A/N: Whew. Lots of stuff going on right now in my "real" life, so sorry about the delay in posting. Anyway, herein is a peak into Jim's past that will continue on into the next chapter. Hope y'all enjoy my dabble into the possibility of how this mad villain counterpart of Sherlock came to be. I surely did. And thanks to Revella, as usual, for her support/encouragement/proofing. Our late night drunken Jimlock/Johnlock emails produce some startlingly weird ideas in my funny little brain.
I had some difficulty with a certain situation in this one; and I hope it's clear herein who is who, because canon says that Moriarty's younger brother is also named James Moriarty (great). So the paragraphs get a bit convoluted when they're mentioned together. Good luck. ;)
James lay back onto his pillow, arms going behind his head. This was not okay. Most decidedly not okay. If he was honest, it was a complete piss of a fuck up. The detective brought out things in him that were thought buried, abolished, eliminated. Though his typical moods were reliably quick-shifting and mercurial, if those could be termed as such, he had always maintained control where it counted. Appearances could be everything, and he had used this intimate knowledge of the human psyche to advance himself through the years since before his first crime was committed. Now, the technique was perfected. Solid. Impenetrable. Other people did the wet work. Not James Moriarty. No. He was a figure in the shadows. Powerful. Omnipotent. So much so that just the shaky utterance of his name alone often capitulated any resistance to the very few trusted allies of his. Fear of his wrath was worldwide. It resided in the most tech savvy of palaces and the most dark and dank of bunkers. The Moriarty name knew no bounds when it came to settling disputes of power. Moriarty's crushed opposition. Ruthlessly. Unmercifully…..and with class! He smiled.
It faded quickly, though, as he considered his dilemma. He brought his arms down from behind his head, fists clenching. He hated him. God, how he hated that man. And yet….he wanted him…needed him, like red cells require hemoglobin. Without it, they're nonfunctional. They have no purpose. And likewise….. He shook his head. No. He had been fine before the discovery of this infuriatingly intriguing puzzle of a man. He would be fine…after... He ran a hand through his hair, causing the normally perfectly placed strands to fall haphazardly back down across his brow. Or would he? He drew in an almost unsteady breath, fingers of one hand coming to rest over his mouth for a moment as he considered the question as objectively as he could.
He had been at the edge of giving up when he came across Sherlock's name in the papers. Humanity in general disgusted him. All smiles and good nature until you scratched the surface and the shit bubbled out from inside. No one was exempt from this basic disappointment. Except…perhaps….him. He was a puzzle. An enigma to Jim. In a world devoid of color to the criminal's eye, Sherlock Holmes had stood out as a kaleidoscope of brilliantly faceted shades. A confusing riddle held against what he had been beginning to consider the gospel of the mundane. He was interesting. Extraordinary. He was…..a problem. Jim's own problem. And his mind flicked forward in consideration. Perhaps…..his final problem? His eyes narrowed as he lowered his hand to his chest. This is too much for fully conscious thought, he considered.
Yes. A deeper evaluation of this situation and its possibilities was merited. He arranged himself on the mattress, pulling the covers off to shuck his trousers to the floor and then drawing them back up in a smooth, coordinated motion. Dress shirt followed next, leaving him in a light tank and his underpants. He writhed around for a moment to find a good position for long term. No telling how long this would take. Sherlock wasn't the only one who utilized the ages old technique of creating a mental construction of massive proportions to enable perfect recall. A Mind Palace it was to Sherlock. To Jim, it was so much more. It was the source of his brilliance. It was his sanctuary in times like this. It was his place to hide inwardly when he was young and still vulnerable... His eyes closed peacefully as he let the outside world fall away, and he entered his safe house.
His eyes opened, and he stood in an open field whereupon an enormous burial mound stood. Like so many of the old, Irish burial sites, it was plain, with little but large rocks bearing some absent-seeming, loopy carvings to decorate its exterior. He looked over it with a mixture of feelings. This part of his mental safe house was actually a replica of a real location. His so-many-times-great grandfather and certain other historic family had been buried therein. He had been there physically only once, as a teenager who was more interested in stealing anything of worth nearby than of his own ancestry. He had gone there on a whim, alone, never being able to define a specific reason as to why. And when he had left after only a short hour, he took the image with him to later use as a foundation to this, his own internal stronghold. And it stood now, as it always had, gloomy and foreboding. Completely unwelcoming, and stinking of the dark whisper of death. He loved it.
