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Il est seul et lui parle souvent He’s alone and speaks to her often
Il, il n’est pas fou He’s not crazy
Il l’aime c’est tout He loves her, that’s all
XXX
In the shadows passed a phantasm, holding his beloved.
Loathe sway of darkness, flash of light atop pale features. Skin made of paper and bones of balsa, the soul slicked away by the beat of a cold heart. Warmth tries to soothe her, only to be stolen by greedy flesh.
Treasured close to the chest, long ago they learned to let him be. To disturb her incurred his wrath, to wish harm to her brought fury of a tempest. Misery was her company, and he was miserable indeed.
Voices begged his mercy, pleaded her release. Gentle touches, forgiving lulls, nothing swayed the unstoppable force. Left to wander, these found souls, her soft breaths his remaining sanity.
Hair of straw. Nose buried within, savoring the scent of right. Shivers subsided by the fire, content and warm. Even still sleep was evasive, coming in fits of terror.
Hands stroked softly across skin-tight leather, soothing each cry. Self-despisal burned within a coal-black heart, hatred for another who shared the same beats. For what was this, if the soul no longer tethered to the carcass?
Long ago his anger became inward, no longer punishing her for the sins of his hands. Slivers of soul came with the bite of a knife. Red blood the only sign of life, torn with his fingernails. Screaming subsided, transgressions quickly forgotten.
There was no memory. Only present. And in this present, she loved him.
Loved him even when glassy eyes saw the crimson blade, recognized perhaps it matched the pool on her skin. Too far, just once, and a reminder to abide by:
One mistake.
He sought to keep her, then. His treasure was gone, replaced with an empty shell of tarnished brass. Yet it was treasure all the same, to a poor man with nothing else to call his own.
Arms kept her close, letting the fire soothe her to sleep. Soothe to forget the rough, the taint, the anger of a lost affection.
Clarity came in trials. Vicious reminders of a life before sickness and death, a recurrent boil over of anguished mourning. Her screams mingled with the tortured, her footsteps carried her into the fleeting arms of death for the bliss of ignorance.
And every time, he would find her, dirt beneath her nails, broken body fighting for the survival of a mind long gone.
Instinct drove pleasure, drove pain. Fingers curled into familiar crevices, seeking out the warmth of a cold body. Lips found pale skin, reassurance and need rolled into one.
Strong hands kept her close, the pilgrimage beginning anew.
Lost, found, wander. Lost, found, wander. Over and over in a swirling fog, always sworn she would never be squandered.
When familiar screams grated into his ears, he knew where to run. Where to find her. Where to mercifully end it as swiftly as the jailer would allow.
Some granted similar mercies.
Others relished the cries.
Fewer more cared not at all.
“Al . . . Al . . . Al . . .”
Broken cries of a lost bird. Ringing through trees, soft mist kissing cheeks.
Mud splashed underfoot, an unholy angel looming above.
The familiar voice drew him in, a fly to a honeyed trap. Yet he flew regardless, the wind in his wake a wail of longing. Too long had he missed her, devoid of her laughter, the teasing lilt accentuated by greedy touch. Warmth and breath and life . . .
Gone.
Cold shellac greeted him. Confused, drugged, unfiltered. The red jewel betrayed his folly, no, His folly, the one too selfish to let go. A man he blamed and yet in turn could only blame himself.
Cheap aquamarine gazed back at him, croaking for someone who wasn’t there.
“Al . . .” She whimpered.
He kissed her in desperation. If only to shut her up.
Softer arms held an even softer frame.
Your audacity sickens me.
He did it out of love.
And yet you did it to me.
Because I hated Chris.
Light fell across his shadow, illuminating eyes matching the fire burning beside her. Hands itched to take, to step past the forbidden barrier and gather what was his alone.
Yet other hands stroked broken hair, soothing across pallorous cheeks. Fragile breaths made her red heart rise up and down, eyes fluttered closed in exhaustion.
He begged for the god to let him take her. Only he could protect her.
His prayers were never answered.
Cold. Frozen fingers, chilled core. She sobbed for safety, seeking out a warmth which had grown familiar. Soaking hair stuck to her face, clawing into dirt with her weakened body. Squirming, kicking, her breaths fogging into the air.
Poor, poor Megara.
Weight into her back, grinding deep into her spine. She cried out again, nose crushed into the ground with savage intensity. Pain raced through her scalp, down her back, flashes of light blinding her sensitive eyes.
Pathetic.
I’m almost . . . disappointed.
It’s truly sad.
Her hand flew out, a gnat against the marble pillar above her. Pain made her scream, hoarse, tearing. Mud flowed down her mouth, mixed with blood and agony. She might have swallowed teeth, swallowed rocks, unable to taste or perceive with the rush of adrenaline flooding through the steel in her back.
Meg!
Softness. Warmth. Screams of wrath and pain intertwined together, flesh upon flesh shattering through the fog. Gentleness replaced with concern, passed from hand to hand until she finally settled in strong arms. Deep brown eyes gazed down at her, compassionate heart-shaped face framed by strands of straight brown hair.
She knew her.
Sheva was dangerous.
