Of the night, sanguine, he sits in shadow and does not sleep. The moon peaks through the window panes, a bright bauble above casting weak, pale light into the recesses of the fort. The night is clear and crisp and tangy, the consistency leaving him feeling strangely nostalgic. He yearns for something he knows he cannot place, does not need, must not remember. Why did you do it?
Must be blood, death, depravity, then. Something in this wasteland of the human spirit to induce even a bit of emotion, to bring him to that old familiar high tinged with disbelief and insanity. He needs something to focus on through the noise of half whispered words and faces and to cut through the white milky cloud creeping into his mind. Bitch! He mutters. The sharp sound startles him awake, and he realizes it is the first time he's spoken in weeks. He can feel the cloud crash then recede into the distance. Everything is clear, efficient, reliable. Why, brother?
Now, now, down to business. He remembers he is waiting for someone. Who? The newest addition to the Brotherhood. A sister. Skilled, and deadly and so, so innocent. So pliable. He can almost taste the spring in her words. Why? Yes, yes. Sitting here in dank silence in wait for her, for her bright face in search of praise, in wait of affirmation for her actions. The traitor, the night mother whispers in his ear and he remembers, feels. So vivid the desire and the need to tear and cut and feel their life streaming down his body like rivers. Why did you betray us?
In time, time. She will come. She will come and he will resist and only allow himself to step close enough to catch the scent of freshness and brush her hand to feel the bright pulse beating with the rhythm of her heart. Tell us, tell us.
The wind picks up and blows his thoughts out of order, into the night and scatters them so he is left blind and aching in the familiar darkness.
Why did you do it, brother?
Why, why. So many questions and he realizes he is not god, only a finger on a hand, suspended in helpless apathy without a claw.
Pain, pain. They slash and ask and force art into his flesh. He is not a canvas and knows their brushes only bring death.
Dawn comes and he cannot see. Everything is black, black, black, shifting in constant rhythm to the echoes of skeletons shying away from the promise of morning. The world fades into milky white, pulsating and engulfing and constant, tangible, real. What is this, he wonders. What is this, he wants to ask, but words escape him and he sits in a pool of confusion and his own breathing.
Tell us, brother. Why did you betray us? We know she only acted under your orders.
She, her. Sister. It is enough to propel him into the present. The wooden floor and nausea and pain hit him and he gasps. The movement sends him into dry heaves until he feels something give and sweet warm blood slide down with gravity onto the wooden floor. Waterfalls.
"He's come to."
"Good. We've wasted enough of our time. One more question before we send him to the night mother."
Movement. He feels the sharp pinprick of pain cutting through his defenses.
"I…it…wasn't me. I was…loyal." Dry heaves again, and he knows it is not enough. Not enough to console and not enough to appeal to the morality he has always sought to destroy. He finally feels the dark wave catch him in this lifelong race he has been running - away from the dirty streets and stealing food to run past vendors shouting, shouting. Away from the rich in scented clothes shouting for guards, shouting. Away from the warm blood of his first kill - a woman, her baby peeking through the slash in her stomach, away from the Night Mother with her arms open in embrace, away from the spring and sister and the confusion and betrayal. And it is not enough, not enough. He is tired and the race is finally finished and he is ready to die.
Save me, he manages to whisper, and in the moment he learns what it means to be helpless. For the first time, he feels what it is like to surrender.
Find me, sister, and let's sleep together in the cold dank dark.