A kiss is what brought them, from the stippled peaks of the Blue Ridge, the pale beaches of Virginia Beach, and the modest towns inbetween; towns forgotten, yet forever etched in blood upon haunted soil, their histories visible in the skeletal remains of abandoned houses and churches, and the faded lettering of crumbling headstones. Towns, she imagined, stretched like a hall of mirrors over jewel green hills, all reflections of the place she called home.
In the beginning, there were no questions, only joy. Hows did not exist in the clearing that night, whys did not propel her dance. She had stood fast at the edge of the world and seen the void stare back at her, as cold and blue as Arctic lightning. She did not speak of it; none of them did, really, not even Caroline. But she thought of it often, once the shine had faded, reality settling back into pastel; once she realized that Power carried a price, because Power speaks.
A kiss, that was all they sought. They asked for her by name, and their eyes would breathe her in as she descended the stairs. Sometimes, they couldn't resist reaching out to finger one scarlet spiral, and she would allow it, their need beating against her skin with the force of a sun. And when they were gone, she'd lay in bed with the sheets twisted through her legs, Apollo spent down and through, hot to the touch.
A strange Mecca this, but they continued to come, and she obliged them because she did not know how to refuse. So rare were those moments where she was believed in, and their faith was as vivid as a drop of blood in a bowl of milk. They'd whisper amenities in her ear, give her gifts. Meredith said it was a choice, but when she tasted their breath, she was not so certain.
When she thought she might go mad from fire, she'd gone to the boarding house. Mrs. Flowers fed her chamomile-infused cookies, boiled yarrow and rue, and told her to eat seven sage leaves before breakfast for seven days - all of which she did, and none of which helped to assuage the flame. For a time, she'd stayed in Stefan's old room, looking for relief in the dark eaves and creaking bedsprings, but still they found her. When she finally relented, their mouths held the tang of blackberries, and once again she was drunk in heat.
She possessed thousands of kisses, and none belonged to her. In those nights when she was inflamed, she'd contemplate the one fever she'd been unable to cure, fingertip tracing a line of ice along her bottom lip. Then, and only then, could she slip into the still, cool waters of sleep, and dream of those things left unsaid.