In the act of becoming,
he shuns one costume for another.
It is not the graceful chaos
of caterpillar-cum-butterfly,
but instead,
a dark-magicked wrenching
of broken-winged bird into panther,
or perhaps a drowning man into an eel,
finally able to breathe and move,
inside his true and slippery skin.
In the act of rebirth,
he rejoices in his own blood.
All these things I believed
all of these things
I knew to be true
until I woke up one day and realized
while some things
are things we choose,
some things
are things that choose us.
I have been turned
inside out.
I will be mutilated
beyond recognition to some.
I will be giving up some things,
and winning other,
more crucial battles
you don’t even know exist.
The bloody stage of my flesh
will be conquered,
and the wasted landscape of my head
will be green once more.
This is Issue #15 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!
Happy Reading!
* * *
Stunned, Coryphaeus pulled back after a few moments, and stared down at Jules in wonder. His dark eyes shone, and he looked almost lost, confused.
She schooled her face, but could not stop the flush in her cheeks. Clearing her throat, she pulled away and smoothed her robes, looking down at her feet then as she said, “I’d like to clean up. And… I’m hungry. Could I… Is there food? I could make us–”
“Go bathe,” Coryphaeus said, heat in his cheeks as he turned away, trying to keep her from seeing his face. “I’ll make food.”
“You don’t have t–”
“I’m hungry, too, Commander,” Coryphaeus said firmly. “Go clean up. You’ll feel better.”
Jules slunk away toward the washroom, feeling both irritable and apologetic, the giddy joy of that kiss turned to ashes so easily, not knowing how to act or what to say. When she let herself into the tiled room, she shut the door and turned on the water in the giant tub, letting the sound of its splashing cover up the fact that she was standing still, staring at herself in the mirror.
He’s gone.
She stared that way for a long time, finally peeling the robes from her skin, looking at bruises, scratches, twisting and turning so she could see the burn scars down her spine, in the mirror. How long had it been? She didn’t really know. Some days had blended into others. She was scarring, no longer bleeding. It had been some time, then.
She met her own eyes and frowned in the mirror for a long while, watching her own face. “The fuck are you doing, Yana?” she whispered to herself. “Guy shows you a little humanity and you throw yourself at him?” She looked down at the ring on her left hand and the pang of misery that came was so all-encompassing that she found herself on her knees in front of the toilet heaving silently, struggling to rid herself of a feeling she was too terrified to acknowledge.
Nathan would not care that she kissed Coryphaeus, Westlander or no. Nathan would not feel betrayed if she fucked an entire army. Nathan was a jealous man, but not of her body, or even her heart. He simply loved knowing he came first.
But now he’d never come first again.
He’d never anything, again.
But if by some miracle he was watching her from whatever afterlife would have him, Nathan would not want her broken by grief. He would not want her to wind down like some neglected doll, springs and gears turned to rust.
He would want her to be able to rise above her grief, and find joy again, as soon as she could.
He would rather she forget him than weep for him.
“You stupid, stupid man,” she said quietly, resting her cheek on the rim of the bowl. “You stupid fucking man; why’d you go and do a stupid fucking thing like die on me?”
* * *
When Coryphaeus knocked on the door half an hour later, Jules didn’t answer. He could still hear the water running; it was reasonable that she would want to take her time cleaning up. Since the Hunt, everything had been hard for her — when he kept bringing her back to his home, he did not insist she wash or change her clothes, and in fairness, she needed both of those things to be done.
So he gave her time, and did not disturb her.
Half an hour later, he knocked again. When there was still no response, he tried the door, heart in his throat.
What if she’d escaped again? What if she’d hurt herself? What if she was simply there in the tub, lifeless, gashes in her arms and legs, her blood filling the tub? He opened the door with his eyes closed at first, took a deep breath, and opened them.
There she was, curled up in a ball, naked on the floor, the water still running, tears dried on her face.
She looked like she’d fallen asleep.
“Commander,” he said, gently shaking her. Her skin felt chilled, clammy. “You really need to eat. To drink. To take care of your body. You are doing yourself no good this way.”
Rousing, Jules looked up at Coryphaeus and said sadly, “I’m having trouble giving a shit. You get that, right?” She even smiled pathetically, pleading with him. Don’t make me get up. Don’t make me keep going.
“I do,” he said softly. “A meal will not bring him back. Neither will sleep. Neither will time, nor laughter. None of these things will fill the empty in you. But none of them will hurt, either, and perhaps they will ease the other pains that are adding up beside your broken heart. I can wash you and put you in bed. I can feed you. I can do everything except sleep and swallow for you, Commander. At some point, you will simply have to move on with the business of living.”
Her pale eyes were hard as she stared up at Coryphaeus, saying, “And if I don’t want to?”
