Sorry about the delay with Blood but it looks like I'll be putting that on hiatus for a very long time. Here's something to make up for it.
"We don't...have to fight, you know," she mutters.
"You could have decided this before stabbing me in the arm," he grumbles.
She can't help it. She puts a finger to her lips and giggles, "I thought of it a little late."
"Thanks," he sighs, "So you don't want to fight?"
She shrugs, "When it comes to fighting, war isn't about 'want.'"
"True," he clutches his bleeding arm, "Can we do this later, though? I'm rather wounded."
"Sissy," she sticks her tongue out.
Sanctuary
-Strikerflame
It was just one of those situations. An exorcist is sent for retrieval, finds a Noah, gets into a fight. It was an irritating event that led to battle more often than not. In fact, battle ensued every time. Occasionally, death was a part of these scenarios.
Most of the time, this was not the situation. Most of the time, an exorcist is sent for retrieval, finds the Innocence, maybe battles a few AKUMA, then goes home. Battle was only occasional and less than consequential. Death, however, was often hand-in-hand with these as well.
This was one of those former situations. However, death had not yet come into the picture. One exorcist. One Noah. Allen Walker. Road Kamelot.
It was a familiar location for Allen. A lone, abandoned church in one of the emptier areas of London, England. It was known to be a sort of makeshift haven for travelers and vagrants. It was empty now, though, save for the rats and dust mites. After a gruesome series of murders all too familiar to him, the church was left behind even by the wayward. Even the town would turn a blind eye, unwilling to even so much as demolish it.
But when the praying and preaching figures in what few intact stained-glass windows remained began to move and carry out the scenes from the holy text, it gathered attention. Fear kept the locals at bay but not the Black Order. Nor the apostles of Noah.
Allen himself was unsure why he volunteered to go alone. Perhaps because the scene was so familiar. Perhaps he wished to seek solace in a holy place even though God Himself may have forsaken it. Perhaps there was a stronger force bringing him, a deeper premonition that was summoning him to this dusty old house of worship.
Road was in a similar state of uncertainty. She had arrived long before any others. She had heard the rumors, the whispers of the windows to Heaven. It was a ridiculous notion but curious, nonetheless. Her first idea was simple to send the entire building crumbling as though a toddler with letter blocks. But when the windows moved, something stirred. Something about those moving figures seemed more graceful than she had imagined.
It was the sight of a young, absent-minded girl staring at the wondrous shapes that first met Allen when he entered the church. There was indeed a scuffle to start. Reflex, you could say. The gothic lolita dress, the forehead scars, the spiky and disheveled hair...It sort of set off a defense mechanism. Several, in fact. Not enough to save him from the candle in the arm fairly early on.
Disadvantages were brought into play. For him, there was the undeniable fact that she was almost completely impervious to his offenses. It wasn't that the attacks had no effect so much as they didn't really matter in the end. Her own unique immortality prevented any lasting wounds or injuries from stopping her or even slowing her down. Mostly because there WERE no lasting wounds or injuries within moments.
Her disadvantage was a bit more complex. She could hurt him. She could wound him. She could break him. But it wasn't about "could." She had no desire to hurt him. He was more fun intact. He was more thrilling in action. He was more beautiful whole.
When she called for peace, it was something they were both less than hesitant to discuss.
"I'm not like you," he shifted his weight as he stares at her, unsure of her intentions.
She scoffs, "We're not really going to get into a philosophical discussion right now, are we?"
He grabs his forehead with his wounded head in an exasperated manner, "Physically, Road. I'm not some immortal who can so easily ignore what hurts him."
"I can be hurt," she mumbles while looking away.
Silence follows. Did he say too much? Did she say too much? A frustrating silence hangs in the air between them. The tearing of Road's skirt similarly tears the silence.
"What are you..." his question is quickly interrupted.