Entering the smallish door on the side of the mound, which always shifted according to his position on its exterior, was of no great difficulty. It stood open at all times, as it did now. James could move freely within his own construction, either by mundanely placing one foot in front of the other, by drifting forward as if floating, or simply by recalling the specific information sought after and having himself appear at its location. The last was the method normally employed, due to the general necessity of speed. But tonight, he felt the alien pull of nostalgia, and so he walked slowly up to, and through, the little door, taking a quick flight of carved steps downward from the entrance and disappearing into the darkness below.
Inside could be seen a vast cavern, much larger than the outside trappings of the mound itself could possibly contain. And it wasn't completely dark inside, as one might believe while peering through the doorway from above. It actually seemed to be lit from within, by an unseen source of murky, ashen light. It lent everything the washed out appearance of black and white and gray. In this fortress rested his memories, perfectly preserved in the moments he chose for their mental embalming. But where Sherlock had his vast palace of rooms and storage, Jim's internal construction was similar only in functionality.
The criminal stepped forth into his own kingdom, and breathed deeply. Before him stretched an endless infinity of hallways, passageways, nooks, and crannies. A maze to anyone else's eye; to him, it was as familiar as the streets of his childhood. None were uniform in size, spacing, or shape; each had its own connected pathways through to other locations in this limitless abode, which would often make no sense in regard to space and time. And at irregular intervals along the walls, hung with great care…..were the mirrors. Analogous to the layout of the hallways and tunnels, they were all dissimilar and varied greatly in dimension and placement. And though they bore a resemblance to the silvery-surfaced objects located in the waking world, they did not function as their reflective relatives did. Their faces shifted and swirled, teasing with images half-seen and soon forgotten. Some occasionally displayed scenes caught frozen in the moment, still and unreflective. Others seemed to be nothing more than what they physically appeared: regular mirrors with no ulterior motives or purpose. But the feel of the place... The weight of its silence… The hair-prickling encroachment of the final sleep that hid in every shadow and lay along each path….. That…that, was where it could be appreciated and recognized that something truly…wicked…dwelt within.
James walked through his Hall of Mirrors at a leisurely pace, knowing his feet would eventually lead him along the path his contemplations required. He kept his thoughts on his "final problem" as he strode the neural corridors. Frustration initially nipped at him, as he was used to a much faster response time to his quests. However, Sherlock Holmes would undoubtedly not be a riddle easily figured, and so he reined in his violence for now. He turned a corner on a whim, catching reflections of himself as he passed that were cloudy, unclear. He stopped at one, wondering at its filmy surface. He could barely make out his own outline, much less any distinguishing features. His hand was extended before he knew it, and he ran a finger down its surface, causing ripple-like waves of smoke within the mirror. Something like a scream sounded from a great distance within, blossoming a feeling of unease within his belly. He backed away slowly from it, turning to continue on. Some memories were better left undisturbed.
His continued tread down the cavernous hallways echoed softly all around him. And still the mirrors he passed reflected only murky grays. So unusual for his thoughts to be so clouded. He walked faster, trying to clear this part of his mind. And as he did, the surfaces began to normalize. Eventually, he was able to see himself again, and he slowed his pace somewhat, passing them at less brief intervals. As he passed one, though, he caught an aberration out of the corner of his eye and stopped, backing up unhurriedly to the mirror in the question. But the only thing staring back at him was his own face, hard and cold in its scrutiny. He moved on, tired of this game his mind seemed intent on playing with him.
With a trick of willpower, he deposited himself farther afield and deeper in his past. The mirrors he passed now were in somewhat of ill repair. Their clouded surfaces gave the impression of dust long untended. Memories, left to lie for years… He approached one in particular, noting the familiar myriad flowing markings traced through its coated surface. And he created yet another one, sliding his hand across the cool glass, as he replayed this memory for what could have been the thousandth time, watching through eyes that had now seen too much darkness to ever truly appreciate the strength to be found within this memory. The mirror brightened at his touch, as if sensing that it was once again to become useful. Hand upon the glass, eyes closed, he sank into it, his ever-living memory.
