bullet that had ripped through his flesh. "But then I'm going to leave, and I'm not coming back. I'm going to be with my family, and you are going to leave us alone."

He closed his eyes and turned away, angry at her and the world but most angry at himself, for driving away the woman who might have cared for him and the life that he had so desired but taken from himself. Violet's cool hand turned his face back towards hers.

"You saved my life, Olaf. You could have just let me die, and kept my fortune at that, but instead you saved me. Why?"

"Because no matter how evil I truly am, and no matter how much I hate the world, you're not just some orphan anymore, you're Violet. And I couldn't let myself watch you die…I care for you too much, I…"

The emotion made his voice raw, and watching the confusion and suffering in his eyes was too much for Violet. "I care for you as well, you know. It's strange, but I do. There's something good in you, I've seen it now."

And they fell silent, each unable to say what they wanted so much to voice or to let themselves feel what hid within their hearts, their hands still entwined upon the blanket.

Chapter Text

Violet sighed, snapped her new suitcase closed, and stood to glance around her room at Uncle Monty's mansion. She had returned, after leaving Olaf still strapped to his hospital bed and utterly dejected, hoping to find its rooms deserted by Olaf's treacherous henchmen. She was not disappointed: not a soul stirred in the dead man's house. She had avoided the laboratory, with its cages and dusty books; for the last few days she had only used the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.

Yet she was grateful for the wait. She was not sure if she had meant what she had said to Olaf, much as she wanted to believe that she would be able to simply turn her back and leave to return to her family. Violet could see in the man's eyes that something had changed when he had almost died in her arms, and she fervently hoped that the change was not only for the better but one which would be permanent. When she had visited him that first day in the hospital, she had sat beside a man who had not been only physically wounded. Olaf was not who he once was, not any longer – and although she knew that he could become a far more evil and cynical man as a result of their experience, what she had witnessed so far buoyed her hopes that her words, and his brush with death, may have helped heal his twisted soul while his flesh was torn apart.

For two days, she did not see or speak to anyone. Violet knew she had to make a choice: to stay or to go…but a thought, terribly selfish and yet so desirable, materialized: could she not bring Olaf, a danger to no one in his current state, back to the island? She had seen already what time had allowed her encouraging words to do to him – more time to appeal to his better side could only do him good. But then she thought of Klaus, Sunny, and Beatrice, who had fled with her to the island in the first place to escape Olaf, the very villain she sought to bring back to their home. What if, she thought, Olaf returns to his former self – can I risk their lives for his soul?

On the third morning, when she returned to the hospital, Olaf's doctor pulled her aside. "Miss, I know you've told me you are not this man's wife, but as no one else has visited…this patient is going to need care and supervision for at least another two weeks, but we simply do not have the space here. Is there someone you can contact to take him in?"

Violet gritted her teeth, and replied slowly, "I will take him, just…just tell me what to do."

When had finished speaking to the doctor, she crept unnoticed into Olaf's room. She had not seen him for days, and the change which she had been surprised to find then still lingered. The man on the bed was thinner than before, almost skeletal. His lightless eyes lingered on some spot on the wall opposite the room from Violet. Had she not known him, known the well of strength and angry stubbornness that lurked within his frame, she would have supposed him dead.

A single though, sinuous and sly, crept into her mind: why not, Violet Baudelaire? Why not leave him in that bed, to decay alive – for would it not be more merciful than the agony of flames to which his victims had succumbed? Here was a man who had laughed at her pain, her loss, her despair – yet through his cruel actions and self-obsession, he had brought out the good in Violet. He had forced her to see the world as it was and to fight against it, to strive to protect the ones she loved and defeat all that stood in her way.

Violet recalled that not-so-distant day when Olaf had stood over her, and laughed, and proclaimed himself the victor – told her that she had lost everything. They had now exchanged roles, and Violet had won, for Olaf would never again be – at least physically – the same energetic, wily evildoer. She had no intentions of gloating over her spoils, long-sought though they were.

Violet stepped out of the shadows in the corner by the door, and sat beside Olaf on the bed. He turned, with no little effort, to gaze at her with glazed eyes. The feeling she had been trying so hard to repress welled up in her, and this time she did not tie it back down but let it do what it would, let her risks and chances fall where they may. She took his face between her hands and pressed her lips gently to his forehead, then leaned back, watching him with worried eyes.

