Brit wasn’t exactly sure what happened, but she saw the end result. Ethan laying in a tank of blood motionless and aged to such an extreme that she might not have recognized him less for the clothing. Her mind could not process, but instincts screamed that she needed him out of the blood he was in. The blood smelled stale and old to her. It took time to figure out how to open the tank and a bit longer to drain it. She poured the blood off of the fire escape and watched it sink into the sand below, but Ethan was still covered in dank maroon liquid. She worked silently to remove his boots and, using his dagger, she cut the bloody clothing from him. The blood covered her hands. On the tank lid, she wrote “bi*l*vd” and then rinsed both him and the tank down with cool, clean water.
As she dried both the corpse-like aged body and the tank, she sensed a presence almost familiar to her. Her eyes widened as she looked to the tank, but it was not him. Turning, she saw Gweneth, Ethan’s chylder. Turning back to him, she said, “Ethan, Gweneth is here to see you.” Watching the body in the tank, she nodded and lisped, “Ethan is not feeling so well, Gweneth. He apologizes for not standing.” Brit’s hand touched his hair as the withered figure continued to age. Gweneth said nothing for a long while and simply stared at the figure within. Her Sire was dying. Brit babbled trying to explain, but nothing made sense, and Gweneth was overcome with feelings she could only describe as sorrow as she helped Brit cover the body with a clean sheet. Gweneth whispered, “Brit, I’m here now, with you. You are not alone.”
Silence hung over the room. Both looking down at the figure and time passed. Slowly, the body continued its journey toward dust. Brit’s voice sounded like a broken child, “What do we do? It is not like before?” Her mind remembered Ethan when he went in to torpor the previous summer. He was beautiful then looking much like a museum relic lying dormant in the hiding place she had found. “Brit,” Gweneth said, “Ethan needs blood. Good blood. He will need some of yours and mine. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Ethan’s dagger was still in her hand, but Brit did not trust herself to use it. So she used the point on the charm of her necklace to pierce her skin and dribbled drops of blood on Ethan’s lips. The droplets splattered like crimson tears and were absorbed. Twisting the point, she kept her blood flowing though slowly until a soft clot formed. Then Gweneth used a fingernail allowing a slow steady stream to dribble onto his lips and again, the blood was absorbed.
Another presence could be felt. Seeing Nikita, Brit explained Ethan was aging and confessed she knew not what to do. Nikita’s anger was masked by the cold stare and monotone voice. “Giving up, huh,” she said to Ethan. No response. Nikita watched as Brit and Gweneth drizzled blood and watched as it was absorbed. “I know what he needs. Bridgette, focus on me. I can save your beloved, but he may hate me. You have to decide.” Caressing Ethan’s hair, she tried to focus again. No thoughts. Brit was numb, but replied, “If he gives up, it is his choice. Ethan said that he would find me again in my next life.” She paused and continued, “He has to decide whether to stay with us…with me…or go.”
More came and some had to go. Gweneth had to rest. Lorne and Merma came. Voices around. Offering suggestions. Offering comfort. But Brit was numb and exhausted, and started to feel overwhelmed. Her necklace started to glow as she heard voices. All well-meaning. Then, a bright light and she found herself on the floor of their resting spot, with Ethan still in front of her. She looked about not understanding. Carefully she watched him. His body did not seem to age anymore at that moment. Laying a blush furry rug down, she moves him gently by rolling him one way, and then the other so he is on the rug. She replaces the sheet around him. He looked so old and frail. Sitting near his head, she combed his hair like she did when he was in torpor before. Looking at the necklace, she carefully pierced her wrist and again dripped blood splatters onto his lips. Tiny drops. So very small. Hours passed and she dribbled tiny bits of blood and watched it absorb only to open a new spot when soft clots would prevent from more blood to fall.