And his eyes opened on a scene so long ago and far away that no one else living could claim knowledge of its existence. He was young then, so young. And this was the earliest memory in the powers of his mind's recollection. A young James sat alone on a doorstep outside of his family's home, barely two years of age. He stared at the rags that wrapped his feet, numb as they were this winter. His young mind could barely conceive of the idea of seeking out better footwear, not that there was any to be had in any case. Shoes were for 'others,' not him. And so he sat, hunched and shivering on the front stoop of the tiny one-bedroom lean-to that had been constructed by the previous owner, his uncle, before he died. It was barely more than a collection of scrap wood and planks that had been meticulously cobbled together by a (drunken) carpenter. But it kept the worst of the weather out at night. His stomach had long since lost its ability to torment him with hunger, already a known enemy. His diet consisted of this-and-that and what-have-you; but mostly cabbage soup, light on the cabbage and never having seen a string of meat to flavor it. So his days mostly entailed conserving energy by huddling down in any kind of dry space that was available and consuming whatever haphazardly morsels might come his way.
James looked through the mirror on this poor, half-starved creature and felt a certain nausea creep its way into his throat. He could remember a time when he had found a rat, dead for only perhaps a day, and had contemplated eating it. It was almost frozen through, and he was too small at the time to do anything more than try to bite the tail, which had him heaving up the bile residing just beyond his already pitifully empty belly. He steadied himself as he observed, fighting the sickness that always came with his past. It would happen, as it had always happened when he came here, watched this….
The door opened…..and there she was. Mother. Even the now hardened murderer felt his heart lift at the sight of her, this being his only lasting memory of her features, so full of concern. Later memories lent a vague blurring to her countenance that he had never been able to correct. She picked young James up, wrapping her arms securely about him and whispering, "Your Pa's done now. Shhh, he's done. Come inside, Jimmy." James winced at the moniker his mother always used. And he followed the pair inside as they pulled back into the sad dwelling, the last bastion of the end of the Moriarty clan.
His eyes drank her in as she rearranged the single chair, the one piece of furniture besides the sheet-wrapped straw in the corner where his father snored. Soft brown hair with just a hint of auburn, eyes of deep chocolate brown like his own, skin so pale as to be thought sickly but that seemed to glow on her….and the bruising decorating it that he hadn't recognized with eyes so new to the horrors of the world. They speckled her slight frame, so like his own petite figure. The hue of her eyes seemed that much darker with the circles of sleep-deprivation under them, and the variegated coloration blooming across her right cheek gave her an especially frail appearance. Father was left handed, too…thought James. She moved with care, as if shying away from pain, as she shifted him from her arms to her lap and sat, still holding him. "Me boy. Me precious, Jimmy," she crooned softly.
He looked up at her, the innocence of youth making him smile and think her the loveliest woman in all of Ireland. And she ran her hand over his head and through his thin hair, testament to his losing battle with malnutrition. She smiled down at him with what his adult eyes could see now as a deep and abiding sadness; and then she hugged him close again, and very tight. He enjoyed the closeness, and didn't register the tremor in her body as she whispered into his hair, "You're going to be a big brother, Jimmy. A big brother…" And she couldn't finish, or else the tears she held back would come forth in full. And he returned her embrace with his skeletal arms, thinking that surely, he was the luckiest boy in all the world.
James pulled out of the memory gasping, drowning. God, why did he do this? But wait…there it was. He could feel it inside himself. This small joy that the memory of his mother's face elicited within him. And he clenched a fist just beneath the endpoint of his breastbone, pressing inwards. The pain…was exquisite. The rage…was addicting. The self-hate…was pure. And the…love…..was loathsome…was to be crushed. Annihilated. Ended. There. His eyes blazed with determination that it would be the last time he would come here and feel this. This was a mistake of the heart that only led to pain. He had tried, so many times in the past, to shatter this mirror. Destroy this memory, and erase it from himself forever. Its taint, gone. Its influence, broken. And yet…..it never stayed gone. The pieces always found their way back together, reforming and taunting him with their renewed sheen. For a while at least. Until he had let time do its work, and the mirror grew dark and dim once again, surface clouding with mental disuse.
He pushed away from it, swiping his hand across his face as if to clear away all remaining traces of what he had seen, what he had felt. With a final glare in its direction, he headed off again, but stopped once more, peering sideways, as something caught his eye once again. Movement? Not here. But he approached the mirror beside him nonetheless. His eyes squinted as they tried to decipher what lay behind this one, also one of the less used subjects. His hand touched the surface, causing an almost unnoticeable change in its brightness. Not such a good memory then. But curiosity got the better of him, and he let himself submerge for an instant.
The moment he recognized the memory, he became caught in a situation much akin to what people passing an accident on the highway experience: it's so horrible, but they just can't look away. Like-wise were any memories of Jim's brother, also named James. Their father, being the drunk that he was, cared not for the naming of a second child, and so he used the name of the first, stating the rationale that, "Since the first one was such a piss poor Irishman, let the second have a go!"
