Thar Shaddin

Julen wished he could share Rollick’s faith in love. He wished it truly was some sort of powerful magic, strong enough to overcome any obstacle laid before it. But he knew better. He’d loved Rosemary, as much as he’d believed that he could ever love anyone, and he’d still failed her. Love wasn’t the answer to everything. Love was just a feeling -- no greater or weaker than the heart which held it. And his heart had proven itself to be so very flawed.

“My mother used to tell me a story,” Julen murmured. “About a talented bard whose bride died on their wedding day. Unable to bear the thought of life without her, he descended into the underworld, determined that he would bring her back from the dead.” Julen paused, gathering his thoughts. But he didn’t truly struggle with recalling this tale. It had left a deep impression on him. “He stood before the king of death, and sang so beautifully about his love that the king broke a rule which had never been broken before. He told the bard that the bard’s bride could live again. All the bard had to do was lead her spirit from the underworld without ever looking back.”

“Step by step, along the twisting and difficult road to the surface, he walked. Days seemed to pass. Years. Until finally, he saw the light of day ahead. A few more paces would return his bride to the world of the living. That was when he looked back. And she was lost to him.”

Julen shook his head. “I always hated that story. If the bard loved his bride so much, how could he fail her at the last minute? How could he weaken right when it would have taken so little to save her? How could he look back? I never understood that...until now.”

A soft puff of air pushed up from Julen’s lungs. He suddenly felt guilty for inflicting his doubts on Rollick. It seemed like he’d disappointed his friend by mentioning them. Everyone on this trip was enduring enough, without Julen bringing them down. Silently, Julen resolved to speak no more about the shadowy worms which gnawed at his heart. Instead, he summoned a façade of cheerfulness, and smiled at Rollick. “But then, the bard did not have such loyal companions to help him on his quest. Perhaps they would have given him the strength to take those final steps.”

It was only an act. But maybe going through the motions of having confidence would help return it to him. After all, Julen had felt like he was only pretending to be a warrior, until that mask became his true face.

Again, Julen turned his eyes toward Jenica. This time, their gazes met, and even from that distance, Julen felt the swell of emotions she always aroused in him. How could someone he’d hated so fiercely have become someone he loved so deeply? Had he known, even on that first night, that he would have to kill her or make her his own? That, for him, there was no other choice except death?

Rejoining the women, Julen clasped Jenica’s hand tightly in his own -- offering no apology or explanation. He was more fortunate than the bard. He did not need to make his journey without sound, without touch. He knew she was there with him. His love might not be as pure as Karsimir’s, and she might not love him at all, but they each knew the other was there with them. Somehow, that would just have to be enough.

I will not look back, he swore to himself. I will never look back...

The duskling remained silent after Jenica's revelation, offering no affirmation or comment. The vampire shrugged lightly and put the point aside, watching her male as he approached.

The moment his fingers laced through hers, she flipped their hands and eyed the back of his. Something was different in the grasp, in his stance. She could sense it as easily as she could hear his heartbeat thrumming in her ears. Something was stronger in his frame - something she could neither scent nor hear, but she knew it was present. And somehow, she suspected she was the cause.

Keeping a firm grip on the hand he'd offered, she raised her other to his cheek, the drying blood flaking against his skin as she met his eyes. They were of a height, though he was in shoes and she wore nothing on her feet, making him a minute amount taller.

She tilted her head as she searched his dark irises and pupils, searching for an answer that would not shine through his eyes.

"What is it, lover?"

Her eyes flickered over his face, and she actually blinked as though in natural need of moistening the globes within.

"What's wrong?"

Sometimes a single word means everything. Sometimes it hits the heart harder than any eloquent speech ever could. Dying. Yes. Lover. Your mother is dying. Yes, I’ll be your wife. What is it, lover?