"It was just your arm, so it's probably not so bad, right?" she asks as she tears off a sizable strip, revealing more leg than before, causing him to turn slightly red, "Besides, it's ruined anyway. Your fault."
"Sorry," he blinks in surprise at his own response. Then again, it was a pretty outfit before his claw got to it. Now it was fairly tattered. The sleeves were horribly torn and there were three large gashes on the back. She was fairly distracted during the bout so more hits landed than he had expected to land.
"I'll get a new one," she sticks her tongue out at him again, "but try not to be so rough with me next time anyway."
"You can take it," he shrugs, "Hey, what..."
Ssshhhhrip, in a swift movement, his own sleeve is gone. Much to his surprise, the durable material is easily torn away by small yet swift hands. He'll need to contact the science division about upgrades...and a new coat.
"What was that for?" he demands, a little worried about this temporary truce's status now.
"Well, I can't wrap your arm around your sleeve, dummy!" she snaps back. Much to her frustration, it was only the coat that was torn, she had somehow missed the shirt sleeve beneath it. No matter. Just another...
Her hand is caught in a movement that surprises her, "I like this shirt."
"Tough!" she pouts. She fights back a look of surprise. He's stronger than he looks. No, he's just plain strong. And yet the tight grip on her wrist is...gentle. Her movement is hindered but she feels free. There's care in his touch. Trapping a bird in his hand without crushing it to death.
"For you, perhaps," he releases her limb. It's so small. His view no longer impeded by his own hand, he sees his former captive. His whole hand fit around her wrist. Her skin was soft, too. There was a definite contrast between her smooth flesh and his own calloused and rugged hands. It made her seem...fragile.
He pushes the thoughts from his mind as he unbuttons his shirt with a light grumble. Now it's her turn to turn red. It's not something he misses. Now it is he who fights back an expression, only his is one of a shit-eating grin.
"I don't want you ripping the shirt," he explains as he finishes undoing the buttons and removes his right arm from its sleeve, leaving his Innocence concealed behind its cloth entrapment.
"Ugh, fine, whatever," she grumbles as she begins to administer her makeshift bandage. It's a lengthy process, dragged out by her own slow movements brought about by her wandering attention.
Something feels wrong about it. His half-exposed torso is much rougher than she had imagined. Marred by scars and signs of wear and tear. She forgets, sometimes, what she and hers put him and his through. She sees now where his strength comes from. He's not large. Far from it, he's short in stature and rather slim. But there's clearly a strong body that tells a story of violence and pain hiding beneath the clothes of this kind and loving boy.
What most troubles her is his most grievous wound. Stretching from shoulder to waist, a permanent reminder of the war in which he is destined to fight, be it to win or die. She shivers at the thought.
"You're very slow," a voice that snaps her from her thoughts.
She stops and stares, looking deep into his soft, gray eyes. They're so sad. They tell stories she could never hope to hear from one end to the other without her heart breaking in two. Her face folds into a frown and she resumes her sub-par first-aid and lies, "I'm distracted by the windows."
He cocks his eyebrow and then allows his own gaze to wander. They've begun to move. The figures that twist and color the moonlight as they perform on their glass stages. There's grace and fluidity in their movements, as though they were no longer images embedded in glass but truly windows into the past and into Heaven. They make not one noise but their color and beauty are as loud as the grandest choir.
"It's...beautiful," he finds himself stunned, awe-inspired. Whatever words he could find are quickly lost as he gazes upon the scenes unfolding before him.
"Yeah..." she seems in thought. She is in thought. She's in a bad place right now. She knows what she has to do. She has to find the source and destroy it. She has to kill the boy enraptured by the images coming to life around them. She has to fulfill her purpose and be the killer that war makes of us all.
But why?
She takes another look around. At the windows, at the dusty church, at the dancing colors left on the floor by the windows and moonlight, at him. This scene is so foreign to her. Never has she been given a scenario as the one she finds herself in now. She finds herself...lost.
"Allen..."