His first memory of his brother was a lukewarm one as he gazed into the material that served as a crib, swaddling blanket, and diaper all in one. James the younger was a squalling, red-faced, mess of a baby. Big from the start, the newest James had almost killed their mother while giving birth as she had in their single roomed dwelling. A mid-wife had come by to be sure the afterbirth passed (and to generally be a nuisance from what James could tell). But otherwise, his mother had done it all alone, on the floor beside the large kettle they sometimes could find coal for. His father had already taken up the straw pallet and had refused to move when her contractions started. She had told James to go sit outside on the stoop and only come in if he couldn't take the weather any more. And so he had sat outside and listened to his mother's screams and whimpers as she fought to bring his brother into the world.
He stepped back from the mirror, face tight with concentration as he fought the almost masochistic desire to keep watching. He looked to its frame, seeking some identifying mark so as not to seek this one out ever again. He could still feel the wind on his exposed face, feel his mother's screams within his marrow, sense the beginning of a hatred that would blossom in the years to come. He took another few steps backwards to distance himself from the thing, and his back hit something. What? He spun, seeing the mirror behind him. When had the hallway gotten so narrow? Its surface shimmered, holding his gaze, and he looked as if through a window.
The youth's mostly bare feet slapped the rough cobbles as he and Tommy Connemarah raced through the back alleys ahead of the vendor they had just stolen a meat pie from. The twists and turns of the backstreets were taken with the easy knowledge of youth and all of its inexhaustible speed. Their breathing was labored when they finally stopped at an old, dried up ditch on the edge of the city. A tumble-down stone wall ran along one side of it, but most of the masonry had rolled down into the ditch itself over the years. He was still young, but into his mid-teens now. James was quite short for his age, and scrawny yet. The years of malnourishment and hard living had done permanent damage to his physical development. Yet that was one of the last things on his mind this clear day as he and his friend leaned against the crumbling wall and began to laugh until tears sprang forth, both taking turns pantomiming the purple-faced food vendor. And Jim looked upon himself as a much different person. Then. Just before. He shook his head, watching as the two boys shared the pie, and pretending even still not to notice that Tommy barely took a sharing of it at all, dividing it in such a way that Jim would never know of his generosity. He examined his younger self, seeming so easy with another human being. Though Tommy was no genius to rival, or even entertain, his own brilliance, still the other boy was steadfastly loyal in his friendship. Something James had never experienced before meeting him in what passed for their public school four years ago.
Every child was supposed to attend classes to learn the usual primary school lesson plans. And truly, learning to read, write, and do sums could often mean the difference between a hard labor job and one of "softer" duties once a child came of age to begin working. However, for those of the much poorer classes, these sessions caused an interruption in the living-day-to-day-and-hand-to-mouth standard. While in class, James couldn't forage for the meager supplementations to his diet that he had become accustomed to by age five. And during the winter, whilst occupied in this same manner, it removed time from his limited daylight hours that could be used searching for fallen coal from the wagons that he could bring to his mother and make her smile. She smiled so little any more…..and so, it was important.
His young mind flew forward of the instructors anyway, and he read ahead on his own, often borrowing books from them far past his own age group. They generally tolerated it as long as he didn't make trouble. But they also didn't help him either, leaving it to him to be the one to request more advanced studies. He had only been attending classes for a little over a year before he began to leave early. His readings and such were always completed, though, so the instructors figured it was one less head to watch. It was on one of his early leavings that he ran into Tommy, who was sneaking out by pretending to go to the boys' room for a break.
They had sensed an immediate kinship between them. James in need of any kind of positive human interaction, and Tommy who was desperately in need of a compass, a guiding star. And he found it in Jim, who was only too happy to have finally gained an appreciative audience for his schemes and grand ideas of the future. They worked well together, too, Jim devising routines that they ran in order to con or steal desired prizes from the unwary. And sometimes…from the wary as well! And so it proceeded, with Jim as the mastermind and Tommy following, ever loyal and ever ready to leap into even the most desperate of heists that their teenage minds could conceive of.