"Are you sent to personally torture me, Violet Baudelaire? Did the powers that be decide I deserve to be destroyed before I die, is that it?" His voice cracked, though from lack of use or emotion Violet could not tell.

"I need to apologize, Olaf. I told you that I would leave you when I was last here. Yet you need someone to care for you, and you don't have anyone else…so I'm bringing you back with me to the island. I cannot…I cannot leave you here."

Now he attempted, haltingly, to sit upright. He winced at the movement but quickly focused on Violet again. "Do not lie to me, to try and make me feel better or for whatever twisted reason you've decided upon. You would never risk your precious siblings, I know you. If you're just going to play games with me, you can-"

He wheezed and sat back, winded from speaking. Violet now reached for his hands; when he tried to avoid her grasp, she caught them and squeezed them so tightly that she had to be causing him pain – but something far more important than a moment's pain was occurring.

"Olaf, please, you have to trust me. I'm not going to let you…Olaf, you will die if no one takes care of you. I know neither of us can trust each other, but I want to trust you! I want to believe that you're a different, better man, one who won't just attempt to kill me or my loved ones the second my back is turned. I'm trying, Olaf, and I can't do this unless you do make an effort, I can't."

She angrily wiped a few tears away, pity, rage, and other emotions rising again. Olaf sat speechless, the life somewhat returned to his weakened body, his eyes shining yet again – but whether with malice or something else entirely, she could not say.

"Then, Violet, you'll have to unshackle me." He shook his hands in her tight grip, reminding her of the padded restraints that still held his stick-thin arms. And when she reached to undo the bonds, her hands also shook…because she still, to her shame, did not trust this man because it was he who had taken so much from her before, who had up until recently been the only cause of fear and anxiety in her somewhat short life. It would be so easy for him to feign weakness, appeal to her better nature, catch her unaware, and yet again slip those hands around her neck to strangle her life away.

Her hands shook, and slipped, and finally freed Olaf. And suddenly he had pulled her towards him, with that reserve of strength hidden within his fragile frame – yet before she could scream for help, he had pressed his lips to hers. And for the moment, she did not care if he was merely playing another part, fooling her with theatrical skill, or in earnest. She clung to him as she had so many days before, in her desperate attempt to stop his plan, and responded to his kiss as, instead of the tide of worry and indecision, searing heat now claimed her, intense and blinding.

Their lips parted and met again and again before each drew back for breath and, with equal wonder, met each other's eyes. How could this, whatever it was, exist between two people who hated and mistrusted each other? Violet knew she could never have kissed any man that way unless the battle had already been lost, or rather, decided. Olaf had deceived others many times, but never her; she had seen through all of his disguises, but if this was one, she almost did not care. Tired of the lies and the running and the pain, all Violet Baudelaire desired was to hear the sound of the waves breaking on the shore as she sat under the shade of a miraculously giant tree.

Olaf watched Violet and moved beyond surprise into something more. Just as their desperate kisses had affected Violet, so too had they had an impact upon him. A new feeling had blossomed, phoenix-like, out of the fragmented pieces of his dark soul. He wanted…he wanted to protect Violet, keep her from the harm with which he and others like him had tormented her in the past. If anyone deserved peace, he thought, it was this brave yet fragile woman. Olaf was shocked by this complete and utter change in himself…yet he knew that something within him had died that day on the lawn of the mansion, to be replaced with an emotion he had never in his long life experienced.

Violet kissed him again, and smiled. The smile lit her face with a warm glow that Olaf had never seen on her face – a face which had more often than not been creased with worry and sorrow when he had had cause to look upon it. Her look of happiness sent a slow, intense flame throughout Olaf, and when she helped him from the bed into a wheelchair standing beside the bed, he buried his face in her neck and whispered quietly, "Thank you, Violet."

Olaf would open his Pandora's box of guilt and self-hatred later, he knew, but for now all he wanted was to sail the rolling blue waves of the ocean back to the island where his twin lay dead and buried and his…former…enemies existed alive and well. He was going to live with the Baudelaires…he was going to stay with Violet.