Squirming, fighting, her arms only tightened further around her.
It’s okay. I’ve got you.
She didn’t stop until Chris tucked her against his vest.
Walking through the realms seemed to keep her longer.
Accustomed to her weight, to be without it felt . . . wrong. A missing piece of him taken elsewhere, to be tortured and used until she was returned anew. The same state, the same amnesia. Cries echoing across fog, bounced through the air to call out for sanctuary. It was a race, now, to find the broken creature. To save or to torment, Survivor and Killer alike.
Hyenas. A lone wolf. A traitor. He found her, once, but not before another.
A scarred face twisted in rage, fists flying. It would be called a cat fight, yet this was no cat; this was a vicious beast with claws, vengeful and vindictive.
Abandoned frame laid in the grass, eyes glossed - from trauma, from chemical, it could never be elucidated from her. The focus came back when he slipped his glasses from his face, burning red eyes bringing immense joy. Strangled sobs fled, strong pants remained.
Thank you.
He could respect Haddie. Her fierce, protective loyalty to the others made her a valuable team member. The one who wore the symbol of their jailor incurred her wrath the most. And it was here which she rescued the one who could have been her friend, yet she knew otherwise. This Meg, was not hers. Just as she was not his.
Yet she knew she did not deserve the sacrificial pyre.
He picked her up.
Jill told me she was supposed to be stronger. Faster. Better.
Maybe she was, once.
His hand skimmed across her face, down her neck to settle against the cold heat embedded in her chest.
The dose is too high. It will keep her body alive.
It was unspoken.
The soul was gone.
When did he start conversing with her?
When did the words float across her face, wash across her skin, sink into her pores?
She never answered. She couldn’t.
There was no longer any obedience. Maybe before, when he first flooded her veins with salvation. She tried, with twitches and shuffles of a weakened body. When compulsion became too strong, lips upon hers, hands trying to urge a reaction, she tried.
That was the only time he felt heat in the rim of his eyes.
She was alive. But at what cost?
He knew what it was. The dose. Higher than what any sane person would have ever attempted, even himself.
But he never dared to change it.
Punishment. Punishment.
She belonged to someone else.
He couldn’t bear to stay away.
Another notch, another day without her.
There were tens of them, over forty count at this time, and of course there would always be more. One should have seen her. One should have known her.
The lover was selfish.
The king enforced his blockade.
The god desired no other worship.
The group wandered the fog. They never found her. Never found him.
One had to wonder, if they fell into the void together.
Report came from an unexpected source.
He is with her.
Where?
Heavy breaths through a bone mask. Unusually reluctant to send more to the slaughter.
Mother’s Dwelling.
Warm, warm, warm. She only wished to be warm.
It took many tries. He had to teach her to share.
Eventually, she let him curl with his possession at the fire. The hatchet in his back was painful, yet in many ways it reminded him of his humanity.
Fingers stroked down her arm, her eyes already fluttering closed. She knew not of his sacrifice. He wished he could be angry.
He missed her.
He tried only once.
Tongue pilfered her mouth, traced her jaw, her neck.
Fingers exposed her, traced a body he knew as well as his own, yet was so foreign to his exploration. Pushing past discomfort, the twisting heat in his gut which should have been pleasure, not sickness. Her body was compliant, it should have been his greatest desire.
Bared before him, an offering of his greatest yearning.
In any other place, he would not have squandered it.
His body covered hers, coat wrapping her up to give her the respect she deserved.
The respect he tried to take away from her.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Breathed into her neck, sinking into her stilled figure. Hoping she could sense it. Praying she did not hate him for his weakness.
The despicability was strong enough in his own heart, he could not bear to think she despised him in the same intensity.
Her pale eyes looked at him.
I love you.
Of course she did.
She was becoming sicker.
He felt it in the tremors. Stronger, more terrible. The heart could not last her forever. He could increase her dose, buy as much artificial time as her artificial soul could allow.
It was understandable, now. The ticking of time marched ever closer, gripping tighter around his vicious heart. His fingers itched to turn the dials, for the emptiness within could only be filled by her weight in his arms.
He could not carry the dead forever. But the living . . .
Quiet lips touched her temple, nose in her thinning hair.
What was a better mercy? His pain, or her suffering?
His god would not let her live forever. That was too good for him.
Punishment.
She was there. But not his.
And he would soon lose her too.
The cries of a dying animal would have been far less terrifying.
The warmth of the campfire did not stave off the chills racing down their spines, nor the fear which came with.
Idle fingers rubbed a stone smooth, gazing into flames which looked much like eyes he knew all too well.
It would be the right thing, the good thing, to go to him. To tend to the wounds carved deep into a blackened heart. Nourish the humanity left in a fallen god.
Another agonized scream, one would imagine torture of the highest degree. Yet a loss so profound, it could very well be torment, building for days, weeks, months. He swore it had been years.
A wilted flower thrown into the fire.
We need to put him down.
Give him time.
The softest of them closed her eyes, covering her ears as a name long lost tore through the air. Calling, looking, begging.
He would eventually wander to where they could not hear. But until then . . .
Broken, not destroyed.
But changed all the same.