A weight is suddenly upon his arm. He looks and sees her resting her head against his shoulder. She's peaceful, a sight he never imagined. It never occurred to him to try. Light, small, and sad. A wretched combination emanating from her that made him feel...
"Allen..." she repeats. Does she want a response? Does she want his attention? Perhaps...perhaps it is simply that his name gives her comfort.
"I'm here," he says simply. His eyes return to the windows. He needs a distraction.
She pauses, "I know you are."
Another long silence. Words hover in the air above them that refuse to descend. Thoughts and feelings cloud their beings that could not dare to penetrate the deafening silence between them.
No.
There was no longer a between them. Not since she had found her arms wrapping around his. It did nothing to shatter the horrid silence but it still spoke volumes.
"Road..."
"I'm here."
Hesitation. Frustration. Anxiety. Hope. Fear.
"Yes, you are..." he says quietly. Every word carried a flood of screams with them. Demands, confessions, pleas, insistence, accusations. It was all so loud.
Then all was silent.
Under the watchful eyes of the living sanctuary of God, a wondrous blasphemy occurs as he kisses her.
She's not sure why he does it but she knows that if he hadn't, she would have. Was it the church? Was it the windows? Was it him? Was it her? Did it matter?
He pulls away. He doesn't look away. A part of him wants to. But he knows it would be wrong to do so. If he looked away, there was no guarantee he would look back. He didn't want that chance. He didn't want that risk. War wasn't about "want."
War...
He turned away.
"Allen, n-..." she can't finish as he stands to his feet and breathes as deep as his lungs will hold.
A cry that echoes across the church. From end to end, the words reverberate as though the church bells themselves would be drowned out by their sound and meaning.
"SANCTUARY!"
She can't move. Think. Breathe. Her very heart would stop were she in control of it. As though to spite her, it beats ever faster. Harder.
He sighs and sits back down. He didn't turn back. Not yet. He needed a moment. He had screamed to the heavens far more than a single word. He made a demand. He made a claim. He made a confession. He made a cry for help. More than anything, he made a chance.
"I..." he sighs and scratches his nose, "I think that should do it."
"Do what?" she finds no words for any of her feelings. But she needs to respond. She needs to let him know that she is still here.
"We're at war," he says, "and we're on opposing sides. But...I can't call you an enemy. The rewinding town and the ark...They were battlegrounds. And yet they were the only places we met. This place...could just as easily become another field of battle. Another place to spill blood. That's something...I don't want. So now it's not. It's somewhere away now. It's somewhere...safe."
"SANCTUARY!" she cries, jumping to her feet. Far more than he had, she cries with all her might as though her immortality would fail and her very form would fade away from this beautiful world should she fail, "SANCTUARY! SANCTUARY! SANCTUARY! SANCTUARY!"
He stares at her in surprise. She cries. It is not simply the precious word that flies from her mouth as she screams it again and again. To his shock, there are tears. Tears that she couldn't stop, no matter how hard she tried. So she lets them flow. She needs to cry now. There's nothing else she can do to express how she feels. Words, actions, all of them would fall short of describing the tightness in her chest, the fire in her heart, the electric current zooming from head to toe.
Her throat hurts by the time she stops. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are moist with the tears that won't stop. Can't stop. She breathes heavily before slowly turning to him.
"I think...that should do it," she sniffs.
He can't reply. She won't let him. The situation is ripe for witty banter, jokes to lighten the mood, silly one-liners that end with them parting ways and promising to meet again.
That's not what she wants. And she expresses this with a kiss. He does not resist.
"Meet here again!" she yells after pulling back, "Meet me here again and again and again!"
"I promise," he says.
"I love you!" she screams.
"I know," he says.
"I love you, I love you, I love you!" she screams and cries against him.
He holds her. He holds her as close as he can. He's so strong. He's so gentle.
"I know."
I can't believe I just wrote something I like so much.