Another drop. Another dribble and all she could wonder was whether he would uphold his promise to her. “If you go,” she lisped, “then I wish to go with you. I do not wish to be here without you.” There were no tears for she hurt too much for tears to fall. “I do not remember being burned Ethan. It matters not and is not real to me, but I shall never forget the pain I feel right now…and you promised that Beloveds never hurt each other.” It was the last thing she said. No sleep. She dribbled blood on his lisp wordlessly for the rest of the night. Twelve hours later, she saw more wrinkles. More evidence he was aging toward dust. It was only then, she kissed his lips as used both hands and sank his dagger into his heart just as he had done when he needed to sleep.
As she dried both the corpse-like aged body and the tank, she sensed a presence almost familiar to her. Her eyes widened as she looked to the tank, but it was not him. Turning, she saw Gweneth, Ethan’s chylder. Turning back to him, she said, “Ethan, Gweneth is here to see you.” Watching the body in the tank, she nodded and lisped, “Ethan is not feeling so well, Gweneth. He apologizes for not standing.” Brit’s hand touched his hair as the withered figure continued to age. Gweneth said nothing for a long while and simply stared at the figure within. Her Sire was dying. Brit babbled trying to explain, but nothing made sense, and Gweneth was overcome with feelings she could only describe as sorrow as she helped Brit cover the body with a clean sheet. Gweneth whispered, “Brit, I’m here now, with you. You are not alone.”
Silence hung over the room. Both looking down at the figure and time passed. Slowly, the body continued its journey toward dust. Brit’s voice sounded like a broken child, “What do we do? It is not like before?” Her mind remembered Ethan when he went in to torpor the previous summer. He was beautiful then looking much like a museum relic lying dormant in the hiding place she had found. “Brit,” Gweneth said, “Ethan needs blood. Good blood. He will need some of yours and mine. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Ethan’s dagger was still in her hand, but Brit did not trust herself to use it. So she used the point on the charm of her necklace to pierce her skin and dribbled drops of blood on Ethan’s lips. The droplets splattered like crimson tears and were absorbed. Twisting the point, she kept her blood flowing though slowly until a soft clot formed. Then Gweneth used a fingernail allowing a slow steady stream to dribble onto his lips and again, the blood was absorbed.
Another presence could be felt. Seeing Nikita, Brit explained Ethan was aging and confessed she knew not what to do. Nikita’s anger was masked by the cold stare and monotone voice. “Giving up, huh,” she said to Ethan. No response. Nikita watched as Brit and Gweneth drizzled blood and watched as it was absorbed. “I know what he needs. Bridgette, focus on me. I can save your beloved, but he may hate me. You have to decide.” Caressing Ethan’s hair, she tried to focus again. No thoughts. Brit was numb, but replied, “If he gives up, it is his choice. Ethan said that he would find me again in my next life.” She paused and continued, “He has to decide whether to stay with us…with me…or go.”
More came and some had to go. Gweneth had to rest. Lorne and Merma came. Voices around. Offering suggestions. Offering comfort. But Brit was numb and exhausted, and started to feel overwhelmed. Her necklace started to glow as she heard voices. All well-meaning. Then, a bright light and she found herself on the floor of their resting spot, with Ethan still in front of her. She looked about not understanding. Carefully she watched him. His body did not seem to age anymore at that moment. Laying a blush furry rug down, she moves him gently by rolling him one way, and then the other so he is on the rug. She replaces the sheet around him. He looked so old and frail. Sitting near his head, she combed his hair like she did when he was in torpor before. Looking at the necklace, she carefully pierced her wrist and again dripped blood splatters onto his lips. Tiny drops. So very small. Hours passed and she dribbled tiny bits of blood and watched it absorb only to open a new spot when soft clots would prevent from more blood to fall.
Another drop. Another dribble and all she could wonder was whether he would uphold his promise to her. “If you go,” she lisped, “then I wish to go with you. I do not wish to be here without you.” There were no tears for she hurt too much for tears to fall. “I do not remember being burned Ethan. It matters not and is not real to me, but I shall never forget the pain I feel right now…and you promised that Beloveds never hurt each other.” It was the last thing she said. No sleep. She dribbled blood on his lisp wordlessly for the rest of the night. Twelve hours later, she saw more wrinkles. More evidence he was aging toward dust. It was only then, she kissed his lips as used both hands and sank his dagger into his heart just as he had done when he needed to sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment