A/N: This is a revision of the fic that was up here for nearly two years titled "Psychomachy." It has been edited for grammar, typographical errors, characterization, and pacing, and the ending has been given a dramatic facelift. The overall story arc has not been changed in any way.
She had died.
There was nothing appropriate for her.
The sky was warm and vibrant orange, a clear view of the setting sun visible through the large, open window beside the bed. His father had gone downstairs, to... he didn't know what. To get away. His father did that a lot.
Careful, the young man seated at the bedside leaned over and picked up the rings she had set on the small cherry wood end table. The slim bands were heavier than he had expected. Silent, he placed them on two fingers of his right hand. The weight was awkward, but he would never take the rings off again until he, too, was collected by the Reaper.
Jirarudan hand was placed lightly on top of his mother's folded ones, his thumb softly stroking her pale skin. He reached up and ran his fingers over her long dark hair, the silky brown strands lit with fiery tinges of red from the dying rays breaking through the window. With a sigh he stood, leaned over the bed, and drew the curtains closed, then sat down again to be by his mother's side. There were no dramatic dying words, no gathering of family members, and no sweet, soft music playing out of thin air like in the movies. Her heart had become merely an ember, enough to keep her breath warm, and then the ember died, extinguished by the air she had inhaled to tell him how proud she was of her darling, only son.
At last he heard his father thudding back up the stairs. He did not turn around as the heavy footsteps entered the bedroom. He could not look his father in the face. His father, dressed unintentionally in black pants and a black cardigan, placed a tanned hand on the door frame and leaned against it while he spoke to Jirarudan.
"There's hot tea."
The boy – man – someone in between – said nothing.
"Come down and sit with me, together."
The boy did not move, except to make a fist out of his right hand, the metal of the rings feeling cold against his palm.
"Can't you look at me?"
He could not.
"When you're ready, then," his father sighed. He hadn't known what to do with a son even when his wife was there to help him, and certainly didn't without her. His father turned away, whispering, "You're all that's left of her, Jiri."
The name stung the motherless son's heart. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the sound of his father's footsteps to disappear, and then leaned over the blanketed body of his mother. He folded his arms over her stomach and rested his head facing away from her peaceful face. Only his mother had called him by that childhood pet name. For his father to use it now offended Jirarudan, but worse, was an offense to his mother's memory. As if she wasn't lying right there, where she would overhear...
A single tear faded into a damp spot on the sleeve of his shirt. Then, another. Still silent, Jirarudan let the tears continue, sliding soundlessly down his cheek; it was the first time he had cried, and he would not forget it.
Time slid away from him. When he at last sat up stiffly, he pulled his hands reluctantly away. He gazed sadly at his mother's face for the last memory he would have of her. Words stopped themselves in his throat. He didn't want to say goodbye, didn't want leaving her to be real. In the end he forced himself to rise from the chair without saying anything at all. He picked up his robe and swung it on. The pale blue sleeves hid the tear stains on his shirt.
Jirarudan walked downstairs. His hand lingered on the railing. He distracted himself with the slick feel of the rings sliding over the polished wood.
"Please, sit down with a lonely man," his father's gruff voice drifted from the dining hall. He was begging him, as if he had ever done anything in his life to earn his son's sympathy. Jirarudan did not answer. Instead, he continued to the front door, and walked out, shutting the door behind him and trying with all his might to shut out his father's shadow and his mother's flight from life in the same moment.
He had never been much of an athlete, drawn more towards to collecting a set of little silver-plated figurines of legendary creatures than collecting large ugly brass trophies, but once on the sidewalk he began to run. His legs burned with effort and his lung burned without air. He wished wildly that it would rain. It wasn't fair for the stars to be so bright and unclouded when his beloved mother was no longer there to know whether they still shone or not.
After a while he slowed to a jog, relieved to notice that there were more people here, whatever street here was. For once he wanted to be lost among the common people that filled the sidewalks. With this dim objective in mind Jirarudan forced himself to walk and regain his breath. Exhausted all at once in all the ways anyone could be exhausted, he could not keep his eyes focused on the faces of the people. He only saw the bleary grey pavement his shoes trod and shuffled on. Dimly he noted time passing as the colour of the pavement changed from a dingy pale orange into a tinted gray and at last into black shadows. For a while still he would bump arms with someone else out rushing somewhere, but no one had the time to stop to lecture a moping young man, and the young man had no time for any of them, who didn't even care that his mother was dead. Soon, though, he stopped running into anyone, literally or figuratively.
Nearly two hours had passed since he had let the house. He was dragging his feet onward past the city park gates when he stumbled over the outstretched legs of someone sitting on a bench. He took another step after catching his balance, intending to go on without pause. The person on the bench had other ideas, though, and was quick to speak up about being tripped over.
