Darkness enveloped them, creating a cocoon of black silk illuminated only by the dim yellow headlights. The windows stood at half-mast allowing the cooling autumn breeze to slip through and whip at the ends of his hair.
She had fallen asleep hours ago, her eyes slowly drooping lower and lower until her head fell back with a dull thump and her hands went limp in her lap. Her head rested against the window, mouth slightly agape. He could see the trauma of the day in the dark circles under her eyes and the pasty white of her cheeks. When she had lain on the white dais she seemed ethereal, like a wraith only there until he blinked. Now, she was alive. Even with the apparent exhaustion, her skin had lost its translucent quality, the blue and green veins snaking beneath her skin no longer visible. She was back from the dead.
Amon shifted his gaze back to the road, but he wasn't really watching. He knew this concrete drive from endless trips back and forth along its surface. It was the only road to the facility and the only one to the church.
Remembering all those long drives, Amon clutched the wheel. He had wanted to awaken her months ago. The first time he saw her he had almost dropped to his knees and cried. Not again, it couldn't be happening again. But there she was, lying cold and lifeless like a corpse prepared for autopsy, a white sheet there for man's strange sense of modesty for the dead.
When he arrived they had already completed her restructuring. His strict orders were to allow her to heal and develop before he made any move. So he sat behind thick mirrored glass and watched men in white lab coats with cold metal instruments prod and examine her, scribble innumerable notes and hold up clear syringes to the florescent lights, squirt an arc into the air, and inject it into her jugular vein. He always cringed when it pressed against her skin, and then pierced it, sliding it until he thought he might gag. God, he hated watching them, hated what they did to her. It was so much like...
No, that was over. Amon nodded his head in self-affirmation and glanced over at her sleeping form. She hadn't moved except for a small drop of saliva clinging to her bottom lip. He would admit it now; he had thought so before: she was beautiful. Even when those eyes had been doe brown, he had wanted her. He could remember her laughter and the way she would cling to his coat when she couldn't stand up anymore. He remembered the soft tone of her voice that almost never changed even when she was angry. Her stubbornness and mutinous stance when she didn't get what she wanted. The night she had curled up next to him on the couch to read over his shoulder, run her fingers through his dark hair until he couldn't stop himself from leaning over and turning off the lamp.
His eyes clamped shut at the last memory. She wasn't that woman anymore. Hell, she didn't even know her own name, much less who he was. Or even who James was. God, he had wondered for weeks if James knew, if he sensed it like a subtle electric tug. And then it hadn't mattered.
The wind whistled through the curves of his ear. The motor purred under his feet, and the clock read 3:15am. Sunrise was three hours away. He would make the church in less than an hour.
She awoke to a dull ache in her neck and jostling gait of the dark man. No, wait, he had a name now....Amon. Strange name. She wondered fleetingly if it was French or something more exotic. It was still dark and her eyes wouldn't adjust. They still burned in their sockets, and it hurt to keep them open in the wind. Amon was carrying her bridal style, his hands wrapped around her back and under he knees. Without thinking, she buried her head in the juncture between his shoulder and neck and felt his step falter before resuming its easy grace.
The darkness suddenly parted and a stone church appeared like a vision. She shifted in his arms, startled, but he tightened his arms to hold her still. Looking from his face to the carved doors and stone archway, she tried to imagine this place was real. She may not remember herself, but she knew finding a church hailing back to the dark ages was a little out of the ordinary. He set her down beside the door, his arm still around her back and knocked loudly three times. Turning to him, Robin pointed to the door and opened her mouth, but he only shook his head. Sighing loudly, she waited beside him until the door opened and a slight young man with blonde hair and a black smock ushered them inside. Amon swept her up again and nodded to the young man before stepping into the dark opening.
She lost track of which direction they were going after the third turn. Robin couldn't tell if they were walking up or down, left or right. She clung steadfastly to Amon's neck and listened intently, but there was nothing. It was a dank void where only the soft thud of Amon's soles ricocheted off the wall. Her own breathing sounded loud in the quiet. Amon made no noise as if he wasn't even there. She pressed her ear against his chest and relaxed at the steady thudding of his heart.
She knew she should be scared, should be clutching her jacket and crying in the darkness, but his presence soothed her. She felt.... safe. His scent...there was something familiar there. She couldn't quite grasp it and bit her tongue in frustration. It had to be important. He had to be important. She couldn't remember her own name, but she knew his scent. Was it a memory or just a trick of her mind?
An oak door loomed out of the wall. The dark brass handle turned before Amon reached it and swung open to reveal a man of the cloth dressed in scratchy brown wool, his head shaved and shining in the glow of the light emanating from behind him.
Amon set her down just outside the door and turned to speak with the monk. While they conversed, she took a gauging step and when neither tried to stop her, she walked into the room. Hundreds of candles lined a crystal chandelier hanging precariously from the ceiling. Her eyes began to burn again when she looked too long into the little dancing flames, so she turned away, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Lining the gray stone walls were evenly spaced brackets holding unlit torches, each unused and smelling of fresh moss and tangy oil. Standing in the center under the bright lights, she realized the room was quite small. It was maybe 20 feet wide and another long. Bored with the lack of doors and colorless walls, she swiveled to watch the two men still hunched over in conversation. The monk was older, maybe around forty. His cheeks sagged beneath his eyes and his forehead was lined with haggard worry marks. Too shaggy brown eyebrows framed blue eyes that calmly stared into the younger man's. His hands were linked comfortably in front of his cassock. She cocked her head to the side and chewed the inside of her lip before turning her eyes to Amon. He stood a head taller than the holy man, his shoulders noticeably wider and back straight. The long black coat hid his frame from neck to mid-calf, but she remembered the feel of his chest against her side when he carried her and blushed. Biting her bottom lip, Robin turned away before she could catalogue his face and took deep breathe, trying to dispel the butterflies in her abdomen.
"Robin." She turned at the sound of his voice more than her name. He beckoned her with his fingers and stretched out his arm, palm up. Lifting her skirts, Robin immediately went to him and took his hand.
He turned and followed the monk down another corridor that looked no different from the last. She squinted, looking for some marking, but there was only the cold stone and dark recesses dimly lit by banked torches. She didn't know how the monk or Amon knew where they were walking. Rubbing her eyes again, she tripped on the back of Amon's shoe. Mumbling an apology, she rubbed harder. Her eyes wouldn't adjust to the darkness. Opening them wide, her eyelids straining to draw back into her skull, Robin watched the walls, waiting for them to focus. Finally she stopped and rubbed her eyes furiously until they burned. Hands suddenly tore her fingers away and she blinked awkwardly up at Amon. His brows were creased across his nose and he stared into her eyes until she looked away, uncomfortable under his gaze.
"Don't rub them. It won't help. You'll feel better soon."
Astonished, she opened her mouth to reply, but he merely took her hand again and began walking, dragging her with him until she gained her footing. How had he known her eyes were bothering her?
Pursing her lips, she followed obediently, but vowed to speak to him when they were alone. She didn't like someone knowing so much about her while she understood nothing of him.
The monk stopped the end of the hall where it forked into two and motioned them to walk ahead to the left. Another oak door, but this time the monk knocked loudly three times and waited patiently. There was no answer for a few moments, and she fidgeted until Amon tugged her hand and shot her an annoyed look. Well, look at that, she thought, the man is human.
Quick shuffling and the creak of the deadbolt and the door opened. "Please, come in."