Arc II

Chapter X

Parts I & II (The Self Tormentor – Evidence on Things Unseen)

"I have this strange feeling that I'm not myself anymore. It's hard to put into words, but I guess it's like I was fast asleep and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling."

Haruki Murakami — Sputnik Sweetheart

"Time is forever dividing itself toward innumerable futures and in one of them I am your enemy."

Jorge Luis Borges — Ficciones

Part I: The Self Tormentor.

Three.

The bullet, propelled by much more than just his finger caressing the cold trigger, was aimed for her head and it would have ended her certainly, hadn't it been for the woman's own nightmares, making her slumber uneasy and convulsed. She turned in her sleep once more, just in time, so the bullet only scratched the back of her right shoulder – the sound of the weapon being fired, followed by the burning sensation of metal carelessly kissing her skin was enough to wake her though.

Their reactions were mirrored in simultaneity, but they differed in every other possible aspect: Black, with his legs now stiffened, was pinned to the ground, completely unable to move. He had finally done it, he had pulled the trigger – she should be dead, only a mere coincidence had saved the woman, he knew. Yet it was true: he had aimed for her head and he had pulled the trigger. Not because she had slapped him, not because there was no use in keeping her around much longer, not because the woman was exasperating – but because he found in her sole presence the reason why his most repressed demons had resurfaced: deep down he knew that they wouldn't disappear by ending Alex yet, in his mind, killing her was the closest approximation at actually doing something about it. You can't kill a ghost, you can't shoot a memory but perhaps it is possible to drown those spirits in brand new blood, like a deadly baptism of some sort. The woman, now definitely awakened and with her blue eyes wide opened, was staring at Black in disbelief: he had pulled the trigger; he had intended to kill her. She moved back quickly and, painful as it was, glued her back to the nearest wall, facing the motionless mercenary. Her eyes, fixed on his, were showing some of the darkest shades of terror and horror he had ever seen – had she been sleeping peacefully, he would have succeeded. She flexed her legs and pressed her knees against her chest. Her whole body was shaking so she locked her arms around her legs but the shock was simply too much to stay quiet and so her hands were showing that tension was nullifying her existence, her fingers were shivering nervously, as the first drops of blood started to stream down the side of her arm.

The few moments they stayed like that felt like an eternity for the both of them. The impenetrable wall of silence enveloping them was creating a rhythm of its own, playing the tune of their altered heartbeats as a sickening echo traveling from her body to his body. His gaze caught sight of the red ribbons cascading down her right arm and tried to move – his brain ordered his legs to walk and reach for her but it was impossible: all communications had been disabled in his system, he was static, the commotion of the situation was simply too much to handle. He dropped his gun to the ground feeling like an amateur who had just fired a weapon for the first time and now had to deal with the repercussions of his own imprudence. That bullet was the beginning of a downward spiral that would threat and ultimately consume his most private states, he knew.

Cowboy up, Black.

He mumbled something almost inaudible then finally gathered the strength required to move. He walked up to her and kneeled before her trembling figure.

"Were you having a bad dream?" he finally asked, his eyes never leaving hers. The tone of his voice was soft, even warm – it almost made her think that he actually cared.

He had shot the woman who had saved his life: how was he supposed to resume things after trying to murder her in cold blood? He shook his head involuntarily, fearing he had reached the point of no return. He traced her shoulder with his index finger, carefully dragging her blood as if he was painting her body with it, his finger being the brush, the strokes gentle and warm – even now, covered in sweat and surrounded by fear, her skin was still inviting for him but how was he supposed to desire that body now, after blaming her for resurrecting his old ghosts, after addressing her as the cause of his misfortune?

Succubus, he thought, as he noticed how Alex shrunk beneath his touch. She nodded, finally, still silent and horrified. The bond uniting them and altogether tearing them apart was shaped as a nightmare and they were both trapped in it, unable to escape.