Stop it this instant, Yana. You’re being selfish, she told herself. You already know you have to. You already know you’re not some weak little sniveling girl who’s going to die from a broken heart.
But he’s gone.
And he’ll be gone forever.
No point in wailing, right?
Might as well breathe.
Might as well get up.
She heard her own voice say it in her head, but just couldn’t bring herself to listen.
He watched her a long time, brows knitted in concern and frustration. “Then you will die here, for no reason, on my washroom floor, and it will be a waste. I cannot stop you, and I don’t want to stop you, if you are so determined. But you have not thrown yourself from the cliff, nor have you provoked a fight with a guard, or turned yourself over to the Princess. I have to believe something in you is still fighting. You don’t seem like the type to give up.”
* * *
“I see,” she began, looking at the cards, “wow. That’s… That’s a lot of conflict.” Navy blue eyes glanced up, met a pair so cerulean, she had to glance away, for fear of being burned. “You gotta lotta, uh. Hm. Shit, dude, I feel bad charging you for this one.”
Blue-eyes snorted, shaking his head. “Come on, or I’ll take the tenner and get some other con a cheap lunch.”
Her hand slapped over the bill on the table; she gritted her teeth and snarled, “I said I feel bad. Not that I ain’t gonna fuckin do it.”
“On with it, then.”
She looked up at him again, frowning as she said, “So I gotta ask — do I know you?”
“Really?” he sighed. “That’s what you’re leading with? Some bloody past life fuckery?” Full of snark, he planted his hands on the table, and leaned in to stand up. “I’m done. You’re all alike; you rope a bloke in and then–”
She could see over his shoulder, and her gaze focused there for a moment, navy blue eyes so very wide, impossibly wide, strangely dark — two toned? No, just one pupil blown out. Daft bint was on something, he bet. It made her left eye seem so very dark, her right eye almost pale in comparison.
He knew he shouldn’t stare, shouldn’t get caught up. He forced himself to blink.
That’s when her eyes got huge, and she grabbed his tie, and hauled him back down, as if to crack his skull against the cement of the chess-top right there in the park.
“Oi! Whatchoo think y–” His shout was indignant, but it cut out when the bullets started flying. He tried to scramble up over the table, but something kept him pinned down. “Leggo!”
“Stop. Struggling!” she cried. “Fuck, do you want to get us both killed?”
“I’m not the one staying fucking still in the fucking middle of a fucking shooting!” he shouted back.
“You’ll be a lot more fucking still if you don’t shut up!”
And that’s when he felt the pressure against him increase. He craned his neck to try to see what else was holding him — but from his angle, all he could see was her hand on his tie. Even so, the pressure on his back kept his belly against the table, his hips against its edge.
Against his back — hands. Pairs of them shifting their weight, their touch, as if they couldn’t figure out where best to settle.
When the shooting stopped, the sound of sirens could be heard.
When she let go of his tie, he felt the hands leave his back — he stood, whirling to face the ones he’d thought held him down, but no one was there.
He turned back, but she and the ten were gone, leaving behind something else, instead.
A trail of blood splotches, leading away from the table.
“Shit.”
This is Issue #14 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!
Happy Reading!
* * *
Still exhausted, still limping, Coryphaeus trudged through the walled-in hunting grounds, following the southern wall east, and then the eastern wall north, until he came to a steep slope leading down to a rocky beach.
It took him all of the morning, and by the time he reached the shore, he was slick with sweat, and he could feel his stitches pulling.
He walked without hesitation to the figure robed in black that knelt at the water’s edge, and stood behind it for a time, silent, waiting.
After a long while, he moved closer, pulled a bottle of water from a pack at his hip, and unscrewed the cap. He knelt beside the figure, and offered out the bottle, saying nothing.
There in the sun, silent, scorched from the heat, the figure took the bottle, drank beneath the hood and scarf it wore, then handed the bottle back.
Coryphaeus stood, then, and offered out a hand, gesturing for her to follow him. “Come,” he said softly. “You will not find what you are looking for, here.”
He led her away from the water, and she followed him, her head bent, her eyes dulled.
When they arrived at his apartments away from the regular barracks, he pulled the doors shut, and all the shades. In silence, he got her food, and in silence, he watched her not eat. He made up a bed for her, and let her lie in it, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
When he went to check on her later, she was in the same position, unmoved.
He ate, and slept, and went to check on her again, and she was gone.
* * *
The third time he retrieved her from the beach and walked her back to his rooms, he did not leave her, when he put her down to sleep, but instead, sat down in the room with her, waiting in front of the door. She laid still for hours, until finally she sat up, walked the paces of the room, then moved to sit back down on the bed, and lay herself in it, motionless, staring up at the ceiling once more.
