Ashes to Ashes
Part One
A/N: If Sleeves Stained Red had a prologue this would be it. That being said they are companion pieces (a term I rather dislike) but they do not necessarily rely on each other for completion. This presents itself in two parts and is just a little insight into what consumed them the night after Red John died and the motivation behind the actions that follow after. Sleeves Stained Red has a final chapter to go but I couldn't concentrate until this was done. I hope you enjoy…
Over the years you've played many a leading role in this tragic performance of sinister brooding and self loathing. This time it's taken the better part of the day for the sifting of the Pacific sands to lull you back to the present. You watch the red rimmed horizon bleed into the dark waters until the golden sphere is swallowed whole and the warm autumn breeze loses its gusto.
Yet you can't seem to remember exactly when your current curtain call came to be. The moments and hours have all ceased to exist.
You remember the screaming, the shots and the blood, none of them yours. You remember the need to flee, stronger and heavier than anything else you've ever felt before. You remember the anger, the defeat and the undeniable weight of indifference pressing you further and further away.
You followed through on a promise which in turn caused you to break another. It's ironic how in the end the honor of the woman you once loved with validated by the only other woman, the only other person, you've ever held in equal accord.
You remember her face, the look in her eyes, it was that of nothing you've ever seen in her enchanting gaze before. There were demands, threats, and yet in the end it was the gentle whisper laced in desperation that begged you to oblige.
Even with your acceptance she's insisted on using force as well.
She wanted you safe, and promised to bring you justice but wouldn't settle for half. There would be no trial only death just as long as you heeded her words and remained behind the heavily armed wall her people could provide.
You remember hating her in that instant. How could she expect you to come this far and simply stand aside? Even now you refuse to allow the answer you know to be the truth, settle within the confines of your conscience.
Nothing else in your life was supposed to matter. Every single one of them was supposed to be nothing but a pawn, a selfless soldier whose motives you could manipulate to suite your cause. You weren't expecting her heart to be so soft or her mind so strong. She saw you for what you really were and embraced you anyway. With the faith of a believer who feels that anything can be healed with a little love and a few heavenly prayers.
She knew your cause would take you to the edge of your life, so in turn she made you a cause of her own. Mirroring your devotion and willingness to sacrifice everything you are to bring the promises you've made to life.
And now that you've finally taken the moment to reflect, now that the embers of anger and hatred have smoldered and burned to ash, you realize she is the only person you know to take hold of a cause with a gripe anywhere close to that of your own.
But what of her motives?
Love fired the fuel of your own motivation, revenge for the lives you held dearer than your own. You could stand to defend she knows nothing of these emotions but you know instantly that is a lie. Perhaps her cause was not created in the fiery depths of love grown and tended from youth, but in the steady ebb and flow of patients and compassion. She feels for you now, deeply at times. Those feelings are not what initiated her devotion but have perhaps become the reason she continues to walk the path you lace in deflection.
She's made sacrifices of monumental proportions to ensure your quest could continue and you repay her every selfless act with a rejection so instant you can't remember its birth….
And you know there's a decade's worth of emotion hiding behind everyone of your carless actions.
There's a chill that drags you once again to the present. The moon is high and nearly full, the tide reaching far enough for the salty spray to coat your skin.
Your mind turns again to the promises you've made, and to the woman whose actions have ended your decade long struggle. She's promised you peace and all you've brought her is despair. You owe her everything and have offered nothing but lies. But what you offer and what you feel have always been your greatest inner conflict.
How could you come to need one woman while avenging the life of another?
You turn and take in the empty angles of your house, not yours anymore, not after today. This is a chapter of your life that needs to commence. You knew the moment you arrived you would be coming and going for the last time.
After all, where else would you go? There's nothing left for you here. You've made peace with your demons, with the help of the only person who could carry out your actions with a dedication stemmed from your own motivation.
Because she has no idea how much you've come to need her, and you fear all the lies and deception will only hinder your hold on her acceptance. She deserves the truth, but she also needs to accept that the lies are the reason she's lived to look this day in the face. How could you be expected to accept your own feelings and deny them all at once?
So you painted every lie in the conflicting shades of truth, telling yourself her safety was worth her sadness.
White lies were created to enforce the greater good after all.
You turn to take the path that will lead you home, not to this house but back to the city and everything you've left behind. Before you go, you slip the simple gold symbol of love and devotion from your hand. In the most recent years it's lived a double life on your finger, a symbol of your dedication and perhaps defiance, a reminder to all who would take notice that you planned to follow through.
And if you hope to return tomorrow and mend broken fences, it's best to go prepared to prove your intentions.
You let it gently slip from your fingers to the shore line below. The shifting sands of the ocean take a few tentative swipes before dragging it out to sea. You feel oddly complete, weightless and yet somewhat solid.
Because Red John is dead. And for once there's no longer a need for protection brought on by deceit.