"I was sleeping, you coward!" She was trying hard to hide the fear in her voice behind a façade of false bravado but even so, he had never heard her sound so cold and menacing before. Well past the point of tears, she was finally embracing the notion that Black was more than a living museum – he was simply more than a stereotyped pose abstracted from the context of a history book: his cruelty was real, just as real as the flesh covering his body, and he had pulled the trigger. No more flirting, no more baseless speculation, no more fooling around. He was ready. He was finally ready to end her.

He examined his fingers, now coated by her blood – the impurity of his actions was frightening, even for himself. He bared the most puzzled look, as his gaze wandered from his own hand to her equally quizzical expression – he reached out and touched her, those same polluted fingers traveled the outline of her jaw, painting her face with her own blood.

She slapped him hard, even with a trembling hand. "I warn you, there won't be a third time"- he had said just a few hours ago. She didn't care; they both were standing on the edge of a ravine, beyond threats, beyond all tension – that atmosphere they were sharing, that air they were both breathing was neither thick nor tensed – it was a void, it was a whole nothingness. He didn't fight her. Thrown off-balance, he fell backwards, his knees bent slightly as he landed on his side, his bleak expression still lingering before her eyes. A halo of repressed testosterone enveloped him as he sat up again: even though that woman was somehow awakening his long lost loved ones he knew she hadn't burnt down the old liquor store, she hadn't forced Amanda into marrying the town's barber and of course, she hadn't silenced his own mother.

He reached out for her once more, now more determined than before. She panicked, as she found herself trapped between his body and the shelves behind her back. Black grabbed her by her waist as she kicked and yelled, pleading him to let her go, fearing the worst was yet to come – he silenced her, by covering her mouth with his free hand.

"Hush now." He commanded softly into her ear as he got up slowly, her body now leant against his – Alex scratched his tattooed arm with her nails as she buried her digits deep into his skin: a sullen moan escaped his lips but he didn't mind: he held her tight in his arms, lifting her feet slightly from the ground and walked towards the table where he finally placed her.

Her glowering gaze was both menacing and heartbreaking. She was sitting on the table, her legs hovering before him as he placed himself between her extremities, standing right in front of her. Black's expression was now deadpan, as he inspected her features carefully as if trying to take her picture with his eyes. She observed him in silence, as she considered the possibility that maybe his longevity had, in fact, finally succeeded: the exaggerated amount of years that that man had lived must had made him snap. His changing states, now seen as a natural progression of a twisted psyche, looked like the concatenation of seasons during a year - normal Black first succumbed to cold-blooded gunman Black who, in time, fell before the rise of puzzling, mysterious Black and now that version of him was receding as well: it was finally turn for deranged Black to come out and play.

Alex evaluated her own train of thought as the echoes in her head started to question her own beliefs: normal Black? The notion of a normal Erron Black, even considered from the distant kaleidoscope of time, seemed too obscured, too contrived to be true: the man had been born a monster, and the borrowed extension of his existence had only given free rein to his darkest specters.

"I didn't come this far for you to just kill me while I'm asleep." She retaliated, trying to bring some sensitivity into the matter. He took off his black sleeveless shirt and leaned forward, drowning the distance separating their bodies:

"Easy now." He whispered as he softly cleaned the blood still flowing down her shoulder. With gentle, delicate care he used his sleeveless shirt to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. She cocked her head slightly, taking in the view with amazed eyes wide opened. He moved closer, his breathing now warming up the skin of her forearm – then he suddenly stopped, discarding the piece of clothing on the table, and cupped her face with his steady hands, allowing one of his thumbs to trace the outline of her upper lip – she narrowed her eyes, unsure about what to expect from such an unstable version of Black: she could smell the remaining of gunpowder still scattered on his fingers yet that man taking care of her was miles away from the one who had tried to murder her just moments ago. He took a deep breath as he inhaled the eerie mixture of her natural scent and the nervous sweating that had covered her a while ago; even while romancing her in the confines of his own skin she was still trembling like a leaf about to fall from the tree. He leaned closer, as he ventured a kiss – he closed his eyes as his lips barely touched hers but only briefly: the third slap of the night disrupted his trance as her eyes, fixed on his, were clearly indicating that he was uninvited to the paradise of her mouth.

