If you live long enough, you become tired of the fear. You become tired of seeing children run to hide behind their mothers’ skirts because of some old legend spread, more about the story than the fear. You become tired of the hush that falls in certain hours, in certain taverns, the dead, watchful silence like that that birds form when they know a hawk’s come cruising. You get tired of the pressure of maintaining a reputation, of straddling the line between fear and between love in order to protect your own. Something simple touched him that this gentle woman trusted him; saw in him nothing but something gentle in return. It was not true, his hands were drowned in red as were the rest, but with her for a moment, he could pretend that he was. Flora was delicate in many senses, and when he was with her, he became exquisitely aware of how her life rested in his hands, but in a greater sense, so too did his with hers. Innocuous in appearance, she had his dagger still, and had she the inclination; it would take no more than a second for it to find his heart. So trust came in both ways, knitting them together.
The righteous man turned gentle. Hands that had broken and rebuilt touched only with absolute care, adjusting with his arm still around her, his body aching but her warmth, her presence, making it worth it. “You misunderstand me, Flora, I do not mean to say you are a saint,” he murmured softly, “only that this is what you are, who you are. We can all try to improve, but to an extent, we have to accept ourselves, and there’s so much good in you.” A wan smile touched his features as she spoke. “That is why I am me,” he echoed quietly, as if pulling the words from very far away, “but I’m tired.” There was a deep exhaustion in his eyes, mingling with his anguish, with pain. It was the eyes of someone who had reached their utmost limit and could suffer no more, but then, he knew how limits could often extend. When a person did not have a choice, they could endure the unendurable. “I didn’t want to come back this time, it would have been so easy,” he said honestly, in a bare whisper. He smiled sadly, his eyes heavy-lidded. “To sleep—-“
“But reality is reality, and that’s no longer mine. I had to find my feet, or I’ll live crippled, alive, but shattered in who I am, and I won’t be of any use, least of all to myself. But the feeling…the feeling…being pulled back to life every time…it’s like….dragging yourself over broken glass. Every time you come back, you leave pieces of yourself behind. Every time, you come back, it’s harder. Takes longer. And I’m…I’m so tired.”
He didn’t say what was clearly written in his eyes. Next time, he would not be able to come back.
Grateful for the distraction, he managed another wan smile. “Your breathing? You forgot how? Come now, Flora, I know you’re cleverer than that,” he teased gently. “As for people not liking me, you’d be surprised. I have many enemies, but luckily back in my territory, my allies were greater. Kept me alive, barely, but alive. Made it a tricky proposition to remove me, which I was grateful for.” A soft laugh, silvery and honest escaped him, sullied only by the wince of pain that ran through him as he did. His drugs were wearing off and his pain was increasing, but he did his best to keep it from his eyes.
“Taught you to drink and swear,” he stated with a faint edge of amusement. “Sounds like him, he’s a champion at both. And did you swear?” He managed a small, halted shrug at her question. “Most of us are quite close or have gotten quite close. When it’s us against the fleets of the world, you tend to make some allies, even if you’re rivals as well and Cal…well, Cal…” He hesitated, aware of the sentiment in his voice, the blatant flashing of a weak spot. “Cal’s different,” he finished simply. “To me. Cal’s different.”
“Yes,” he replied without thinking, and then paused, surprised at himself. He thought of the way Dante’s lips curved against his when he smiled into a kiss, the silken brush of his hair against his fingertips. “It meant something. As for the man of God, one Edmund Poe? You know him? Tall, a bit gloomy, but he’s handsome when he smiles.”
His brow creased at her statement, and despite the fact that his eyes were a little glassy with pain, distracted, there was clarity in them. “It’s my list,” he replied quietly. “And I get to decide who gets to be on it.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it again, lightly.
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