"Hey! Hey!" he repeated, and Jirarudan lifted his head and stared blankly at the man on the bench. He sounded almost apologetic. What for, Jirarudan could not fathom, and thus turned, trying again to leave the bench-sitter alone, just like he wanted to be himself. His mouth twitched unpleasantly at the feel of the man's hand grabbing him firmly by the arm.
"Can't you, well I mean, didn't you hear me?"
Rebellious, he did not answer. If this person was going to delay him, however, Jirarudan thought he may as well look at him as anywhere else. In the dark light of the moonless sky, he analyzed what he could of the man's appearance. A brimmed hat was positioned so that he could see none of his face, between the angle his face and the shadow the hat cast; still, from his voice, he doubted it could be someone too much older than him, if not even younger. He didn't notice when the man's grip relaxed a little and slid cautiously down to hold his hand instead.
"Sorry if I seem a little blunt here, but you look a little rough, and not in the rugged mountain way." Jirarudan had nothing to say. "Come and dine with me," the stranger asked so abruptly that Jirarudan flinched, suddenly aware of the hand that was holding his. It made him feel sick to realize this anonymous man was touching the rings, and he felt slightly ashamed of his failure to protect his mother's last gift, already defiled now by strange hands. "Speak up, man. What's the matter now?" Silence and a brief glowering look. Jirarudan broke his scowling focus though when he realized the stranger had met the look, and he was staring into dark blue eyes.
"Come, if you won't tell me about yourself, what your business is or such, then we may as well reverse it and get you involved in my affairs if I can't get meddle in yours." He was so direct and cheerful about it that Jirarudan found it difficult to continue insisting on disliking him. Jirarudan even found himself feeling only somewhat affronted by this stranger's persistent interest in him, rather than unspeakably affronted.
The stranger rose, gently tugging Jirarudan after him impatiently. Rebellion had quickly flared up at the confrontation, and now it just as quickly died away. Jirarudan was tired, and he didn't want this man getting the idea he wanted some stranger involved in his life or visiting his own home, where the dead lay abed and the living drunk themselves towards the same fate. The stranger tugged again. Without any will of his own, he began following the strange man's lead, utterly silent no matter what the man said to him. He hardly paid enough attention to catch the man's name when it was given; Riley, eh. Jirarudan couldn't control his thoughts, and every time he thought he had put reality out of his mind for the moment, the memories would come flooding back trying to drown him under their terrible pressure.
He hadn't realized he'd been practically sleepwalking until the man let them into a dark house and led him through a set of double doors into a wood-floored foyer, where a lamp was light by a somehow knowing maid girl. While Jirarudan blinked at the sudden light, the man smiled and gestured for her to prepare a small meal. With a quick nod she left swiftly to do so.
"Sit, we can take our drinks through here," Riley suggested to him. Unresponsive, he nevertheless allowed Riley to take him into the next room, then ease him into sitting on a white chaise lounge. During the walk, his grip had slowly tightened on Riley's hand, and he refused to let go of this new fixation, lest this person too disappear, stranger though he was. Riley sat next to him without complaint, and in weariness, both of the body and of the heart, Jirarudan leaned against the man's shoulder.
He did not hear when the girl returned, if it was even her that came back. The smell of strong black coffee and warm food roused him from his half-sleep. He jerked away from Riley, alarmed and self-conscious. His nightmarish dreams had been filled by vision of his mother, and he felt a deep dread that perhaps he had reacted in his sleep. Riley only disengaged his arm from where Jirarudan's had become wrapped around it. From the little table beside the sofa he offered a small silver cup to Jirarudan. He took it mechanically and drank automatically. For a moment his mind at last found distraction looking around the room in which he had temporarily come to his senses.
The bottle green walls met light-stained wood floor, divided by delicately carved molding made of the same wood. In addition the wide lounge they were sitting on, there was a high-backed velvet chair on the other side of the coffee table were their meal waited, and two broad armchairs opposite them, all of a similar style. There was a kerosene lamp on the wall above the armchairs, he noticed, the red fuel casting a pretty glow on an unexpectedly large circle encompassing the wall and floor. Looking down, he saw there was actually a thick fur rug on the floor in front of the lounge.
He swung his gaze upward, hoping to see the man who had brought him here so mysteriously. Riley was leaning forward, chin propped on hands which were likewise propped on his knees. Despite the hour and location he still wore his hat, adjusted to hide his face from Jirarudan's side, so that all Jirarudan saw was tufts of black hair that shone bluish in the lamplight. Alone blue feather adorned the hat. While walking Riley had said something about a legendary bird.