Black took a step back, slowly, and lowered his head as he went back to his room – he emerged from the darkness of his chamber a few minutes later: he had changed his clothes and he had also picked up his gun from the ground. He placed the infamous pistol in one of his holders as he walked past an absorbed Alex, still sitting on the table, watching his every move.

"There's my bed," he informed her without daring to make eye contact – "use it."

"Thought you said you didn't want to set a precedent." She managed to say.

Black didn't answer – only a tired sigh escaped from the prison of his lips as he simply walked away and stepped into the night landscape of the Lei Chen Mountains.

Only when the door closed behind him as Black left the cabin, she allowed herself to cry.

Part II: Evidence on Things Unseen.

After a moment of contemplation, she finally rose and decided to take on his offer – he was gone, true, but the whirlpool of inner chaos effortlessly manufactured solely by his reactionary senses was still there, present and suffocating. She climbed to his bed as she took a deep breath: his world, as frightening and savage as it was, was dragging her along his own instability – she needed to stay afloat and clear her mind after everything she had been through that night: everything had happened so fast before her eyes she had barely had the time to assimilate what was really going on: Black had just tried to murder her for no apparent reason and she had no choice but to stay there with him.

Black's bed, the bed she had been sleeping in ever since entering that cabin, was usually comfortable and warm but not that night – Alex turned and tossed a thousand times before succumbing to slumber, too tired to fight all the feelings displayed before her eyes like a colorful panoptic of raging emotions. The question, though, still transfixed in the back of her mind was persistent: why? Why would he try to murder her now, in her sleep, like a silent coward too afraid to face reality? The fierceness shown by his actions proved that the man was the embodiment of brutality but the true nature of his spirit - in case he still had such thing - hidden behind his motives, was still a complete mystery.

There was something extremely compelling about him – not simple, plain attraction but something far more appealing than his treacherous ways: theirs was a complex, intricate relationship she knew. He had tried to end her yet he had also tried to steal a kiss from her lips; and she, as horrified as she was, was left pondering on what would have happened if he had tried to kiss her in a different scenario, under different circumstances – the third slap, perhaps, would have never existed; maybe she would have let him in.

She considered briefly the notion of the Stockholm syndrome even though she knew he wasn't exactly her captor: she wasn't kidnapped - as Black had stated, she was free to leave the cabin, he wouldn't stop her. Yet her staying was sealed by more than just mere dependence: it was true that, in her eyes, Black still was the best chance she had to get back home but there was something about the man that she couldn't control, that she couldn't quite place, and as disturbing as that was, it was equally enticing to her senses.

The midday sunlight woke her. She got up and changed, then left Black's bedchamber only to find that both, the cowboy mercenary and Aalem had already had lunch: their empty glasses and plates were still resting on the wooden table as she made her way to the small kitchen.

"I left some bread for you on the counter." Aalem said as the young Edenian boy saluted her with a shy smile.

"Where's Black?" She asked, as she reciprocated the smile.

"He's bathing." The boy shrugged slightly as he kissed Alex goodbye before returning to his surveillance spot in the mountain.

She sat on the counter and started eating the bread when Black's baritone voice startled her:

"Aalem, towel." The mercenary demanded.

"Aalem's gone." She yelled back.

"Then you get me a towel." Black commanded, finally, causing her to roll her eyes in disgust.

She got up and walked back to Black's room, where she picked a clean towel from his wardrobe – the small route separating her from him was filled by a tourbillon of contradictions and thoughts as she tried to figure out what to do, how to face him, how to look him in the eye after the events of the previous night. Alex took a deep breath as she pressed her forehead against the back door separating her from Black, it's just a damn towel, she thought, searching for some self-determination.