He left her that way for only long enough to get her food, and to relieve himself. He took to catching naps against the door, waiting her out, watching her.
One morning, he brought her food, and sat down beside her, and offered her a spoonful, bringing it to her lips. She stared at it, for long moments, and then blankly opened her mouth, accepting the nourishment.
She ate, entirely, choosing each mouthful as he offered them.
He did not force her, and she did not resist.
With a full belly, she finally fell asleep, and Coryphaeus nearly wept with relief as exhaustion claimed him as well.
when he woke, she was gone again.
* * *
“Please,” he said. “Commander, he’s not here.”
“How would you know?” Her voice was rough with disuse, but it came, nonetheless.
Coryphaeus was stunned by her response; he blinked stupidly at her for a few moments before finally saying, “Because I’ve checked.”
“What?” Jules said, equally as stupefied. She hadn’t been expecting something so simple and straightforward.
“Because… I’ve searched for him. He gave his life for mine, and I don’t even know why,” Coryphaeus said quietly. “I’ve searched for him, and I’ve had my sister search for him, and my men search for him, and he is not in the capital city, nor is he in the sea.” He looked out at the water, squinting against the sun’s glare.
Jules looked down at her hands, and then back to Coryphaeus, pained. “You did that? You looked for him?”
“If it were within my power, I would bring him back to you, Commander. In an instant,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I–” He turned away, choked up, swallowing roughly.
“Why?” Jules wondered, looking up at him, anger and confusion on her face. “Legatus, why? What does any of it matter to you?” Exhaustion had all but claimed her; she looked drawn and pale, miserable.
“Because I know what it is to be alone!” he finally shouted, his hands clenched into fists. “Because I know what it can be like to have no one but yourself, and to realize you’re aren’t even certain of that. You say you know what I am — you think you know me. Do you know my father tried to have me put to death?”
Jules blanched; she stared at Coryphaeus in shock.
Coryphaeus kept on, pressing. “He tried to kill me. My own brother? Cut off his left hand in repayment for the dishonor of what I am. My sister was kept from me while I was locked away in an attempt to be cured. I was not touched for two years except to cause pain,” he said, his voice cracking as he gritted his teeth, determined to hold back a distressed sob.
“Legatus, I–”
He pulled open his robes, then, and bared his scars, his stitches, his wounds. “Do you see these?” He gestured to the crescent scars in the faint creases of his muscled chest. They scrawled against his bronzed flesh in a study of silver and pink, pulling at the flesh, pulled at by the flesh, shining but not smooth, the taut texture of mutilated meat, marking up the smooth expanse of his skin as much as any of the tattoos on any of the other Ilonans.
Jules couldn’t help but stare, frowning slightly, looking at them, imagining what his body had been like, before its change.
“These I had done, to myself. They hurt, but they did not hurt half so much as this one,” he said, pulling the robes open further, to show the silver line etching down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his black braccae. “This one was from my father. He cut into me as though I were an animal to be gutted.”
Wide-eyed, Jules stood before Coryphaeus, and lifted a hand to lay it against his chest, splaying her fingers over his skin.
“Why you? Why do I care? Because you’ve been gutted, too, Commander,” he whispered, chest heaving with panted breaths beneath her touch.
“No,” Jules said, her skin paling. She moved to take a step back, but Coryphaeus stepped forward, and offered out his arms. At no point did he confine her, did he hold her and keep her from being able to be free, but he surrounded her, all the same, strength and safety, solid heat.
“You flinch, if someone is too close, and yet you still hope,” he murmured, keeping her near, his touch there, but light.
She stopped pulling away, and trembled in his arms, looking up at him, her pulse pounding in her ears. “You don’t know me,” she whispered, pleading.
“I know you’re alone, and yet you still fight,” Coryphaeus said, lifting up one hand to cup it near her cheek.
She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes for a moment, letting his hand cup her cheek. Red lashes grew dark with tears, and she looked up at him, earnest.
Coryphaeus pressed closer, bending his head down, while Jules tipped hers up, a giddy rush filling her, her cheeks suffused with a heady blush. “I’m not brave. I’m terrified,” she said, staring up at him, and he could feel the thunder of her heart against his chest, battering against her ribs, a caged bird, mad with captivity.
“I know. And yet you still love,” Coryphaeus whispered. “Commander?”
“Yes, Legatus?” She could feel the warm edge of his lips nearly against hers, and the heat of them was a profound sweetness.
“I know you are grieving, and I know I am not the m-”
He did not get the chance to finish his sentence; she pressed close, and whispered, “Call me Jules,” against his mouth, and kissed him where he stood.
It did not matter she was a Westlander. It did not matter he was Ilonan. For that moment, whatever had warred between them surrendered on both sides.
* * *
