The Loneliest Traid

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  • 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.


47. What's More

Samhain tore Jinmi’s ear off, telling him everything, asking him everything.  He’d fall asleep, and Jinmi would smile the kindest, pull him closer, his body messed, comfortable, a wonky smile of admiration meant for no one but him.  Samhain would wake and purr and continue with his questions.  How was Mavros, who was king, what wars raged, had he ever seen a minotaur, what colour were his own eyes now?  Anything that mattered and whatever didn’t, and they were both happy.  Entangled limbs, eating chocolate, Jinmi teaching Samhain to knit as he held the wool that he kept below.  The made the world make sense, if it was only their little one in the clouds.  So much sense that Jinmi nearly forgot.  For a while - he’ll never admit this - but he did forget her.  Without her it was just… Happier, for a while.

    Daphne held two boxes.  One lead, one silver.  She screamed, her hips bucked forward, her chest collapsing inwardly.  She concaved, her spine snapping in three equal pieces, her skull splitting down the middle like the plates of the land.  Under ear-piercing howls was the crackling of bone, the strum of veins coming apart seamlessly.  She bled from the nose and the ears and the eyes, falling to her knees as Eros had died and letting her body follow in his steps.  The tulip bulbs he had once placed within her immortal body rotted and died, her skin folding in on where it had supported her.  Butterworts, mimulus, tiger lilies, fig branches - what grew from her outstretched hands wilted, what sprouted from her pores crumbled and fell, the crown from head head turning an ugly brown, decayed.  Her body fell to the autumn winds that blew through Eros’ corpse that took her powers away to the next life, leaving her bare, her body dipping into what should be organ or muscle in the lifeless girl filled of seeds and stones that now knew no sun for themselves.  And as the petals surrounded her and the roots from her bones tore away into a deathly grip on her prison cell floor, her shuddering body sent the boxes to the floor and one broke opened, two golden eyes staring at her.

    And Gomez was handed a sword and a shield and given a horse so small it was fit for a child.  He stroked its mane until his boots were trodden on my its hooves until he stopped, and stepped away, and promised to be good.  And he saw a man look him once over and catch the eye that was brown once more and that winked back, and left the soldier floored.  And he laughed to no one in particular, and thanked what Gods had sent him his friend again, although there were none looking down on him, not anymore.

    And Chene strapped on his boots and was given the same look and told to prepare for the elves crossing the bridge and to cut down who you must to win, for us, for our land.  And the soldiers cheered, and clipped round his ear for feeling the same.  Chene looked across the bridge and hoped that Gomez was clever enough to stay back and not get himself killed, not today, not while he was without him.  He was clever, and knew no one was looking down on him.  While others bent to one knee and muttered words to a pendant of silver coatings he did not pray.  Chene was clever.

    And Ichais stirred in the middle of the night and awoke to a stranger resting against the son of the woman of the house.  Her hair was ginger and long and tied back in a red ribbon, her face oozing with dark magic and too pretty to be kind.  And she hiccuped and was poured more and more until she fell back into their bedroom with her lipstick smudged, and for once, Ichais pretended to be asleep.

    “Y’know something?” Estha slurred.

    This was the greatest truth spoken that night of prayer:

    “I don’t think I can love anymore.  No matter how much I want to, I never will.  Because I realised that if anyone were to show someone everything, they would turn away, unless they were mad.  And if they were mad, we would turn too.  It’s odd.  We’re million preaching and yet… I don’t know.  Do we hate who we are too?  I suppose we do get sick of ourselves from time to time, some more than others, maybe if we could turn away from ourselves we already would have.  A billion halves who decided that they weren’t that mad part of them, that they were normal, exactly what people wanted.  But no one wants a half, do they?  And no one wants to be a half, so instead we stick it out with what’s inside us all and don’t speak up to even those we love most about the urge to be more than a fraction of what we were meant to be.  We don’t and so we stay empty.  Empty people, with empty lovers, parading around empty heads.”

    She sat on the bed, wiped off the rest of her lipstick, pulling Ichais’ sleeping arm around her, and whispering, “And because I think that, which comes from the insane half of me - the larger part, I imagine to be true - no one will ever love me, because they know how mad I am.  But it’s a pity, because I’m whole, and they’ll never know that.”

    When Ichais awoke, she awoke alone, only knowing that she had seen someone so full of what was real, and full, and true, and when she saw her again, her face was empty and lost and without affection.

    I don’t think I can love anymore.

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