The memories swept over James softly, but with a strong undertow. That was the last day, he realized as he watched the youths banter back and forth. I was a killer everafter, and not fit company for a companion of such lightheartedness, such loyalty, such…..weakness, he reminded himself. His hands gripped the frame of the mirror, as if trying to pull it from the wall. Arms shook with the effort as he strained against his own mind, but it never budged. He slapped the surface with his hand, fingers splaying out, willing the images away, knowing that the only thing that happiness had ever brought him was an even greater evil. But instead of dissipating as it should, the image simply shivered and changed, dashing forward in time, and James' heart thudded once, hard, in his chest at the image revealed to him.
He turned from the mirror, unable to view the moment that had ended the only friendship he had ever had. Tommy would never understand. And he would never know either, for Jim would never tell him. He couldn't. James had left his birth city the next night, never again looking upon Thomas Connemarah…except in these, his memories. But he had had to leave after what he had done. There would be questions…and he could never explain how he had gone from thieving foodstuff to…..killing. Not to anyone. Especially not to…Tommy.
Lost in his thoughts, he missed when all of the mirrors throughout this section of hallway shifted, moved, and picked up where the other had been. And James swung his eyes to and fro, wary now of his own mental processes. He had come here for answers as to why he was so vulnerable where Sherlock was concerned, and it seemed his mind was looking to take him in its own direction, whether or not his conscious thoughts believed it relevant. He sighed and braced his hands on his hips, feet apart for balance and stability. He could feel it, the pull of this memory. This, his fall into darkness. One would think that such a man as he would actually revel in his ethical devolvement, and perhaps revisit this moment often. But James Moriarty was a man of immeasurable facets, ever shifting, ever evolving. And one would shortly be dead if they were to ever try to reliably predict the criminal's intentions. His motivations, were there any at all beyond his cultured and polite insanity…were incomprehensible.
The first person to enter the view afforded by the mirror was James II. And Jim eyed his brother through the cold surface as one would a snake. A snake that urgently needed decapitating. His brother had turned out to be a stark contrast to his own pathetic physique. Following his father's genetic phenotype, James II grew tall and thick. At 13, he matched many 16 and 17 year olds for brawn. None matched him for sheer cruelty, though. The boy was violent, easily enraged, and extremely jealous of his older brother's intelligence. But while he hadn't developed a genius to rival his older sibling, he had an unnatural cunning that served him well on the streets.
Their father had actually taken to James II, most likely owing to the fact that the younger son was more the kind of male specimen that fathers often wished for in their male offspring. He was large, athletic, and looked eerily much like his older brother (had Jim been afforded the same basic nutritional amenities when he was smaller). And so he was handsome, too, but in a much more masculine manner than Jim, who was fairer and slight by comparison. A fact that had led their father to find "other" methods of occupying a young boy's body when he was in his elementary years.
James II strode into the corner alley where Jim and Tommy had often run seeking cover at the ends of their days spent at thievery. It was a difficult place to navigate to in the winding paths through the poorer sections of town, with many of the "streets" lying under rubble from tumble-down houses and buildings lost to disrepair. Jim leapt to his feet from the crate he sat upon at the sight of the brute approaching him. His heart pounded in his chest. His brother never came under any innocent reasons, and most of their meetings ended with spilt blood. Mostly Jim's. His side still ached from where James had kicked him in the kidney the other day, and his urine was still pink-tinged, but at least it wasn't blood anymore.
The not-so-much-older "present" criminal watched from the outside as if through a looking glass as his younger self gathered courage to stand before this cretin, this waste of flesh. James II already had an entourage of what might have been simple ne'r-do-wells; but under his influence, they were much more dangerous than that, more pack-minded. And shortly, behind the younger Moriarty sibling, they filed through and spread out, seven of them. Two held another boy captive, a rough sack upended over his head and tied at the throat; he must've been gagged too, from the muffled speech that erupted as little more than noise from beneath the head-covering. James II glanced at the restrained boy, then grinned back at his older, yet smaller, sibling. The Jim from the other side of the mirror felt something twist inside himself. He remembered that smile all too well, and saw it repeated often in his dreams, his nightmares.
James II continued smiling at his brother as he swept a hand back through his hair, a slightly more reddish hue than Jim's. He always allowed it to grow long and wild, not caring for styles or convention. The effect gave his already large frame an even more bestial quality. Eyes of an altogether darker shade of brown regarded the wary stance of Jim across from him. Where Jim's were a warm chocolate, James' were dark enough that one often couldn't delineate between iris and pupil, giving him a dead look that had many women, aye and men, too, moving to the other side of the street when he approached. Those eyes were now locked on Jim.
