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❝ it didn’t have to be this way, you know. you brought this on yourself. ❞ / from sofia

Poignant. He will reap what he hath sown and so he, the hunter, becomes the hunted. There are consequences for his actions, consequences he knew and recognized, and yet ignored all the same. Blinded with hate and the sweet, addictive taste of revenge, perhaps he has finally doomed himself to this life of pain and suffering. ( Is that all life is meant to be? ) And perhaps he has doomed her now as well. ( They’ll follow the smell of death that he leaves behind, right to her doorstep. )

Sweat beads lightly on his forehead, for even as the sun dips below the horizon, Morocco retains its heat. John feels the hot breath of her hounds against him as they guard him with watchful eyes. Her words cut deep, as they are meant, but he takes the slashes on bare skin. His eyes meet hers for no more than a moment before they fall, a fleeting, silent agreement from him. He has no soul to damn but his own, no more vengeance to carry out. She is not doing him a kindness tonight. It’s a double-edged sword he’s handed to her, expecting her to put her own life on this very line. Sofia takes it only out of the covenant of their world. If her blood be spilled, it is his conscience.

@findslight

#findslight #chapter 3.

What to say. To offer his condolences? Tell her he truly is sorry for her loss? No. Those words would sting even his own ears. ( They always feel so empty. ) No apology would undo the ties that have already bound her sister to the land of the dead. ( She must be buying her passage to cross the River now. ) The thought alone of saying it leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat. ( It would be a true confession, but hollow to her ears. ) He won’t spend his breath on it, what little air he has left to breathe.

His eyes are horribly soft, for a killer. Often cold brown looks warm now. ( Could it be... Remorse? ) Brows are strong and have been pulled inward, putting a gentle crease between them. Surely, she can smell death on him, bloodstains that have tattooed his skin over the years. But she will never know how easy it was, the killing ; how familiar it felt. It was simple muscle memory that pushed the blade further and professional courtesy that lent his ear to her last words and his eyes to her final breath. ( No pride, no pleasure. Only pain. ) He looks truly hardened by it all ( but oh, so careful not to sell his soul to just any buyer ) .

It must infuriate her, the way he stands here, with the gall to face her and not beg for forgiveness and admit all his faults. ( Do you fear damnation? ) He only watches her with an even gaze, something level and equal. ( Yes. ) He would never dare think himself above and her below. It is he that crawls among the snakes and thieves while she so clearly walks among the light. But no matter the moral fault that lies between them, no matter the pinpricks of guilt he may feel in his heart, he tells her this, knowing it will mean nothing : “ I didn’t have a choice. ”

@findshope

#findshope #chapter 3.

There’s adrenaline surging through him in this brief moment of respite. The body goes slack on top of him and he quickly shoves it off, allowing himself only one passing second to catch his breath before his dark eyes are being trained on the woman standing above him. She grins down at him excitedly -- he’d know her anywhere. ( But she isn’t very hard to miss. ) She says something, but he’s not sure he catches quite every word ; he manages something about this being ‘ so crazy! ’ and that ‘ I was just looking for you! ’ A line forms between his brows as they furrow together in bemusement, watching as she stretches a hand down toward him. ‘ Total serendipity. ’

He looks at her hand, then back to her face, and clasps his hand with hers, silently grateful for the help. ( The body, so terribly fragile and human, brawls with the exhaustion and battles through the pain, but they’ve both already sunk their talons deep in his skin ; can he fight back? ) He finds his footing, his balance, glancing down at the body that is now at his feet. John is not particularly disturbed by the sight of the blood that is slowly pooling on the floor from the man’s head, but its grizzly sight doesn’t bring him much peace either. ( ‘ Death ’ they call him, and yet death is not a friend. )

She twirls the bat in one hand before resting it against her shoulder, still smiling as she straightens his tie for him and pats down the lapel of his jacket. His head tilts to the side ever so slightly as she begins speaking again, a fast flurry of words, an offer of quid pro quo that he does not quite wrap his mind around. The adrenaline is wearing off with every comfortable breath he’s able to take. He can feel the pain rushing to every bruised rib and sore muscle. ( Soon, he’ll realize he’s torn the stitches in his shoulder. ) Through the vague dizziness in his head, he’s able to listen just enough to ask, “ Why? ” after she proposes, ‘ I help you, you help me. Yeah? ’

@findshope

#findshope #chapter 3.