Heaven Freezes, Hell Closes
By Dejah Thoris
Chapter Nine: The Siren's Song
The walls were closing in on me. Time cut short. Lost blood on cold, wet ground. Nightmares flashed before my eyes, interchanging between black and white, then searing color. Sharp sounds and sights. Then lost, muted to pale gray. Black rain falling in the night.
Always the night. Criminals safety, lovers blanket. Souls death. My soul's death. Killed, reborn, only to be killed again. Reborn once more. Vicious cycle. Awaiting the next moment, cursing God, yet praying that He'll forgive enough to let me live.
Hate. For them. For myself. While she died, I lived. I, who didn't deserve that first breath, lived. I, who was cast away and abandoned like so much trash, lived. I, who loved and was left behind, lived.
Faith for me seems to be a lost cause. The Christians believe that if you are truly repentant all will be forgiven. Just ask the zombie jew into your heart and you will be welcomed into glorious eternity. It can't be that easy. Nothing is that easy. The Catholics believe a little confession time in a closet with some priest you can't even see correctly in another closet beside you will fix everything, along with a few Hail Marys. Do the Catholics have any idea how long I'd be tracing that beaded pattern? Another prison, that. The Mormons. Hell, I don't have a clue what they think. Something about "holy underwear" and too many heavens. If there is a Heaven, I'm sure God kept the limit to one. Who needs more than one house, really? Chrislams, the Imam's folk, pray. More beaded prayers. Facing Mecca on tiny rugs, on your knees. No god will ever bring me to my knees.
Richard B. Riddick kneels to no one now. But Richard B. Riddick did once kneel to someone. A queen. Strong and beautiful. She deserved so many things, none of them an escaped con. None of them me. But she had me, and kept me. My heart on a platter, served without embellishment or appetizers. I wore it on my sleeve and she pulled it on her leash, even if she didn't know it.
Titanium keys to the defenses of my soul in her hand, she had the power over me so many had wanted. Leverage at its best. But instead of betraying that power and misusing it, she cherished it like bars of gold, or mounds of diamonds.
I never wanted to belong to anyone. I never wanted to be anyone's pet. I cannot be bought, and even I have my limits. Or so I thought. With the soft palm of her hand she changed everything. And the beast grew quiet, calming beneath the gentle warmth of the sunlight that was her.
The beast slept, peaceful and satiated at last. The pain withdrew, still a scar, but healed. The hate faded, swept away in the flow of a tender river. Healing, and not of the physical brand, came and mended the tears.
The kid is looking at me, a question on her face. She doesn't say anything, but instead reaches out to take my hand, tentative at first. I surprise myself by clasping the small hand in my own larger one, squeezing slightly, as the single tear that streams down my face is given company by another. And another.
I let them come. I just close my eyes and let them come, accepting that they were sent to wash away the pain, just as she once did. A poor substitute, but a piece of her is in them. That makes them alright.
A deep sigh comes from the kid and I feel her hand tighten in mine. A glance in her direction confirms it. She's crying, too. She's got that same look on her face that I remember from long ago.
Not pity. Far from it. I would never abide pity. But faith is in that expression. Trust. An offering of comfort, laid at my feet, but not forced. Only to be accepted on my terms. Perfect terms.
I want to accept, but right now, in this moment, I can't. Before I can take that comfort, before I can even consider it, I have to be solitary for a while longer. Stand apart, on the outside, for a bit more time.
Before I can let that knot in my stomach unclench and the lump in my throat fade, I have to suffer a little longer. It stays for tonight. For tomorrow night. And the night after that. What stays is the hate. The hate for me, who lived.
Have you ever heard the phrase, "Regrets are wasted on the past"? It's a true enough statement. But my regrets are tied intricately to my memories.
So, if I release those regrets and focus on tomorrow, what will I be left with? Not the memory of her face, smiling at me just for the pleasure of smiling at me. Not the memory of her hand settled gently on my cheek just to touch me. Not the warmth of her love given so freely to me.
Without those regrets I'm left with no memories. Then I'd have nothing. And she, even in death, is worth so much more than that.
#
Riddick watched. It was something he was used to doing, and something he wasn't used to doing at the same time. A strange contradiction.