Chapter Text

Klaus checked his watch, and frowned. The day was already more than half-gone and Sunny had not yet returned with Beatrice and their usual basket of found objects scavenged from the island's salt-crusted coast. The day was hot, but a cooling breeze occasionally skimmed from the water across the island, keeping its inhabitants from sweltering. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and adjusted his blindingly white cotton shirt before following the remains of their footsteps through the sand.

The prow of the boat tilted into the wave and pitched Violet forward, jerking her from her uneasy sleep to blink at the fiery light of the setting sun. She had slept leaning against the mast of the tiny vessel and now found her neck sore with uncomfortable sleep as well as worry. Olaf sat close to her, steering the ship towards the island which had just appeared faint and dreamlike on the horizon, still a few hours away. Some color had returned to his pallid face and he looked healthier for two days of sea travel. Already the ageing care that had crowded onto his face from the past few weeks, if not years, had started to fall away, making Olaf look almost younger than when he and Violet had first met.

Violet smiled sleepily to herself before a sharp pang of guilt stabbed her. She still struggled against her distrust of Olaf and knew that it would be perhaps years before he would be able to erase all of his past actions and the deep and serious rift they had built. She still saw the flames of the hospital and carnival as buildings, tents, people, and animals all collapsed in searing heat and destruction…she could still remember the terror of watching young Sunny dangle out the crooked tower window with only a cage to protect her against the ground if she fell…and Olaf's brilliantly shining eyes as he had stroked her face and told her in no uncertain terms that she would marry him, the threat against her siblings' lives blatantly backing his demands.

Her memories of Olaf were not pleasant –were horrifying, even—but she was tempting fate and bringing him to the place where all that she truly cared about sat waiting for him to protect or destroy at his own whim, the whim of his perhaps broken and certainly damaged mind.

She shoved her doubts about Olaf into the back of her mind and worried about the reactions of Sunny and Klaus instead until she felt a thin hand on her shoulder. Olaf had moved his wheelchair forward to rest beside her, letting the wind take control of the boat.

She searched his eyes again for the malice or shining, malevolent glee that she had so often seen there when Olaf was successfully tricking one or several people and could not find it. Olaf recognized her gaze and turned away with self-loathing already plastered across his face. They sat in silence for a moment, before he spoke huskily in quiet tones.

"I always did like to sail, you know. I wasn't pretending back at Lake Lacrymosa."

Violet flinched but she knew Olaf was trying, and so she ignored memories of breaking glass and timber and rabid leeches. "Did you, er, sail often as a child?"

Olaf snorted. "No, there wasn't much opportunity. I taught myself once I left home. I considered becoming a real sailor before I decided to start my acting troupe."

"Klaus and I always wanted to go sailing at Briny Beach, but we never really planned in earnest. We were going to sail there, then sail around the world, but then…"

She fell silent again as she thought of the day she had learned her parents were dead, and Olaf remembered the fire he had set as it had rapidly evolved from a flame to an inferno at the home where Violet's parents – or perhaps only one of them – had burned alive in probable agony.

Olaf sighed. "Oh Violet, I don't know how I'm going to make amends for what I've done." His voice was quiet and sober.

Violet leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. "You'll never be able to make up for what you've done, but you can start over, you know."

"Can I," he whispered as his hand slid to the base of her neck to entwine in the soft, dark curls that hid there. His kiss was just as gentle as hers had been and yet more passionate. Here was a man who knew women; she suddenly felt as young as she really was, not shy but painfully awkward and vastly inexperienced – a young woman far more mature in her experience of world and its tragedies than in age, being caressed by a man who had known many women long before he had met Violet Baudelaire.

A thrilling frisson rippled through her – it was the excitement of the unknown, the sense of being held by a man which she had known so rarely compared to many young women of her age. She remembered the look in Olaf's eyes so many times: the greedy desire she had believed was reserved for her fortune but perhaps had more often than she knew been directed towards her…

He pulled her closer towards him, lifting her closer over the wheelchair's arm until, while they continued to kiss, she slid sideways onto his lap, one arm resting across his shoulder, the other moving to cup his face in her delicate hand. His hands, too, were far from still, and she flushed when she felt the flutter of his fingertips across her chest, moving to unbutton her blouse.

