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When the Ascian leaves there is finally silence. Zenos is left alone--with his thoughts, with the corpses littering the throne room, with the smell of blood and offal, it matters not. The seat of the throne is hard and uncomfortable and far too large for one man. It is a symbol, and not something to be enjoyed. Zenos knows this, does not care, and remains seated in the dark.
He cares not for the prancing Ascian or the body they inhabit. He cares not for their schemes and plans, not unless they are successful in bringing her back to him. That is all that matters to him now.
“Everything I have done, everything I will do, it is all for you, my friend.” The words drift in the heavy air. “My dearest friend.”
Zenos is reluctant to close his eyes. The darkness does not change with them open or closed, and if he closes his eyes he might fall asleep again. It is so easy to fall asleep these days, to drift once more to the edge of death, to walk the streets of a burning city. The dreams of the world’s end had come to bore him years ago, and now they are little more than a familiar tune, an ignited lullaby, nightmarish to one who had not learned to tune it out in their childhood.
Sometimes he gets lucky. Sometimes, the third or fourth time he has drifted off to sleep, he is not greeted by the fiery end. There is more darkness, more quiet, more peace.
It is all so very horrifically boring.
Heedless of his own wishes, his body is tired. Being awake is tiring, being bored is exhausting, and so he gives in and closes his eyes.
For a long time there is just the darkness, the quiet, and the smell of blood. Eventually the smell fades, and the black behind his eyelids is suffused with the faintest of warmth and light. It is like the touch of sunlight on his skin, impossible with the late hour. He hears the sharp tapping of boot heels on the floor, closer and closer, pausing now and then to step over a corpse. The warmth on his skin grows as the footsteps near, and he tips his face toward that warmth. He wants it, craves it so badly that he would cry for the want of it, if he could.
Unlike the capering corpse-wearer, the footsteps proceed slowly up the stairs to the throne. He feels a light pressure on the toe of his right boot.
“Zenos.” A voice calls to him from overhead, close, warm like the summer sun. “Open your eyes, Zenos. I am here.”
He has never been one for listening to his elders, but in this moment he opens his eyes with the eagerness of a child on their nameday morn.
His friend.
She looms over him, impossibly bright, and her lips are but doors he needs to prise open. He hungers for everything from beyond those doors--her secrets, her stories, her kiss, her promise--
“My friend,” he manages to croak out in his excitement. He folds back the carabiner at his hip and flicks the white sleeve of his coat out of the way. “Sit, please. This is a terribly mundane place to be alone.”
She does as he asks, stepping around the sword still embedded in the tiled floor. Her shoulder presses even to his, and he inhales, thinking he can smell her. So many lovely things--blood and leather and the heat of the sun on bare skin--and it takes all his self control not to bury his face in her hair or run his tongue along the strip of skin over her collarbone to see if he can taste her.
He says: “I miss you,” and his throat feels like it is full of gravel.
She says: “I know.”
He wraps his arm around her side and folds his hand against her chest. Her heartbeat is strong, fast and even, and he longs to make it race with his once more. “I search for you. I follow your trail and find only rumors of your passage, hints of adventures you are on, fights you are enjoying without me.”
“Forgive me,” she says, and her weight shifts to press more firmly to his.
“I will, when we dance again.”
“I’m tired.” Her weight is heavy, like that of a fresh corpse. “All I do is dance.”
“Without me.”
“To dance with you is to die, Zenos.”
He cannot hide a nervous tremble in his voice when he asks: “Will you not dance with me?”
Her hand touches his cheek, and it is warm, so very warm. “Of course I will. In time.”
He cannot help himself--his arm tightens around her, squeezes enough that he would crack her ribs were she not so very strong--and strains into her touch. He folds himself over her and drags his teeth over the rough skin of her fingers. He tastes her--sweat and honeysuckle and blood that never really washes clean--
He hears her whisper: “I miss you, too,” and he can do naught but wrench her hand away and lunge for her. He wants to bite but does not, kisses instead, lips crushing to hers in a desperate bid to make breathing obsolete. That she could miss him seems a fantasy--her life is far too full of exquisite violence for her to need him as he thirsts for her.
He does not realize he has reached for his sword until he feels the pressure of her fingers clenching over his on the hilt.
Her breath ghosts against his lips. “Not tonight.”
“When?”
“Soon enough.” Her hand slips from his and presses gently to his breastplate. “I have stories to tell. Will that suffice for now?”
He knows he has lost to her again and nods. “Please.”
“All right, then, my friend.” She rests her weight against his once more. “Where to begin? Ah, how about the woman who got turned into a demon of Light? It was quite gruesome. I might have screamed when I saw it happen.”
He presses his temple to hers. “That sounds delightful.”
With the dawn comes light to trace over the dead. He wakes, fingers clenching on the hilt of his katana. He opens his eyes, looking around, the faintest flicker of hope buzzing in his thoughts like a trapped wasp--
She is gone.
Zenos closes his eyes.