"Jimmy," he drawled out, "Brother. It took so long to find you," he stated, as if genuinely concerned; the depth of a bottomless loch seemed contained in his already mature voice. And he kept a thicker, more "street" accent than Jim, who "betrayed his roots" in utilizing the softer, more cultured tones of the educated upper class. The smaller brother shifted, unable to tell if the impending violence was to be aimed at himself or elsewhere until James continued.
"I brought a present…o' sorts," he gestured at the now not-so-struggling person. "This here, is part o' that group as comes by to see Ma…" he trailed off, letting Jim reach the conclusion on his own. This was one of the teenagers who tagged along with the laborers, performing menial tasks for them to pick up enough coin to use for whoring (an occupation that had fallen solely to Jim's mother after he became too old to interest their clients any more). What was most sickening was knowing that people his own age were coming around her. It enraged him past reason at times. And if they shared nothing else in this world, both brothers loved their mother with a fierceness that rivaled the sun. Jim felt himself grow both hot and cold at his brother's words, and James II saw the effect this knowledge had on his sibling. Here, at their mercy, was one of "them." Jim's eyes flew to meet James' own when the younger, brutish boy spoke a third time.
"Here," he flicked a long blade down between the stones at Jim's feet. "Do 'im. 'Bout time you showed some loyalty to the fam'ly anyways." And he laughed as Jim clumsily palmed the knife and studied it. His anger bled out at the touch of steel in his palm. He was intelligent; he was stealthy; he was quick. But all of his weapons thus far in his life had been more based in intelligence and guile. This…this was something else entirely. The taking of a life could not be unwritten; could not be forgotten; could not be taken back. The blade felt heavy, so heavy in his hand as he slowly approached the form held tight between the two larger boys his own age. The weapon was too large for his small hand, so he held it in both. And he stopped just before the quivering form, who surely must have heard their conversation. He must have been beaten pretty badly prior to being brought here to only struggle so feebly now.
He stared for a long time at the body before him. He knew from anatomy texts wherein lay the major life-sustaining organs. But he had no experience, no practical idea as to how to go about this. And James was watching. One of the boys holding the prisoner tightened his grip suddenly and shifted to secure the head with one hand, grasping the sack covering it tightly, and presumably hair with it. Jim looked to the chest, feeling he could sense the life beating within it. He was so angry. It was his mother! But…was he a killer? Could he do…this? Living among the streets, he was certainly no stranger to death. But then, he had never been the cause of it. He couldn't think straight, and his hand was about to visibly shake, when suddenly his brother was there, steadying his hands.
"'Ere. Let me help," the younger said; and carefully, James came in beside Jim, setting his hands over his smaller sibling's. He maneuvered the blade between their hands so that they both held it double handed. And then Jim felt James bring their hands and the point in line, touching the tip just below the sternum. This set off a wild series of jerks and pitiful almost-screams from the boy before them. Jim's heart thudded hard, adrenaline making him a bit nauseated as he watched the "guards" subdue the captive once more, and his brother positioned their hands yet again. The boy's chest quivered, betraying his silent sobbing. But he slept with Ma, Jim rationalized. My mother! He fucked her, he sought to channel the anger he had felt initially. And it returned, quickly, burning up through his chest and into his extremities. His lip curled up and his teeth ground together. Eyes became like flint as he steeled himself and heard his brother whisper.
"Go on, Jimmy. I'll help aim, but you push. Do it, brother."
And Jim thrust, quickly, but not quite deep enough, a last-second hesitation causing the faltering of his follow-through. But James closed his hands tighter around his brother's and pushed harder, completing the angle and driving into the heart. Jim stared down at their joined hands, blood flowing like water over them and down to their feet. Warm, it's so warm, Jim thought to himself as he watched the blood pool beneath the body that was now held up by only the two boys on either side.
James let go of Jim's hands and lazily walked around beside the now dead boy hanging between the other two captors. He held his hands out, staring at them as if they merely had gotten dirty, then looked for something to clean them on. Jim continued holding the blade, feeling the stickiness of the blood against his skin as he watched his brother reach up and grab the sack cloth over the head to rub his hands on. He pulled it off and proceeded to wipe himself down…..and Tommy's head lolled forward, the spirit within it having fled from this world just moments before.
Jim's eyes raced to meet James' own just as a smile as friendly as the River Styx found its home upon the younger man's lips. And his eyes, those dead eyes, looked on Jim with the weight of infinite space. Time stopped. Gravity reversed. Breathing ended. Life ceased. Jim screamed.