Just as his hands reached beyond the thin fabric of her shirt, Violet happened to open her eyes and instantly froze. Olaf turned and followed her gaze and saw that not only had the boat managed to sail alongside the island, they could see Klaus standing on the dunes, a horrified look on his face.

Sunny came running with Beatrice when they heard the shouts coming from the shore. When they arrived, Sunny took one look and sent Beatrice to the tree to wait for them – Beatrice knew the short way home and the island's fauna was mostly harmless, and even though she was young, Sunny knew that this would be a fight not fit for a child of Beatrice's age to witness. Klaus had seemingly gone insane with rage and after dragging Olaf out of his wheelchair once the boat had landed, he had proceeded to beat the man with all his might. When Sunny came to a stop next to the trio, Violet was screaming and trying to hold Klaus back while he struggled in her grip. Blood splattered the sand from Olaf's lip and brow where the force of the blows had torn them.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, coming back here with her? Is there another boat of your minions waiting to kidnap someone else this time – or are you planning to kill one of us this time? I saw you kissing her, Olaf! HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY SISTER!"

A sick feeling dripped into her stomach like acid, only to be replaced by shock that that Olaf was not lethally attacking Klaus in return. The Olaf that the three siblings had run from for so long would have beaten Klaus into a bloody corpse easily, despite the added muscle Klaus had acquired working at taxing chores on the island...and would have laughed while doing so. When Sunny heard Klaus's accusations, and saw that Olaf was resisting Klaus's blows but not striking back with any real force, she realized the truth. It spoke volumes on her infinite trust in her older sister that all she thought was: Oh Violet,you're too good. If Klaus doesn't kill him, maybe some of that goodness will rub off on Olaf. Heaven knows he could use some virtue after all he's done.

"Klaus, stop!" Klaus froze when he heard Sunny's cry, allowing Violet to put herself between him and Olaf. Sunny placed a hand on her brother's arm, trembling from the heaving sobs that racked his chest. Tears of anger streaked down his blood-spattered cheeks.

"Klaus, I don't think Violet would bring him back here without good reason, do you?" Before he could reply, she pulled him aside and heard an emotional description of how he had caught sight of Olaf and Violet entwined in the boat. "He didn't fight back, Klaus. There's something different about him…and if Violet's in love with him, something has to have changed. At least listen to Violet before you beat him to death."

Violet had settled Olaf back into his wheelchair by the time Klaus and Sunny turned back to them. She placed a hand around Olaf's shoulder protectively, her eyes never leaving her brother's as she came forward to speak in a low voice to her brother. "He needed someone to care for him, Klaus, and there was no once else. What he's done in the past is beyond horrible, I know, but I couldn't leave him. He saved my life."

"That doesn't mean you have to throw yourself at him like, like a hussy! Have you goneinsane? That man killed our parents and our friends, Violet."

"Klaus, he's trying to make amends. I know the past doesn't give us any reason to trust him, but I've seen him turning into a better man. He's not after our money – it's gone. His henchmen took it. He's with me because he wants to be here with me, because I'm the only one he has to believe in him."

"Well, we lost that money a long time ago, and it's useless here. It's good to hear he'll never get his filthy hands on it."

"Klaus, please trust me. Put the past behind us, all of it. It won't bring them back, any of them…all we have is each other."

"But you were kissing him-"

"-Klaus, I'm an adult. I get to decide who I want to kiss, and I…I've chosen him."

For a moment the rage that had provoked the normally placid and good-tempered Klaus to violently attack another person rose again and his eyes blazed…and then it fell to simmer darkly upon his boyish face. He stepped close to Olaf and leaned his face towards the bloody man's, so close that they almost touched. When he spoke, it was in a low whisper that sent shivers down Violet's and Sunny's spines, a voice which they had never heard from their brother and hoped never to hear from him again.

"If Violet wants you to stay, you can stay…but I'll never trust you. If you even think about hurting her, Sunny, Beatrice, or myself, I will rip your throat out with my bare hands and leave you to bleed out right on this damned beach, Olaf. And stay away from me."

Olaf's tone was menacing as well but more controlled. "I do believe you would, Klaus Baudelaire. I give you my word that it will never come to that…but your sister has chosen to bring me here, and you're just going to have to deal with that," he growled. "And as for losing your friends and family to me, well, I lost a few to the Baudelaire family as well."