He was also wearing a trim jacket of velveteen blue fabric. Has he had not had an opportunity to take it off, Jirarudan wondered. Even worse, was he the reason Riley was still dressed up so stiffly? What would his mother think of him being so rude as to fall asleep what was quite apparently an established gentleman?
A heavy sigh filled his lungs as again the random rush of memories filled him, but when he breathed out it became more a groan of pain.
"What happened?" Riley ventured quietly after several minutes had begun to fill the room with the unspoken questions and answers from both sides.
Jirarudan started to answer, then found he could not. He was suffocating amid the fresh wave of thoughts, unable to stop the vision of his mother happy several years ago from mixing with the memory from earlier today of her chest, still and silent, as he had lain there, listening for a single heartbeat.
Riley took the coffee from Jirarudan's hands and placed it down with a quiet clink that sounded loudly out of place in the emptiness of the room and Jirarudan's life. Any sound at all seemed intrusive and torturous; he was glad there was no clock about. If only Riley wouldn't talk all, and let him stay trapped in the comfort of silence forever. If only.
"You're bothered. I play a bit of the fool at times, but am not a fool for any lack of my wits or reason. Tell me what happened."
"I can't," Jirarudan finally coughed out. A surge of dim anger filled him at this prying.
"Someone hurt you," Riley guessed confidently, voice quiet but firm. "Why not tell me who, or why, and get it out before you hurt yourself holding it in."
"I'm already hurt."
"You can't live here forever, one night will be troublesome enough for everyone else, and I dare say us," Riley added thoughtfully. "You'll never have to face the shame of seeing me again after tonight if you wish. I know you have something on your mind. Out with it."
The more he tried to arrange his thoughts into a proper, respectable response, the more his thoughts drifted away from him and turned into a sea of chaos. Choking on the recollection of the nightmares of gruesome deaths his mother endured over and over, he felt forced to either swallow them inside himself, or spit them out like bitter poison. His mouth cracked open to speak, and out seeped anger, sorrow, and guilt, and no one could say which he felt the more passionately.
"She's dead."
Riley slowly lowered his pewter mug, then sat back and stared at the kerosene lamp, keeping his eyes off his guest as Jirarudan continued.
"My mother is dead, and it was a disease of the soul, something that killed her from inside out." Jirarudan rambled and tumbled over words, in a rush to get the taste of them out of his mouth. "She'll never come back, the only person my father could be bothered to care about. The only person who bothered to care about me! I have been left, abandoned alone with nothing! Nothing but the sight of her laying there, and I unable to help her!"
He looked up at Riley, tears of resentment forming, his conscience plagued by the injustice of surviving what she could not. Seeing that Riley did not even look at him, the raged he turned inward on himself shifted and burst outward, finding a target in this stranger. Riley had promised to listen, and now look at him! Riley didn't give a damn either, it was all a game to him, to break Jirarudan down!
Jirarudan grabbed a handful of Riley's hair and twisted, forcing Riley to look him in the eye. The hat was knocked aside, and it drifted to the floor, landing soundlessly upside down on the rug, its silk lining gleaming under the corner of light.
"If you care so little, you should have left me in the street instead of playing with me like this! I'm leaving, goodnight, sir," he spat, and throwing Riley aside he let go and made to get off the lounge.
Riley lunged forward. Jirarudan jerked out of his reach, wanting nothing to do with anyone's touch now that he would never feel his mother's arms around him again. Riley grabbed at his hands again and gripped his wrists so tightly Jirarudan watched his knuckles turn white. On the lounge they wrestled each other; Jirarudan fighting in a turmoil of pain he had never imagined, overcome with a need to fight back against something physical he could actually have a chance of beating; Riley fighting to keep them both under control.
Jirarudan, though, was losing. Loss, again! It was a stake that just missed piercing his heart, keeping him in unbearable pain without allowing him the escape of sleeping permanently.
Riley had managed to get on his lap and had him pinned to the small back of the chaise lounge. Still Jirarudan struggled, his lips grimly turned in the smile of those who have lost their faculties, his eyes smoldering as he stared at Riley's continually calm face. Their cheeks pressed together as Riley threw his weight forward on top of him, attempting to hold him still and calm him down by simply overwhelming him. Jirarudan jerked his head to the side.
His hands found a grip on Riley and pushed, but Riley had kept his own grip and would not be moved. Enraged, he faced Riley, intending to give words to the intense loathing building inside him. He stilled, though, at the patience evident in Riley's weary face. The animalistic anger eked out of him as they sat locked in a contest of stares. Riley was the one who restored time to ticking, by means of a sad, hopeful smile.
Jirarudan felt Riley's lips gently press up against his.
