I remember when you were here
Click to viewSomeone had told him that whiskey was for death. True enough, although he needed a lot of the stuff to feel much. It was the 24th and he was back from a party put on for the likes of him, the wretchedness not really shrugged off and the bite still hanging around the back of his throat. He was sprawled across the floor, shoulders and head leant back on the corner; neck occasionally tipping so as to get some more liquor down it.
Whiskey was for death: it sharpened memories.
Red had taught him that you can't measure life like They do. The Wyrd watching over every important decision, consecrating every earnest emotion, cementing ever inter-relation, was no way to live. All wasn't bargains, all wasn't bonds entered to with magic throb and knowledge that if it weren't for them being honoured there would be hell. He had known this. He had been convinced. But it hadn't been felt. It hadn't sunk in.
That took two bullets.
No pledge could convince someone to care for you, the weight borne was at least in part through fearing the sigma should it be let snap. Through the flames, up to Scotland, into a war, stuck in the Hedge. These things could be done, while pledged, through concern for the self or love for the Wyrd, not the one they were attached to. And he'd known this. He'd been aware. He'd watched it happen. But he hadn't believed in anything else.
That took two bullets, and a sentence.
That another was willing to kill, willing to lay down their life on his behalf; not because they had to, but because they chose to. No excuses, no get-outs, no citation of higher authority forcing their hand (your orders, your Wyrd, your God). None save love. Nothing but that which between one person and another, unsanctified by any force, non-formal to the last and there, oh god there like nothing else could match.
Nothing that could come within a league, nothing that could lay a hand.
And yes, it had been for the Freehold. With weapons provided from them, to prevent a war which would have destroyed it, or another, or both. But that isn't what she'd talked about, that's isn't what it had meant. As veiled declarations of affection go, it was a grisly one; but he shouldn't have been surprised.
How else was a femme fatale meant to display their love?
Two bullets: one through the leg, twisting the Wizened as he turned. The second to the back, ending. The sentence: a confession, that she alone had killed Laine. Another ending, even if it took a few more days. Both of them he'd only heard about, too late. Both of which hearing about was enough. She'd killed, she'd kept her head, she'd died. All for him. All without telling him a word, until she was done.
No promise had led her, no paranormal force strong-armed her. Only love.
He'd expected to feel lighter, once those he'd cared for were gone. Instead there was a weight to him he'd never have imagined. The sense of worth pressed against his chest. The need to survive he'd felt since before he'd even escaped the Hedge was fading; that desire to carry on so no one would have the satisfaction of having killed him.
And now, and instead, there was something else, something new.
He had to live because his life had been deemed worth saving. Worth a sacrifice he'd have died a dozen times for, before the judgement behind it decided that he'd never get the chance to. Not even once. It wasn't guilt that clutched at him, nor humility. No, nor even sorrow. It was a certain shocked pride, and a tattered but vice-like sense of honour.
Filling his chest, propping up his form, keeping him alive.