Klaus and Sunny's jaws dropped. "What are you talking about?" Sunny asked.

"Tell them, Violet."

Klaus opened his mouth to respond but the look on Violet's face stopped him. She looked absolutely crestfallen, and the despair on his sister's face cut deep into Klaus's heart. "Our parents…our parents…killed Olaf's parents," she whispered.

"WHAT?" Klaus looked ready to explode. "That's garbage, Violet, how could you believe- "

"It's true, Klaus! I know it's true because of the darts." Klaus's face turned a sickly shade of greenish grey and Sunny looked just as ill. That darts were the tools used in the deaths of Olaf's mother and father confirmed what Violet had told them.

"Violet, I don't know what to say…" Sunny choked out.

They were still frozen in shock when Olaf spoke. "No one is without guilt. I've done far too much for to ever expect forgiveness for all that I've done. All I want is to live here in peace for the future and forget the past."

"Fine. I won't provoke you, you won't provoke me. Stay, I don't care. But don't expect me to forget what you've done," Klaus spat. "And Violet, I hope you know what you're doing."

"I'm sorry, Klaus. But he's different, you'll see." He spun away without another word and stalked off through the dunes.

Sunny ran to Violet and the two sisters hugged, lacking tears only because of the amount that had already been shed. "Violet, I thought I'd never see you again!" As Violet told Sunny about all that had happened since she had been kidnapped, Olaf listened with a pang and thought, I did this to them. I made their lives hell…but she trusts me, Violettrusts me. I can be better…I will be a man worthy of her.

"You've been through so much, Violet. I'm so glad to have you back."

Violet smiled. Sunny seemed so much older, more capable, than she had before they had ever come to the island; she remembered when Sunny was only a bald toddler with sharp teeth instead of a curly-haired, energetic young girl full of empathy. "How is Beatrice? How have you been doing since I left?"

Sunny smiled. "She's fine, getting bigger and smarter every day – it seems she wants to be an inventor, just like her aunt. She keeps trying to build this simple machine she found in a book in the library but she's been having some trouble getting it past the planning stage. I'm sure she'll be so glad to see you and get some help from an expert."

Violet smiled in return, happy at the thought of seeing her adopted daughter as well as their home again. "Let's head back so we can get cleaned up. He was already so weak before Klaus decided to hurt him further and I think his eyebrow might need stitches."

They stepped back over to Olaf's side, and when Sunny saw the look in his eyes as he daydreamed with guilt and horror about his past, she understood just a bit more why Violet had decided to give her heart to a man who had murdered their parents and ruined their lives for so long. Sunny, too, had known that Olaf well enough and been deceived by him enough to know when the shine in his eyes was gleeful malice at some deception…but this agonizing guilt was altogether new.

She knelt next to Olaf's wheelchair to get his attention. "Olaf, my mind tells me Klaus is right about you…but my heart tells me to trust Violet. You frighten me. I still have nightmares about fires and death and fear. But if you're truly willing to try to become a good person, then I think there's nothing better for you to do to try to make up for what you've done."

"Well then, young Miss Baudelaire, I'll do my best. Your brother's a bastard, but I don't really deserve any better treatment. You've got your sister to thank, after all. If it wasn't for her, I either would have bled to death or died insane in some dank hospital."

Sunny's next words were too quiet for Violet to hear but Olaf could read the movement of her lips. "Just don't make us wish that you hadn't."

When she stood back up, the eyes of the sisters met with matching glances of happiness at being reunited after what was hopefully the final separation of their lives. "Let's go home," Violet said, and Olaf realized with an ache that a home was what he had denied himself for so long – a place of contentment and security and family. He had thrown what little he had had after the death of his parents away in exchange for violence, cheap affairs with tawdry women, and pure, consuming hatred. This place, with the Baudelaire orphans, was something different, something new and completely true, a start of the healing of the rift he had caused.

The trip back to the giant tree was difficult – Olaf's wheelchair kept sinking into the dunes until they reached the more solid dirt ground on the far side of the island – but they arrived back just as the sun finally sank below the horizon and shrouded the sky in thick darkness quilted with bright clusters of stars. The ocean tides lapped against the sides of the sailboat and on the beach, everything was quiet and still.

