The ballad of two
Interlude
A picture paints a thousand words

/ / /

The small room was shrouded in shadows, the furthest corners nearly completely black as the single lamp on the writing desk failed to send its tendrils of illumination into their depths, and the darkness outside the floor length sliding doors that led to the balcony beyond complete on the moonless night. The gossamer like curtains hung motionless, diffusing what little light came in from outside, standing as silent witness to the room's sole occupant.

Sitting at the table, with his back to the curtained night, was a pale reflection of what lay outside. Clothed from the neck down in form-fitting black, and with hair that was as pale as the unseen moon, Ember sat so still that he could have been part of the room itself. Only the slight movement, barely perceptible, of his shoulders as he breathed gently in and out differentiated him from just another piece of furniture in the sparsely decorated room. With deliberate slowness Ember leant backwards, ever so slightly, and two things became apparent. The first was, as his long hair moved around his shoulders, that something was hanging on the corner of the chair; bone-white material with a pearlesque sheen, draped haphazardly. His mask. The second was that, even though his face was unseen, from the angle of his head he was staring up at the only other object in the room. A rectangular frame on the wall draped and completely covered in diaphanous black silk.

A noise echoed softly, in the same way that a single footstep can sound like thunder in an empty house when all alone, in the room harsh and out of place and as Ember's shoulders shook more visibly it suddenly became obvious what the sound was. Laughter.

Leaning forwards over the desk, his hair falling forward to curtain his face in its white depths, Ember picked up a silver fountain pen. In letters that were small and concise, every stroke deliberate and controlled, he began to write in a leather bound book in front of him, continuing an already started sentence.

… couldn't believe that fat idiot of a cop!

He thought that he had me dead to rights but Sinclair showed him; turning up at the station even before we got there definitely surprised the cop, and his little rookie of a partner too.

What was it that he said? Oh yeah, I remember now, "Just a couple of questions, Ember" with that butter wouldn't melt tone of voice and wide-eyed stare that was obviously meant to put me at ease and convince me that he was my 'friend' when all it really did was make him look even more moronic that nature had intended. It was all I could do to restrain the urge to bite his eyes out there and then, but then I suppose even Sinclair would have had trouble getting me off.

… not that he wouldn't have gotten me off of course, it would just have been harder.

Fat cop … what was his name again? Russo. Yeah Russo. Well he didn't even get me past the front door before Sinclair 'explained' to him that I wouldn't be 'helping with the enquiries' after all. Bit of a shame, really, as I was looking forwards to hearing what they had found out about you, brother dear.

I have to admit that I was a bit surprised when he said your name like that. Part of me was expecting it, always expecting it, but after two years it was a bit of a shock. If someone had knocked my door the first week, or even the first month after … well let's just say after you 'went away' shall we? … and told me that they were looking for you then I wouldn't have been so surprised. I mean I had planned for it, I knew what I was going to say. Not even Harrison Ford would have prepared his lines as well as I had.

… 'oh no officer, I have no idea where my brother is' I would have said, just the right amount of sincerity mixed with a dash of concern, 'I haven't seen him for a while … we weren't close you know.'

When the weeks turned into months, though, and the months into years – two years – I have to admit that I became complacent. I had almost forgotten that you were gone. Not quite as good as forgetting that you never existed but, after all, it is a start.

As it is though, I didn't find out anymore than Russo and his little bitch of a partner were investigating your murder. I am not quite sure what to think about that. I mean I would love to be able to finally bury you, just so that I could dance of your grave of course, but even Sinclair said that they were 'leaping to conclusions'.

No body, no witnesses, no evidence at all

… apart from the blood of course. Where the fuck did they find blood from? I think that the rookie slipped up and said too much because the fat cop didn't look happy when he mentioned the blood sample. Where did it come from? WHEREWHEREWHEREWHERE?????

I know that I didn't leave any …

… no, not that easy my friends.

End of the day it doesn't matter. Even if Sinclair hadn't been there I wouldn't have said anything that would … could … incriminate me. How could I? I mean it is not like I know anything, is it? It is not like I killed you is it?

All those idiots thought that they had on me was the fact that they found some blood nearby my apartment and that I am a wrestler just like you were … are, I mean, because we can't 'assume' that you are dead, now can we?

… we can just hope and fucking pray that you are. Don't know why I am being so careful, no-one will ever find this journal, and even if they did no-one will ever be able to read it. At least that is one thing that grandfather taught us. Not even the Windtalkers could decipher this one!
But still, where DID they find blood from? How could it still be fresh?! I know that it can't be from you. I made sure to take care of you properly. There was NO trace left, and even if there was how could they have fresh blood now?

They can't that is all. They are just bluffing and hoping that someone will slip up.

Just a coincidence, the rookie said trying to be nice cop I suppose, that another wrestler lived in the building.

… what would they think if they knew that we were related, that we were brothers? What would they think if they knew just how much I hated you with every part of me?!

They would smile and lock me up, just like that fat fuck hinted. 'Obstruction of justice' he growled at Sinclair, who just smiled his little smile as he handed over his business card. 'My client has some very important bookings to attend, detective' he had said, his voice like ice-water, 'so unless you have something more concrete we will be leaving now'.

I could have pissed myself laughing at that fat idiot's face, and the look of shock … and almost loss of faith … on the rookie's face as he watched his fat hero fail.

'Important bookings' my arse. Just another night, just another match and just another idiot rookie to attend to. I don't even know what this XP is meant to be, brother dearest, but you know what? I don't care either.

Just a couple of more nights, a couple of more matches, and I will have done it. I will have beaten you.

I will step out of your shadow and eclipse you, I will do what you could never do. Then you really will be buried, and what will you say then?

Ember dropped the pen on the journal in front of him, leaning back and looking up at the draped frame on the wall above him. Reaching up, almost tenderly, he pulled at the corner of the material and allowed it to float to the desk below. A picture, framed in deep ebony wood, was revealed with a glimpse of a handsome and tanned man, long auburn hair cascading in waves to almost his waist, holding up a title belt in one hand as he smiled out of the photo.

"You won't say anything, will you, brother dear?" he said, his voice choked with evident fury, "you can't … you are dead!"

/ / /

To be continued.