The bathtub was placed right outside the cabin, facing the west side of the mountain – in the backyard, as Aalem would say. It was a rudimentary devise improvised by Black himself but, in the long run, it did the trick. The tub was in fact a large, rectangular metal compartment that had pipes placed all around it: the largest pipe, placed right upon the edge of the bathtub, recreated a shower and the rest of the thinner pipes were the conductors for the water supply, drained directly from the mountain top, given the fact that the region was a vast immensity of land where the winter snow, while meeting, gave birth to streams that grew into cold, glassy-watered, restless rivers that also generated the majority of the water they consumed and used in the cabin. Placed at the right end of the tub, Black had also built a heating engine fueled by kerosene smuggled directly from Earthrealm, to make bathing in the wilderness a little bit more comfortable: the water would be tepid in the end, not exactly hot, but the temperature was bearable – it was bad enough that the tub was placed outside the cabin, but having to shower with water brought straight from glacial rivers was a challenge that Black was not willing to face.

She placed the towel on a wooden log a few feet away from the bathtub and walked away slowly, without even looking at him.

"I'm not gonna walk all the way over there." Black's elocution made her stop on her tracks – she gulped, rolled her eyes and turned around; then picked up the towel and handed it to him.

"Don't stay staring, that's just plain rude." He spat venomously.

But she couldn't help it: watching him bathe was just like watching a cat fighting water.

"You know, your face is also part of your body." She teased him dryly as the mercenary stood up in the bathtub. It was true: there were traces of old, dried kohl streaming down his cheeks. The woman walked up to him and scrubbed his face with the battered sponge she found floating on the water – he fidgeted impatiently under her touch:

"Leave it alone." Black ordered as he tried fruitlessly to stop Alex from cleaning up his visage.

"You look like a whore who's just had a rough night." The woman retorted as she scrubbed harder. "It will ruin your skin."

Well, I had a rough night.

"My skin's just fine." He protested.

"Your skin needs moisturizing." Alex snapped back quickly as she scrubbed his face unceasingly, his cheeks burning under the frantic sponge.

"I'm not a woman," Black sentenced – "I'm a man of the desert."

With those last words she took a step back and admired her work: the kohl had completely disappeared and now, for the first time, his face was completely naked – no make-up, no hat, no mask or bandana to hide his identity. The man was a fine specimen, of that she had no doubt. But not only his face was bare in front of her – his whole body, naked, stood towering over her; the unbearable weight of his mockery now reflected in the way his lips were curling up, the Adonis in him finally underlying his colors and shadows.

She blushed as her eyes traveled the length of his body. Ashamed, she turned around and started to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" He said, his seductive tone taking over his voice. "Inside." He finally commanded as he discarded the towel carelessly on the ground.

She stopped on her tracks once again and turned around, puzzled by him, unsure about what to expect from the man who had tried to murder her the night before.

"Careful, Narcissus," She retorted as she fixed her cold gaze on his - blinking was not even an option anymore – "Don't stare at your own reflection for too long."

Wouldn't you like that?

He walked passed her and went inside the cabin, his deadpan expression dismissing her bitter remarks. Then he suddenly stopped, turned around and asked:

"Did you dare call me a whore?" He cocked an eyebrow slightly, as he turned around to face her.

With him around, to dare or not to dare was simply an inexistent difference. Alex shrugged involuntarily as she started to feel a menacing line of cold sweat running down her spine: after all, that man had tried to murder her the night before, perhaps a bitter, silly remark was all that he needed to explode once again and deep down she knew, she was certain, in case his supernova-like senses were to outburst again, she wouldn't be so lucky to live to tell the story.

"Alexandra, I said inside." His voice shook her as he placed one of his hands on her arm and hurried her inside. "My room."

She stood in the center of the cabin, not truly wanting to walk inside his bedchamber. She observed him as he walked around shamelessly naked: he read Aalem's records, poured himself a glass of water, searched the table for a pack of smokes and then, finally, went to his room oblivious of the fact that her feet were still glued to the ground, making it impossible for Alex to move. He let out a soft grunt as he leant against the door of his bedchamber, waiting for the woman to break the disruptive spell paralyzing her.

"What, you've never seen a penis before? I thought you were a doctor." Black teased her impatiently.