Chapter Text

The tree house looked much the same as before Violet had left, except that there were even more half-finished inventions scattered around many of the rooms – not even the kitchen was safe from Beatrice's new obsession. Klaus was nowhere to be found when Sunny, Violet, and Olaf arrived, but Beatrice was sitting on the sofa in the entry cum living room, fiddling with a spoon and some electrical wire next to a dismantled radio.

The young girl rushed over to give Violet a hug but then stopped short when she saw Olaf. "Is that him? The man that kidnapped Violet?" she whispered to Sunny.

Sunny came over to hug her supportively. "Yes, Beatrice, but he's not a bad man…well, he is, but-"

"-But your…er, Violet is trying to turn me into a better man. You're Kit Snicket's daughter, then?"

She nodded silently at the blood-splattered man, eyes wide in suspicion and uncertainty. "I guess. But she died."

An awkward silence fell over the group before Sunny spoke. "Um, we've already eaten, but if you want anything, there are leftovers. Violet…I would try to stay out of Klaus's way for a while, okay? He's up in the library and I don't think he's coming out anytime soon, but just so you know. I'm going to put Beatrice to bed and then I think I'll go see if he wants anything."

"We're both exhausted, so I think after we clean up we're going to get some rest." They said good night and Sunny hugged her fiercely before catching Beatrice's hand. "We're glad to have you back, Violet."

After they disappeared up the stairs, Violet wheeled Olaf over to the stairs and helped him stand. He grunted with pain when she eased his arm over her shoulders and they began the slow walk up the steep steps. Once they reached the landing, she led him carefully to her room, eased open the door, and turned on the closest light.

Her room was also much as it had been before she had been stolen from the island by Olaf and his men. Inventions in various stages of completion littered almost every surface, from the floor and its cheerful rag-rug to the desk which took up an entire wall of the larger room – the only surfaces not covered were the window seat and the bed, which was still left unmade. Her siblings never touched anything in her room since an unfortunate incident when they were younger involving a conductor and several egg whisks.

Olaf snorted when he saw the chaos, but winced as Violet gently helped him onto the bed. "Good lord, your room is messier than my tower used to be, do you remember? Add a few more empty bottles and it would be almost identical, in clutter at least."

"You stay here, I'm going to the bathroom to get something to clean you up with. You look horrifying with all that blood on you."

As soon as she had disappeared back into the hallway, Olaf sighed with some combination of relief and wearied exhaustion. He couldn't remember the last night he'd had a truly restful night of sleep, and the dark oozing into the room from the wall of windows behind the window seat, covered by gauzy curtains that swayed in the ocean breeze, seduced him into a doze.

He woke at the touch of a warm, damp cloth on his face. Violet had changed while he slept into a cream-colored nightshirt and soft tan pajama trousers…and had tied back the long dark waves of her hair with a new, bright red ribbon. She smiled when his eyes opened but quickly frowned when she noticed how swollen his left eye had become from a particularly brutal hit.

"Klaus really went after you…but," she paused. "After all you've done, I don't really blame him." She continued to minister to his wounds as she spoke but dreaded the impact her words would have. I'm not going to lie to him and take his side, she thought, Klaus was justified after what Olaf has done to us, much as it hurts me to admit it.

"Neither do I. I would have done far worse…the old me, anyway." He grinned crookedly without humor. "I don't really expect him to accept me, you know. I know a lifetime could pass and he would still be waiting for the knife in his back…as I am, to be honest with you."

Violet was silent as she finished cleaning and dressing the wounds on his face. She helped Olaf sit up and pull away his suspenders, then began to unbutton his shirt to tend to the rest of his injuries.

"You know it's the truth, Violet."

She sighed. "I know, I just wish things were different…I wish none of this had ever happened. I could have met you at the theater, watching one of your shows, or walking past your house one day, not…the way we did."

"I do have a lot of regrets, but meeting you was not one of them. Granted, attempting to marry you at age fourteen to steal your fortune while I threatened the safety of your siblings was not one of my finer moments, but I…well, I am me, after all. Hopefully just the good parts of me left, though."

