Chained In Pain

Chapter 1:

The Stone Altar

by Gretchiro

In the crimson-painted face of the evening sky, a cry penetrated the air like an arrow.

"KIRIKA!"

Mireille, after sitting in defeat for some time, sprung up barely to catch the limp body that fell backwards into her. The dark-chocolate mop hit hard against her chest; the limbs that used to kill, fell limp uselessly; the sand-colored Greek burlap attire laid out motionlessly like a golden blanket. Tears soaked Mireille's face and cleansed Kirika's attire.

Who would have thought Mireille would end up screaming in fear for the life of her family's murderer?

And plugged into the upper left part of Kirika's torso glistened the throwing knife, which belonged to the unforgiving hands of the innocent crusader--the crusader who sought hard to plunge through the trials of the dark sinner, in order to become Noir with the one she truly loved.

Emotions were delayed. Chloe just stared with stretched eyes, believing she was defied by a nightmarish illusion. A tingling sensation choked her throat, as her heart thundered and begged to burst inside. For some reason, tears resisted to fall. And her body resisted to do anything.

Only her eyes could work as they stared with disbelief.

Unable to do anything, Chloe just watched as Mireille laid Kirika across ancient grounds of stone.

Mireille towered over her in panic. "Kirika!"

Bangs veiled her eyes, as Kirika whispered, "Promise me . . . you won't . . . kill . . . each . . ."

--

The setting sun splashed fiery rays into Mireille's apartment, as the two survivors of the ritual stood, tainted by its haunting presence—a haunting illusion of the blood of the one who just died the same evening. The room was empty, but with an eerie presence that would not falter. The silent tension rung of sorrow, confusion, and pained love for the two women.

"Kirika . . ." Mireille murmured. She inclined her head, staring at the broken face of the pocketwatch, observing the cracks in the glass face like the wrinkles of a grandfather. She cried softly, refusing to be seen like this by the other person inside the apartment.

From behind, Chloe remained tucked her face behind her green burlap cloak. Her eyes reluctantly stared blankly, only seeing Kirika's death over and over—a death by Chloe's hands.

As they were chained in the setting sun's sorrow, poisonous words stabbed Chloe's mind. Love killed her. Her love for the Daughter of Corsica killed her—I . . . killed her—but I never intended . . .

Then, out of nowhere, those words convinced her that it was someone's else fault that everything had to end up to this point. Automatically, Chloe's hand unsheathed one of her throwing knives, posing it parallel to her face like she's always done for a battle position. A surging hatred replaced the dazed sadness in her eyes:

It's HER fault that she's dead!

Chloe burst, "YOU KILLED HER! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!" In an immediate stride, Chloe lunged for Mireille, blade aimed.

She had it coming. She knew she had it coming. She knew Chloe would behave this way. Mireille almost felt sorry for Chloe . . . but she reminded herself that Chloe wasn't the only one who cared about Kirika.

Mireille trapped Chloe's attacking hand after the blonde moved aside to dodge Chloe's inward attack. Shocked, Chloe was stuck next to Mireille, her hand tightly caught by professionally and calmly by the Corsican.

She . . . dodged my attack! And . . . caught my hand? Impossible!

The Corsican gawked blankly at the floor, staring back into the past when Kirika's death took place.

"Promise, Mireille?"

I promise, Kirika.

"Kirika requested . . . for me to not kill you," murmured Mireille in a hush-like manner. Chloe stared, unable to grasp how calm the Corsican could be, especially in this emotional situation.

"And," paused Mireille, releasing Chloe's hand, "also, I believe . . . I wasn't the only one she requested, Chloe."

Mireille turned to face Chloe, hinting sorrow. Chloe could do nothing but glare at her in disbelief, speechless; it was hard to contain herself like Mireille when she'd just lost Kirika. When losing something, one blamed the whole world as the first step of self-denial.

"I know you well enough . . . to say, I know you hate breaking promises," noted Mireille matter-of-factly. She stared hard into Chloe's eyes again, hoping to rummage out Chloe's feelings. All she saw was a hard look, a face trying to figure out what to feel.

Chloe closed her eyes; Mireille could hear Chloe's struggling breaths. By reading off the assassin's clenched teeth, her struggling breathing, and her shaking fist, Mireille couldn't help but feel the same way. But she kept her own expression calm as she waited for anything from Chloe.

The cloaked girl opened her eyes, the softness in her eyes replaced by hard steel, like hatred reflected off a blade.

"No," she stated, as if she was being forced to do something. Mireille shared another exchange of solid, thinned glares with Chloe.

Chloe revealed another throwing knife to the naked eye, holding it with two fingers, in front of her face. Her thin, catlike eyes glared cautiously. "I refuse to be and forever be Noir with you! NEVER! You are not fit to be Noir, you never were! You're not like her—I don't want you to be my other half, Corsican!"

In frustration, quite sickened with Chloe's childlike rampage, Mireille growled firmly, "Don't think I like this too, you know."

Then again . . . she was sick of being mad. All these emotions were driving her insane. The only thing she could do to save herself from those clashing emotions, was to calm down. Mireille inhaled, then sighed. "You know, I don't plan on breaking my promise."

"Thank you . . . for everything . . . Mireille . . ." whispered Kirika, words as haunting, yet delicately enthralling as the wind. Kirika rolled her head weakly to the side so she could face Chloe. "Chloe, please . . . don't—"

Kirika fell heavy.

"KIRIKA! Kirika, Kirika, KIRIKA!"sobbed Mireille.

For the next minutes, all the blonde could do was repeat the name of the only one she trusted. All she could do was repeat the name, whether it was Kirika's real identity or not—but it always referred to the soul that was once her friend, her only.

Mireille noticed that the blade still planted into Kirika. "TAKE THAT FUCKIN'' THING OUT OF HER, YOU BITCH!" she barked.

Chloe, stuck in her betrayed world of illusions, snapped alive, almost in a frightened, confused manner. She immediately took hold of the dagger and pried it out. Then dropped it. Its metallic landing was not as worse as the emotive song of the melodic pocketwatch.

Mireille melted to her knees in a single collapse. Her tears fell along with her, feeding her thirsty sadness. "Kirika . . ."

Only that name was her way of consoling herself, despite the fact that its namesaker was not there.

Chloe watched, speechless. Yet, inside, a feeling blossomed, one she never knew before. It rolled, it burned, and it aroused that same burning, choking feeling in her throat. Then, it stung her eyes.

The blonde clutched her head, close of ripping her locks out, as she screamed, "I don't want to be Noir with Chloe, I don't want to serve that Altena, I don't want to remain a 'child of the Soldats'! KIRIKA!"

No comfort. Just words, shouting, swearing, crying, and pain could comfort in a most distasteful way.

Then, that feeling Chloe never knew, she now knew. The stinging in her eyes brought tears that soiled her face and her remorse; the lump in her throat brought out moans, whimpering, sobbing, crying, then . . . wailing. Wailing like a lost child.

Chloe melted to her knees as well, as she took out that precious cocktail fork she received from the Three Saplings' moonlit tea party.

Gazing at its slim form through a silver blur, Chloe gasped and cried, "Stop. STOP. Stop saying her name—it hurts . . . STOP."

Chloe leaned forward, hiding her face behind her hand, ignoring the crying woman a few yards from her.

"I already have remorse for the one I killed . . . for the first time . . ."