Julen blinked, unsure if he’d actually heard Jenica correctly. Had she ever called him that before? He felt pretty sure she hadn’t. On the rare occasions when she referred to him directly, she named him ‘her male’. And, while Julen gladly surrendered ownership to her, he’d always thought the term sounded uncomfortably like ‘her meal’. So, this was definitely new. But what did it mean? Was she simply mimicking the title he’d often bestowed on her? Was she acknowledging the sexual nature of their relationship? Or did it represent an emotional shift, a triumph of the woman over the monster and the hunger? Julen barely dared to hope for the latter.

“Did you just--?” His mouth kept moving, even when no sound came, his words like the erratic spurting of a broken fountain. “Why did you--? I mean, am I really--?”

Then, with a surge of effort, Julen stopped babbling. Sometimes the only way to answer a word was with no words at all. Closing his eyes, Julen rested his cheek against Jenica’s hand, allowing himself to be supported by her terrible strength. He loved her. No matter what she called him, no matter how she felt about him. But if this did indicate some increase in her fondness, then by the gods, he was grateful for it.

Julen nearly forgot that Jenica had asked him a question. And when he did remember, he was torn about how to answer it. Should he lie? Tell her that nothing was wrong? Put on a show of invulnerability for her sake? Or should he be honest? In the end, honesty won out. “After what happened in the wagon...after I misjudged your intentions...I began to doubt myself. I worried that I wasn’t good enough to see you through this.”

“I’m sorry. I should have been more careful. And I shouldn’t have left you chained up in the wagon when we were attacked. I was afraid that the violence of battle might make you forget who was friend and who was foe.” Now, his eyes opened, searching her own. Searching for understanding. For forgiveness. For anything other than a telltale red glow. “I guess I’m still learning to read you right. I’m trying...I’m trying so hard...but until we reach Amaranda, you’re just going to need to patient with me.”

Reluctantly, Julen drew his cheek away from Jenica’s touch, although he maintained his grip on her other hand. Then, he resumed their journey toward the creek.

His stuttering brought a hint of a smile to her face as she drew amusement from his babbled speech. She couldn't help but enjoy how he stammered, struggling with the words he was trying to say. It was a quality of his she enjoyed overall, and each time it happened she felt a little closer within. It was more that just an endearing habit - something which she couldn't recognize anyway - it created a parallel in her mind. In a way, he sometimes spoke the way she thought. His sentences or explanations staggered and eventually fell under the onslaught of thought which accompanied them; he vocalized the struggles she kept inside of her mind.

In her mind, it made her in some small way like him. It made her closer to human, something he wanted her to be. And more quietly, it made her feel somewhat better, knowing that the way her thoughts scrambled and confused her words was a more human reaction than she'd thought. An animal didn't struggle to communicate; it never needed to speak and felt no intrinsic struggle in the gesture. Humans struggled with words and meanings. So if she fought to get a point across or speak an entire sentence without pause, she was acting more the human than the monster.

The monolith saw this as a step forward from previous perception. Initially she would've fought with mental strictness bordering on insanity to preserve the less human aspects of herself. But now, with him, she wanted to understand him. She wanted to comprehend the human mannerisms which came so easily to the human, and which she still needed to develop. Even the fae displayed human characteristics which the vampire found baffling, but she did not begrudge any of them for their humanity anymore. The part of her that hoped thought that maybe...maybe she would share this trait someday. Perhaps she would feel the heart beating again, and know a moment without red hunger gnawing away at her stomach until she wanted to claw it out of herself with her bare hands, ripping forth the pieces of the body which divided her from the others on the journey. This was what they wanted to take away; sometimes she thought that perhaps she could remove it herself, and spare them all a long journey.

But her sire had shredded the region, and the hunger remained. There was no one organ she could rip free to alleviate the cravings for blood and violence. If her male's plan worked...there might be one organ which could be switched back on. If the heart pumped blood again, if the body breathed and aged again...perhaps the hunger would finally go away.