"You're disgusting." Alex retorted.

"Watch Ferra as she cleans Torr up, that will definitely redefine 'disgusting' for you." Black shrugged as he recalled the symbiotic pairing's ritualistic behavior each morning right after breakfast.

He stayed with his arm outstretched, holding the door open for her. Alex eyed him, unsure if she truly wanted to walk inside his bedchamber with his bare figure awaiting for her – she lowered her eyes briefly, involuntarily, losing the battle: the laceration across his stomach was completely healed, she noticed - a pale shadow of pink surfacing from his epidermis: he had been lucky – not only he had survived what could have been fatal for any other man but also no traces of his unfortunate showdown with the mysterious woman in the mountains would be imprinted on his never fading body. She finally entered his bedroom, her eyes still glued to his miraculous healing.

He cocked one eyebrow at the sight of her eyes traveling his mid-section. Whatever he had on his mind was clearly being pushed away by her medical concerns.

"Aalem said you were curious about my body," he blurted out, sarcasm taking over his features as her rictus suddenly changed, now darkened and hardened, offended by his lack of integrity and respect.

"Here it is."

The woman narrowed her eyes at his impertinence – her gaze was fixed on his again, as if refusing to let her vision wander and explore the entirety of his existence.

"About how it works." She said, confusion showing all over his visage. "I'm curious about how it works."

It was that Black again, the unbearable, chauvinist, sexist and despicable mercenary – the Black that she would get most of the time. That other Black, the one from the previous night, was a distant epiphany threatening her sanity: did he even exist? Perhaps her need had created a warmer yet madder version of Black inside her head, a palliative for her loneliness. That warmer version of Black had tried to end her, granted, but he had also shown her some deeper, richer colors of his most private insights and he had made her feel something – something she couldn't quite place yet, but something other than solitude and frustration.

She sighted inaudibly as she moved closer to the mercenary. Perhaps time and distance were factors that had a weight of their own – and theirs were eerie ways, she knew.

"Is there anything you don't tell each other?" she asked – and even though her elocution was consumed by irony and resentment, deep down she knew those words were merely an excuse to face reality once again: that Black had only existed for a brief, fleeting moment and now he was lost in the hourglass of his own torturous existence.

"What do you want to know?" he asked her, "I simply made a deal, but I don't know the specifics." He admitted softly as he sat down on his bed.

"I was just wondering how some things work in your organism – say, your teeth, they should be showing some extensive signs of advanced decay by now but they are not. Osteoporosis should be an issue for a man your age but your bones are solid structures, it's like they have a never-ending calcium supply feeding them. Your lungs; especially now that I know you smoke…"

"Only occasionally." He acknowledged.

"See, I understand that Shang Tsung's magic has slowed your aging process, but there are some things that, as a doctor…" she paused, trying to find the right words to finish that sentence.

"Render you speechless." He helped her. "I don't have the answers you're looking for. If anything, I can tell you that I've never really cared about such things. In fact, I've spent the last hundred years smoking, drinking, sleeping with a variety of strangers, being beaten, being shot at, being cut and slashed and in spite of all that, here I am." A crooked smile appeared timidly from the corner of his mouth; his lips, curling up slowly, were brightening his centurial face.

Alex nodded in silence as she observed Black leaving the room, still naked and clearly unashamed.

'Shame' was not a concept made to endure the test of time, she concluded. 'Greed', possibly, was an example of a notion made to last, built to transcend generation after generation, just like the meanings of 'lust' or maybe even 'violence' could survive decades, even centuries – but not 'shame.' Erron Black was the living proof of that.

He went back to his chamber carrying a decanter in his right hand. He poured himself a glass of a dark crimson beverage then stirred it carefully: "Want a drink?" he offered her as he turned around to face Alex once again.

"What's that?" The liquid looked pretty much like blood but Alex knew cowboys and vampires were not the same thing. At least, of that, she was positive.

"Wildrose." He replied as he reached for the decanter once again. "Aalem prepares it, was his father's recipe." Black stirred the second glass and handed it to Alex. "It looks like blood; I know…" he said. "But it's sweet, you'll like it."