Violet smiled. "Hopefully. Now help me with your sleeves." Once they had removed his shirt, she gasped softly at the mass of bruises, welts, and cuts that were scattered across his lightly muscled chest.

"Did he at least manage to miss hitting the bullet wound?"

"Mostly." As her hands began their ministrations, he shivered at the feel of her hands on his chest and her breath on his face as she leaned closer to assess the severity of a wound. Her caught her wrist with one hand and, placing the other at the small of her back, pulled her to him slowly.

His eyes searched her with a look of desire mingled with wonder. "How is it, orphan, that you manage to so thoroughly undo me? I was, well, a villain before I met you and now I scarcely know myself. You've changed me, you know. I don't think…I don't think I could be the man I was before if I tried."

"I know what you mean," she murmured, distracted yet again by the feel of his body against hers, a sensation still novel to her. He caught her mouth suddenly with his own and held her tightly as they kissed, careless of his wounds. They were alone in her room and there was no one to interrupt them, no crisis to live through, only Violet and Olaf and this newfound, quite miraculous and thoroughly unexpected bond between them.

It was if all of Olaf's pent-up frustration of weeks, if not longer, had been brought to a head by their interlude on the boat earlier. He pulled her entirely astride his lap as his kisses became passionate, more desperately free of any restrictions on emotion. His hands moved downwards from her back to press her against all of him, sending a molten shock below her waist. Though she had kissed and been kissed before, this was entirely new territory, and it was as if her body acted of its own accord now that this previously buried desire had been awakened. He moved beneath her, a few thin layers of clothing all that separated them, and she gasped, the sound of which further fueled the raging, aching need that threatened to overwhelm him.

And it was not some common whore, the only kind of woman that the twisted, malevolent man that he had been could have, but the heroic, resourceful, and stunningly caring Violet who was kissing him back with desire that mirrored his own, so long unknown to him. He rolled so that their positions were reversed and bent down towards her, carefully mindful of his injuries so that no fresh mishap would stop what was happening. One hand began to slide up her thigh as she craned her face upward, wanting to continue the kisses that had ceased when he had moved.

But then a hand on his bare chest stopped him, and he pulled his face away from hers breathlessly. Violet's eyes were filled with nervous fear. "I need to know…I need to be able to trust you, Olaf. I've never done…I want to. I want you. But I…I don't know, I-"

He should have realized that she would have had no chance to explore her longings while kept on the run during their formative years beyond a few stolen kisses and quickly-dismissed daydreams. Her genuine innocence and fear sent an ache of guilt through him that cut through his lust, and he moved away from her to sit up, head in his hands. "There's nothing I can say to make you trust me, we both know that. But I wish like hell that there was something…damn it, I would give anything, Violet, to be given the chance to prove myself, as completely unworthy as I am. You're too good for me, you always have been."

And suddenly Violet saw him, knew him at his most vulnerable. That he could be at all pretending remorse was impossible; she had come to know him too well after years of deception and betrayal. It was as if all of his walls had suddenly collapsed to reveal a more fragile Olaf than she had ever witnessed, the man scarred by years of being alone, knowing nothing but hate and sadness and violence but wanting nothing more than to be loved and accepted, the heart wrenching reason why he sought so angrily to steal the peace of others. And she knew that, for better or worse, she loved this tortured, broken man…and that giving herself to him would be his penance through the gift of her trust, no longer questioned but finally given utterly, and her heart.

She pulled his hands away and pulled him back down to her. And when she looked into his eyes, she saw that he understood everything she left unspoken.

Olaf woke to bright, crisp sunlight and Violet sleeping in the curve of his arm. Despite being attired only in the bed's thin sheet, her skin was pleasantly warm. The light caught a shining patch of red within the tendrils of her hair and he lifted a strand to see her hair ribbon, still more or less in place. A crooked smile appeared on his face alongside a look of wonder. This is a sign, he thought. Someone knows that I am a changed man, because of her. Someone has heard my desperation and given me a sign that things will be different, that I can be different, be a man worthy of someone like her…

Violet's eyes fluttered open to meet Olaf's gaze that was a mix of gratitude and so many other emotions. She saw him struggle to regain some of his confident composure and smiled when his hand gently brushed away a dark curl and slid to cup her face.

"Well, my love…good morning."