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"The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared." -Lois Lowry, The Giver
Her Recollections
She crouched silently, waiting for him above the dark catwalk. Fury had told her he was coming her way, and she had to face him.
But she was frightened.
She knew that he wouldn't recognize her, despite their years together. His eyes would be a cold blue instead of the solid grey. His mind and body would not be the same.
But still, she waited.
Soon enough, she heard his footsteps coming down the catwalk. Her well-trained ears knew his exact gait, and she looked down to see the top of his head moving towards her. He passed under her, and she was assailed by his sharp, clean scent. Clint. A part of her was in outrage that she would use his real name. But another part of her relished the feeling of his name on her tongue. She waited patiently for an opening, and then she leaped down and landed without a sound on the catwalk, immediately falling in step behind him.
As they walked in unison, she remembered.
She huddled in the dingy, cold warehouse. Fear held her in its icy grip. Her breath came out in loud gasps. Too loud, she felt. Far too loud, for a fugitive trying to stay hidden.
She chewed constantly on her lip, her eyes darting around the blackness. She tried in vain to wet her tongue, but the moisture vanished as soon as she could conjure it. Her ears strained to pick up anything, anything at all, in the dry stillness.
It was a mark of how well he had been trained that she did not hear him approach. When he coughed deliberately, she whipped around, her nerves on fire. His walk was steady, calculated. He wore all black, and strapped to his back was a sheath of deadly arrows. He fingered the bow in his hand and held it to him with a practiced air. The look was clear in his sharp eyes. He was going to kill her, and there was nothing she could do. She found herself praying that the death would be quick.
She had just enough time to throw up her arms to block his strike with the bow. Cursing her inattentiveness, she shoved into him with her body. His fist passed over her head as she ducked and kneed him in the stomach. He fell back, and a fury of punches came her way. Every move of his, she countered, and every move of hers, he matched with a block. They spun around and around, moving all about the catwalk, trying to find where the other was weakest. They danced in the dim light, and again, against her will, her mind dove into the deep sea of memories...
It was a large, grand ballroom. The chandeliers glittered like magnificent clusters of fireflies. Women dressed in luxurious fabrics circled the floor with their partners as the orchestra played a soft, inciting waltz. The marble floor was gleaming, as was the marble bannister she leaned over. She looked out onto the floor, her eyes registering every guest, every exit, everything she had been trained to watch for. She stroked the silky white gloves she had donned for the occasion. After all, it was a very special mission. She turned to see him walk up and lean over the bannister as well, his elbow brushing hers. He looked handsome, in a tailored dress suit, and she was surprised to see he did not look at all uncomfortable. Then again, this was his job, she thought bitterly. To appear as someone else entirely. To hide behind a mask. Embarrassing memories welled up inside of her, memories of her trying to make more of their relationship than there actually was. Which was ridiculous, as his attachment to her was strictly professional... At least, each convinced themselves of it. A girl can hope, can't she? She thought. A second later, she cursed herself for being so weak, and for being a woman, though she would deny it, very much in love.
With a gasp, her mind returned, just in time to receive a harsh slam in the chest. She stumbled back, gulping for air. After regaining her balance, she flew at him, her mind going on autopilot. Kick, dodge, punch, roll, again. She leaped at his head, but he ducked at the last minute, and she soared over him. She rolled up on to one knee, then dove at his feet and swept his legs out from under him with all her might. He fell backwards, turned over, and with a resounding smack, his forehead collided with the metal railing of the catwalk.
He staggered around, blinking wildly. His eyes fell on her. Pure, straightforward, grey eyes. His real eyes.
"Tasha?" he choked out. His real voice. Her chest constricted, an invisible fist squeezed her heart. They almost never used first names, let alone nicknames; the two of them were too professional for that. His broken voice echoed in her mind...
Her sharp fingernails dug into her palms. Her mind was on overdrive, so she was able to ignore the pain. This mission is impossible, she thought. He is impossible. She stood rigidly, looking out into the grey mountains, sucking in the scorching air. Cold enveloped her, snapping at her exposed skin, turning her face red and raw. She was so accustomed to his presence that she knew he was behind her without having to turn around. He made no sound and didn't move, but she could feel his eyes boring in to the back of her head. She remained in her position, and didn't acknowledge him. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders. His quiet voice filled her ear.
"Tasha, everything will be fine, we'll be okay, we'll get out of this," his voice trailed off, still speaking words of what he defined as comfort. She payed no attention and acted as though she couldn't hear him, but she could. A single tear fell down her wind-ravaged cheek.
She had stopped breathing, and had to remind herself to take in air. For a second her eyes searched his dazed face. Then, with a swift kick to the head, he fell. She made no noise.
But in her tainted soul, she cried.
