The Loneliest Traid

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  • Rating:
  • Published: 2 Apr 2017
  • Updated: 13 May 2017
  • Status: Complete
Love and death and war and Gods and blood and magic and dancing and rest and revenge and kings and fate.
Don't worry, within these three stories you'll know yourself,
And I will put you back together again.

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43. And Now

“What’s going to happen to me?” the boy said.  His hair had fallen out, circling the chains around his ankles.

    “Does it matter?” they laughed.  So many of them.  Too many.  His skin, his blood, his brothers, his sisters - laughing, howling, surrounding, “Who’s going to care?”

    “He is!” he screamed, his voice nothing, bubbles under water, rising to the surface, vanishing into the air and leaving him with nothing.

    “You’re sure?” she said.

    “Yeah, what makes you think that?” he said.

    The boy called and cried, “He will!”

    “Will he?”

    He felt his sweat drip from his face, his blood carrying his sanity with each broken beat of his heart, “...Won’t he?”

    The only words they heard.  They settled against him.  His siblings once more.  He saw his face in theirs, all of his pain.

    “I’m so sorry, baby,” they used to call him baby, long before all this.

    “But he came back,” he said.

    “Baby, he came back to destroy us.”

    “He wouldn’t…”

    “So why is he fighting this war?”

    “He…”

    “You never wanted this,” they said, “You tried to avoid it, but he always ran back to the battle whenever you were gone.  He left you to die, he ran, he left you to be beaten, he ran.  He leaves you, baby, it’s what he does.”

    “No-”

    “Baby,” they sounded out into the world in which he drowned, “He’ll leave you, or kill you.”

    They stitched his hair back again, tucking his skin back against muscle and vein.  His piercings felt new, heavier.  His tattooes were fresh and still bloody.

“What’s going to happen to me?” bubbles, millions of them, floating, fleeting.  The last of his air.

“You know already,” they said, stepping away.  He was stuck, trapped, his feet tied down.  His mouth gaping, swallowing, “And soon, he will too.  And he will go back to war afterwards, like always, baby.”

He was drowning, though he wasn’t before - and he was going to die, there was nothing he could do to stop it.  He was out of air, out of time, and now he felt the pull of the cuffs and the cold of the water as it shook him awake, his siblings laughing again, hacking, sobbing.  He was dead, he felt it.  He was already long dead, but the water held him, rushing him, rushing through him.

“Gomez!” it said.

“Samhain?”

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