Still running on adrenalin and the trance of fighting, he shoved Riley aside as soon as the contact registered his exhaustion-slowed brain. For a few seconds more they wrestled, and then his spirit faded and Jirarudan sunk back on the lounge and submitted to the advances. It wasn't a fair fight; he had been fighting with his strength of body, and suddenly, with that turning point, Riley had begun fighting back where it truly hurt: at his emotions. Where he punched and grappled, Riley had gently stroked his hair and simply rested his hands on Jirarudan's arms. Where he hurled curses, Riley hurled looks of pity.
Riley, aware of his opponent's submission to defeat, relaxed his grip and pulled back. His hands trailed down Jirarudan's arms as he stood up. His touch lingered, for just a second, on the cold, sharp touch of the rings, and then he cut off contact with Jirarudan and raised his hands to straighten and dust off his clothes.
Jirarudan was almost at the point of collapse now, and the only thing his mind registered was the sudden absence of the only person he'd had any connection with since his mother's death, what seemed like years ago He reached up and feebly grabbed at the cuff of one sleeve. He tightened his fist desperately. He needed the contact, needed to know there was something solid he could cling to. The lamp sputtered. In the flickering shadows and dancing light, staring at the floor, he didn't see Riley's look of surprise become one of comprehension. He only felt the man sink down beside him and pull him partially onto his lap.
Jirarudan let Riley take control. Tender hands stroked his own, and the murmuring stream of comfort from Riley's throat caressed his broken soul. It was the last that he craved the most, thought he hadn't known it before. He drifted into an odd half-sleep, and as minutes passed Riley's words blurred until they lost their meaning.
Riley seemed to know Jirarudan had reached the limit where words could help him. Moving slowly, cautiously, he kissed his cheek. Nothing. He shifted and kissed at Jirarudan's neck, his arms sliding up his guest's arms until he was holding onto his shoulders.
Jirarudan stirred finally. Riley backed off, giving his emotional young man any space he might need. Jirarudan surprised him however and lifted his lidded gaze to look at him, then lifted a tired hand to stroke down Riley's cheek, then drift down to the back of his neck, pulling him closer in to kiss him as well.
Jirarudan felt himself being maneuvered into lying down and obliged, somewhat less gracefully than he would have liked, given his current state, sliding unceremoniously downward until his head collided with the single pillowed armrest. Riley shrugged out of his jacket as he settled on top of him; he turned his head to watch distractedly as the coat rumpled on the floor as if in slow motion, and then Riley's hand was tangling in his hair and his breath was hot on his exposed chest; when did he open the neck of my robe, Jirarudan wondered dimly; and then Jirarudan had no more clear thoughts.
As time wore on; much less of it than it seemed to him; Jirarudan lost one final fight and succumbed again to half-sleep, and then full, deep and dreamless sleep. The last thought he had before the world went mercifully silent and blind was the vague awareness of Riley sitting, strangely enough, on the floor by the chaise lounge, one hand running soothingly through his hair and one warm hand entwined with his on top of his chest; Riley kissed this hand, and then Jirarudan's memory was nothing but darkness.
The next morning, he was alone. A keen consciousness of the emptiness of the room gripped him and her jerked upright, looking around wildly. His heart felt bruised by this fresh sense of discarded abandonment. His robe had been completely removed during the night and was now covering him in place of proper sheets and blankets, and now it slid halfway onto the floor with his movements. The kerosene lamp, its fuel close to empty, burned even now, despite the late morning sun breaking through the invisible holes in the folding window blinds.
Feeling sadness and loss threatening to once more pull him under, his subdued gaze lowered to the floor where a folded sheet of parchment lay near the hem of his robe. He leaned over the side of the lounge to see what it was. There, on the smooth surface, lay a single, curved feather. The soft quill was a shade of blue to rival the depths of the ocean. He leaned over the edge of his makeshift bed and managed to pick up the parchment between the tips of his fingers. He blinked his eyes clear of sleep and studied the small, thin, loopy handwriting scratched onto the sheet.
I promised you wouldn't have to face me in the daylight after last night. I hope you rested well here; I would have stayed to see you off, but there are things I must urgently attend to. If you require anything, Sylvia can take care of you until you feel fit to leave, though I daresay you should leave within a day. The longer you stay shut in, the harder what's out there will be to face.
-Riley
PS: If you change your mind about seeing me, I will be at the service I heard your father is arranging. I won't even look at you, if you'd like, you can approach me on your own time.
Unable to think so much so soon after waking up and after all the upheaval in his life over the past twenty-four hours, he idly turned the parchment over. He was surprised to see a name scrawled on one corner. He turned the paper so the writing was correctly aligned for reading.
For Jiri.
Folding the note up, Jirarudan bent down and picked up the handsome feather. He reclined against the back of the lounge and sat there twirling the single plume between his fingers, lost in thought.