Alex inspected the glass and stirred its content some more.

"Drink it already." He commanded, exasperated by her mistrust. She obeyed, as she moistened her lips with the beverage.

"It's… sour." She reflected, visibly disgusted.

"After the sixth glass everything tastes the same." Black retaliated quickly as he placed the decanter on the little wooden bedside table.

She stared at his back and his arms, reciprocating the look he had given her back in the cell while unveiling the scars scattered on her body – there were marks covering his body as well, several cuts in his arms, what appeared to be some sort of a brand on one of his shoulders and his back had two peculiar scars, a pair of white diagonal lines stretching from his collarbone to his shoulder blade – flogging scars, she thought.

"How long will you be staying with us?" Alex asked, trying to make some futile conversation.

"Not long. I'm leaving tomorrow night." He answered as he finished his drink.

"Back to the palace?"

He nodded.

"Indeed."

There were no traces of the previous night. His face, once again a secluded fortress, was miles away from that emotional Black that had tried to murder her and kiss her almost simultaneously. Black turned around and finally began to dress himself up then he looked over his shoulder, almost ordering Alex to leave: with just one look from his indifferent eyes she understood that the events of the previous night had been buried deep within him, never to surface again.

"Alright, then, guess I'll go now." Her lower lip trembled as she struggled to blink back the tears before they dripped down her cheeks – 'gattopardo' was the only concept on her mind, as she remembered Lampedusa's work. The notion left her feeling vulnerable like a child, naked in front of him even when she had been the one fully dressed: his change had been more apparent than real, she understood – he had successfully fooled her into thinking that everything had changed, only to prove later than everything still remained the same.

Black, noticing the storm gathering inside of her, moved closer; his patronizing eyes now trying to make her understand that there was no use for her to try to swim in his mud.

"Forgot my records." Aalem interrupted them, as he walked inside Black's chamber. "Have you seen my scratch pad?"

"I took it," Black answered as he took a step backwards. "It's on my bed."

The young Edenian tried to grab the book but Black stretched his arm, stopping him.

"You stay; I'll go." He ordered as he picked up his poncho and left the room. Alex stayed there, still pinned down to the ground beneath her feet, unable to move.

"I told you, you were not his type." The boy shrugged.

"It's not what you think." She smiled shyly, as tears started streaming down her face.

"The flesh is weak." Aalem concluded, as he stroked her back gently, comforting her.

"Where did you hear that?" Alex asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Aalem cleared his throat, "Guess who?" he asked as he searched Black's wardrobe until he found what he was looking for: he put on Erron's cowboy hat and mimicking the gunslinger, the boy said: "The difference between men and women, kid, is that if a woman doesn't want to get laid, then there's nothing you can do to change her mind. If a man doesn't want to get laid – as stupid and crazy as it might sound – the only thing a woman has to do is place her hands in the right spot and in a couple minutes the man won't even remember his name, or the city where he was born, or his mother's birthday and all that will remain of his determination will be some clothes scattered here and there, like souvenirs." They both laughed for a brief moment, until Aalem took off Black's hat and sat on the mercenary's bed.

"I'm not sure if it works that way." Alex answered, grinning.

"How am I supposed to know?" the young Edenian shrugged once more.

"What?" Alex asked with eyes wide open – "You've never…?"

Aalem simply shook his head.

"He's not that bad." The boy confessed after a while.

"He tried to murder me." Alex let out softly as she sat beside him.

"The fact that he's not bad doesn't necessarily mean that he's good." The Edenian went on. "He is what he is; nothing more, nothing less." He patted her shoulder gently, reassuring her. "Let me show you something." He said as he grabbed his scratch pad – right under his note, the mercenary's message seemed to be a battered silver lining, but it was a silver lining nonetheless, she reckoned.

"She's trying." He had written.

"I guess you're not the only one." Aalem concluded as he placed his arms around her, allowing her to bury her face on his shoulder and cry.