I walk straight out the main door, not caring who sees me, wanting them to see me, longing to find no one–no one, nowhere, never again. I don’t know if they do see me. It is nearly dark, and I am quiet, as silent as the tomb.
My soul is sick. It burns with fever one moment; it shakes and trembles beneath chills the next. My body is a corpse, a husk, like the wells; within, I am volcano and deep freeze. The world internal is writhing in the final throes of existence. I am a statue walking, a vision passing by shuttered windows.
Nyasha’s voice is gone. I have broken the last ties. I am free, and I am alone, and I will die.
And I admit to myself my deepest desire: I ache to suffer. I long to abuse myself. What am I, and why am I here? I have wrestled with the questions over and over, and I have no answer. I have never had an answer, only strawmen placed in the proper places so I could live.
Existence is a contradiction so profound, it alone can almost cause me to admit a god. And if not a god, then a soul. I am a miserable, wretched being, a spark of hateful futility. And yet, I love my breath and my movement and my sleep. I am beautiful, or could have been–I think I do believe in the soul, in something beyond simple mechanics. It is hard to admit, but I do, against my will. To exist is in itself an incomprehensible miracle and something so earth-shatteringly lovely, I cannot comprehend how I am allowed to partake in it.
So I am wracked with guilt. Always. Morning to night. Because I exist and want to exist and should not exist. But even if I wish to live, if everyone somehow wishes to live, I am responsible for myself only. Not for Nyasha. Not for Bron. And no one is responsible for me. That is the cold truth. I must survive on my own terms, in my own way; or I must go the way of magic. And I must suffer.
There is excitement in the streets, perhaps from the explosions. I don’t know where I am, but by the number of suits and uniforms, I guess I am still in the governmental district. It is buzzing with life, with the careless abandon of men who have somehow figured out how to live in the moment.
I have no curiosity, but I have a deep desire to be alone. And the loneliest place in the world is in the company of a multitude of happy strangers.
I enter a bar full of noise and light and laughter. I see nothing. I sit in the corner and wait.
For nothing.
Nyasha will hate me. Bron, even, will hate me. That is what I want. I don’t know why–no, I do, I do, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the same thing, again and again, running through my brain, through my soul, through the cells of my body and the fibers of my being.
The atmosphere begins to sink in. The men are happy and drunk. They are proud and content. They ask no questions. They live. How do they live? Surely, they see the same dark blank face of the universe in their beds. Don’t they?
I look at them, study their faces. Each is different, like covers of books, like the first terms of an equation, hinting at something I can’t understand, something I long to understand. But I am unable or I am unwilling. I don’t know which.
One man–he looks at me. His eyes study me with red intensity. I glare back, but still he stares, now with a growing excitement. There is something about him that moves the stillness in my soul, some recognition that struggles to catch fire in the starless tundra. Slowly, in such a way that indicates he wants me to notice, his eyes move to my artificial limb.
I jerk to my feet, and he smiles. He is the one who attacked me in Jalseion. He is the one who took my limbs from me.
I sit back down, shaking. Is it possible?
He leans over the bar, receives a second drink, and stands. He is coming toward me. I remain. Let him come. This is beyond coincidence. This is dark destiny–if such a thing exists.
“I brought you a drink,” he says.
“I see that.” The words come easily, somehow. This is not reality; this is a dream.
He sits, setting the drink before me. His body is rigid with tension. He wants something desperately.
I down the drink in a gulp. He nods. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be.”
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you remain.”
“It is a remarkable coincidence to find you here. I am curious.”
He laughs. “I am always here. You’re in the governmental district of a military city. I’m military. This is a favorite haunt of military men. There is no coincidence on my end. You are the one out of place. I left you for dead. Yet you are alive, and in Thyrion. Have you come to visit me?”
“I’d like another drink.”
He waves a hand and gets me another. Down it goes. I feel it around the edges of my senses, dulling me, loosing me, freeing me from myself.
“I hate you,” I say.
He nods, understanding. “I hate you, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t. You’ve ruined me. Twice. Do you remember killing my brother?”
“I’ve never killed anyone.” I say it defensively. Bron is rescuing Nyasha at this moment, I am sure of it.
He smacks my hand where it rests on the table, eliciting a sharp pain. “Naughty girl. You shouldn’t tell lies.”
I slam my hand on the table. “I haven’t!”
“Two more,” he mentions as a waitress passes. He stares at me as we wait, his eyes smouldering, his face frozen in a sick grin. When the drinks arrive, he raises his shot: “To the dead. To my brother and comrades! They’re never coming back!”
The fire runs hard down my throat, cleansing me, but only for a moment.
“What did Kyzer want with my limbs?”
“Kyzer?” He shakes his head. “General Dracon. Excuse me, Lord Dracon. Ask him. He’ll tell you. My turn.” He leans in. I smell the stench of his breath. “Do you hurt? Do you lie awake at night, remembering everything you’ve lost?”
“I was a target, an objective. Why do you care if I hurt?”
“Perhaps you don’t know. I had a personal connection to that mission. You’ll understand with a bit of prodding. Three years ago. Three men in an alley. You killed them. One was my brother.”
“I didn’t kill them. I didn’t.” I say it because I need it to be true. I never asked. During the subsequent investigation, somehow, I managed to avoid the facts of the case. I was asked questions, but–Bron was there. He answered for me. I was too busy, I told him, and he answered for me.
He slaps me. My head smacks against the back of the booth. He is standing as I recover, seething, slowly, slowly calming himself. No one comes to my aid. No one notices.
“I killed him.” I say it coldly, proudly, straightening myself, owning it. With the words, I admit it to myself for the first time. A thrill of damnation and power shudders through me. That is why I say it, so I can feel such emotions. So I can feel something.
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “I’d like to kill you.”
“I’d like to die.”
And now he laughs, overcome with humor, and he looks at me with new eyes. His response insults me. “I suppose we could have been friends, you and I. I suppose we could have been. Do you believe in Elthor?”
“I believe in nothing.”
“Not true. Not true at all. Everyone believes in something. It’s a necessity of living. I believe in Elthor. I truly do. It’s a family thing. He promises us vengeance against our enemies, did you know that? I have prayed for vengeance. I have tried to gain it on my own. And now, miraculously, you appear, a willing sacrifice. Tell me now, doesn’t that make you believe?”
“It wouldn’t be to my benefit.”
He slams the table with his fist. “Aren’t you a scientist? It doesn’t matter if you like it. What do the facts say?”
“Do you want to kill me or not?”
“I want to. Yes, I want to.”
“Then be a gentleman and take me to your place. It’s too noisy here. I can’t hear myself think.”
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