He watched Phaidor. Not for survival, and that was the strange part. He didn't watch her because he felt threatened by her presence. He didn't watch her to learn her patterns and routines so he could later use them against her.
He watched her for the sheer pleasure of it. It was obvious she was trained by the best and Riddick couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't defended herself against him back in that mud-hole she'd been living in. Watching her now he wondered who would have won.
And what about the piloting? Shouldn't a biogenetically engineered chick with the training Phaidor had know how to pilot better than "a little?" She should be able to pilot well.
But that wasn't a problem. Any question Riddick asked Phaidor answered. Truthfully, honestly. He knew she would never lie to him.
Just nights before he'd asked her a number of questions.
"Why didn't you fight back?"
A delicate shrug. "I would have lost."
"I wonder..."
The gentle hand on his face, trusting green eyes gazing at him. "I do not. I am in a better place now than I thought I would ever be. Even if I could have won, I would not trade that meeting for anything."
Warmth chased away another piece of the cold as she stroked his jaw before brushing her lips against his.
Another night, another question.
"You can pilot."
"Yes. You know I can, Riddick."
"But not well?"
"No, not very well. That is why I needed you. I could not navigate the damn tree cover." A small smile flicked his way as she stretched on the floor beside the sofa.
"But you were trained to do everything else well. Not just well, damn near perfect."
Phaidor shook her head. "It was long ago that the project was canceled. Father continued to have me trained, despite his beatings, in case funding was ever continued. I was only in the basics of piloting when I ran away."
"Why did you let him beat you?"
"I did not. But it is hard to fight back against someone close to twice your size, especially if they are carrying a whip and a shock-stick. I'm highly trained, yes. I am not unnaturally strong."
Now he didn't have to ask about the scars. The scars dotting her back and abdomen that looked like teeth marks burned into the skin. A cattle prod. "Father" had been one sick mother fucker.
No whip scars, though. The good doctor had been careful with his beatings. Whip hard enough to hurt, raise welts, bruise. Yet not hard enough to break skin.
Riddick hoped he'd get to run into the guy someday. In a nice dark alley with his favorite blade in his pocket. In fact, he was counting on it.
Shaking off his memories, Riddick watched Phaidor slide through her routines. A flowing mixture of Jeet Kune Do, Tai Chi, Kung Fu, Karate, Yoga, Tae Kwon Do and anything else she happened to be proficient in. The forms shifted between soft and hard combinations, tension and force.
Riddick recognized the techniques. Years of training had left him educated in many forms of hand-to-hand combat, ranging from Aikido to Yoga.
As time passed he was granted the opportunity to train with her in the use of a number of weapons. She hadn't been exagerating when she'd told him she knew how to handle a large variety of merciless objects. From A to Z she could slice, shoot, punch, and kick her way through most situations. She just didn't like to.
She hated that she'd been designed to manipulate with her smell, her voice, her body and face. That she'd been built to maim, kill, and destroy. No one had thought about her soul. It was gentle and kind. She made it clear to him that she understood what he was and it didn't horrify or frighten her. But she'd been designed to be a gun. To be pointed at a target and to blindly seek it out and kill it. That disgusted her.
Their time on Retsuje had been well spent. The hours had been long and demanding, but even work "days" had fourteen hours of down time.
The planet had set its own work schedule naturally. A perfectly verticle axis left night and day evenly divided. Far-side and near-side shifts worked alternately through all twenty-eight of Retsuje's standard hours.
Working identicle shifts had left them with plenty of time together, even if large portions were spent sleeping and taking care of basic human necessities. But Riddick felt blessed to have had so much time with Phaidor. Her easy honesty had even brought him out of his shell. Without a single prodding question from her, he'd told her about his life, his past. Even his fears, the ones he rarely even acknowledged to himself.
There was a solace for him in her that he'd never believed he would find. He'd given up entertaining the thought of ever having someone to love and be loved in return as a teen, thrown into slam for his first murder.
Phaidor was unlike any other woman he'd ever met. It wasn't just physical and he tried to make sure she knew that every day. She touched a part of him long left cold.
With her it more than sex. It wasn't even just making love. It was love. A soul once hidden expanded beneath a gentle touch and Riddick found making love with Phaidor was the siren's song calling him to the shore.