When it was written down in legend, they fd say that the feelings they shared went beyond quadrants, went beyond pity or hatred. Maybe, maybe, it was even that thing that humans call love. She certainly felt it when she snuggled up to his arm, or pressed their lips together, or slept on his chest at night.
The Disciple was in love with the Sufferer, and the Sufferer was in love with the Disciple.
It had all started when they came together. The Sufferer himself, the Disciple, the Psiioniic, and the Dolorosa. A pack of four that traveled and spread his teachings, the trolls closest to him. The Disciple would write down everything he said without fail. A scripture for the future, for when others would need it too. She listened and practiced his lessons and was the most faithful. She always paid attention and so he gradually started warming up to her.
They fd spent nights together under the pale sky, watching as it got gradually lighter and lighter and the blazing Alternian sun showed its face. You could say that, never in history had two been as close as they were.
But then it was shattered.
He was shackled in the hot irons, his body slashed and bleeding, an arrow piercing his side. She was forced to stay and watch as the bright scarlet blood dripped down his gray skin, his eyes closed, his peaceful manner gone. He looked like he would explode any minute but there was no way he could - the burning metal forever trapped him where he was, crucified and left to die.
When his torture ended, they kept him in his chains and burned him. The Disciple could smell his burning flesh, hear his angry screams. He had wanted nothing but peace and he died like that - his body burned alive until his voice was silenced forever.
She was to die too. His faithful follower, his loyal servant, his companion. She got to keep his bloodstained leggings, the only piece of him left. The rest was ashes, the same colour as her skin.
She kneeled, clutching that article of clothing, her fingers brushing the bloody fabric. Her eyes searched for any friendly face in the crowd - the Dolorosa, maybe, or the Psiioniic?
No.
They were facing their own punishments for following the mutant, the red-blood, the one who wasn ft supposed to exist.
She looked for the Sufferer himself, his ghost, ready to lead her to death. The bow was poised, the arrow pointing at her heart. It glowed blue. Her emerald eyes were locked onto it. She couldn ft look away. The Disciple did not quiver, she did not shake. Her gaze never faltered.
The arrow was lowered. Her supposed-to-be executioner was letting her free, for a reason she would never know. A reason no one would ever know, not even Darkleer, the bow-holder himself.
Clutching the leggings close to her heart, she scrambled away. Left alone but still alive, she retreated to the warm darkness of caves. She killed creatures, her hands stained with the crimson that was once the Sufferer fs blood colour. She decided to record his scripture forever, for the generations to come, for the generations that would never get to see her written record.
She took the blood and she painted. She touched her fingers to stone and she drew out the map that was the Sufferer fs life and his teachings. The Disciple wrote of his peacefulness and she also wrote of his anger when he was sentenced to death. She wrote of the love they had shared, of the Dolorosa and the Psiioniic.
She stained the walls with her love and her memory, something that would never disappear even long after she had gone.