She realized he was speaking, and listened with all the attention she could muster. His words reflected uncertainty about his role in this journey. He was doubting the good he was doing; he was unsure about how much he was helping or hurting her. The knowledge startled her. She didn't perceive her personal improvements as a list to be tallied, but she knew they were there. The most obvious was his life standing before her. All those times when he'd pressed against her, naked save for the lust and what he called love which encompassed him in those moments - all those times, and every one he had survived. He did not see how close he'd come to dying, how easily she could have taken more blood than a sip in his moment of climax. He didn't know this was her usual habit, and the process of pulling back was a harder effort than she could communicate.

But it was progress, all the same. His continued living was a testament to her increased self-control.

He pulled away from her hand to walk toward the water, and she was loathe to add further delays to the upcoming joy of bathing. But this was important; this was a compulsion she needed to follow. She tugged at his hand to stop him from stepping away and reached up with the other, to press it back against his cheek. Staring into the dark eyes she'd come to know as well as the shadows swirling nearby, she moved her hand back, into his hair, and pulled his head forward just enough to rest her forehead against his. Connected in this way, skin to skin, she closed her eyes and shivered.

The rut was sex; it was something his body could enjoy where hers could barely feel, and even more it was something she'd shared with too many for it to be remotely personal. But this - simple gestures when they were together, the small gifts he gave to her on occasion, the way he let her touch him and didn't flinch away, knowing she would not hurt him unless she was too lost in the monster - this was when she started to feel ever more that things would be alright. He didn't see how she quietly celebrated the fact that she'd never hurt him on accident, something she could not even claim for the fragile fae. But she hadn't; she had always just managed to pull back, always kept her grips gentle. Even now she held his hand in hers and gripped his skull in the other, and neither grip was too strong for the mortal bones to handle.

Fresh blood coursed through every limb in the body, giving her a jittery post-feeding excitement she could barely leash. But she remained where she was, pressed against him with her eyes closed, and inhaled until her chest filled to bursting before pushing the air back out. It was nearly a sigh save for the deliberate movement of air she maintained full control of. She inhaled again and spoke the words her mind produced, hoping they would make more sense to him than they did to her.

"Done well. It's bad inside. But you stay - and you try."

The monolith quivered, and she pulled back enough to look straight-on into his face. She saw the efforts he made; she saw the physical and emotional struggles he went through. She recognized these gestures, and she recognized the strain they were putting on his person.

And she was grateful.

Julen was mildly surprised when Jenica tugged at his hand, pulling him back toward her. But he didn’t resist. Instead, he stood still while she slid her hand into his unruly curls, holding her gaze for as long as she would allow him to. All that he needed so much to see, he found in her eyes. She did understand. She did forgive. Despite his numerous blunders, she was grateful. Gently, like a priest coaxing a repentant sinner toward prayer, she bowed his head forward, until their brows rested against each other. Julen felt her shiver as intensely as if it was passing through his own body. Felt it as if it was the echo of his own trembling heart.

For once, her touch did not arouse lust. In its place, she gave him other things -- peace, strength, redemption. They were more than two bodies, tearing at each other in search of some fleeting pleasure. They were friends. They were lovers. They were the only two people in the world.

Yes, the hunger and the monster held some appeal for him. He couldn’t make himself turn into a better man by denying basic truths. But if he could have this...this moment of stillness, when flesh and soul collided...this moment which he shared with the woman alone...if he could have this moment forever, then everything else could shrivel up and blow away on the wind. He did not need to feel another shadow’s chill caress. He did not need to experience the sharp, ecstatic pain of fangs sinking into his throat. He would not miss any of it.

He would have the woman. She was the treasure he sought in the darkness. She was what he loved.

Done well. It's bad inside. But you stay - and you try.

“Thank you,” Julen whispered, wondering if her keen vision would detect the miniscule drops of salty moisture clinging to his eyelashes. Wondering if her sharp hearing would pick up on the unusual roughness of his voice. “You’ve done well too. I know this is hard for you. I know you’re struggling against impulses I can’t imagine. I just wish I could make it easier. I wish I could do so much more for you...and I guess I always will. I guess that’s part of what love is.”

For the moment, the creek had been forgotten. As had the reeking filth which covered his own body. All Julen knew was that Jenica wanted him here, with her, and he would gladly stay until the world grew old around them.