[ the scythian can no longer relate to seconds. time on that scale only ever has meaning to her with she's with him β waiting for him to give her a sign, for any signal that she can disarm. sometimes it's easy. sometimes it feels like it's right and has always been right. as if she's been holding her breath so long in the centuries between that she's forgotten how to exhale until he's there again.
sometimes it's harder. sometimes the only thing she knows how to do is provoke β to know the lay of the land, putting pressure on the ice, testing for the fissures so the cold dark underneath doesn't swallow her whole. even when coming back together hurts less than this, she never really forgets: this terrain is treacherous. time is the enemy. the currents do what they will, and even if she's resigned herself to all inevitable insult and injury, laying her throat bare for it doesn't make her bleed less.
the least she can do is bleed with a little pride. stubborn, stupid pride. not that she has any delusions β ego won't stem the hemorrhage. she still feels as though she's standing in front of him with her gleaming guts on display in her arms. but she won't yield. she can't. wrath and hubris are her crutches. the only things keeping her on her feet when he denies her like this.
she doesn't even really blame him. not always. because none of it is fair. they're victims of forces greater than themselves β cosmic forces, some impossible metaphysical thread that pulls relentlessly at both of them. victims too, of each other. she wouldn't deny it, if accused β she is the hound, doggedly on his heels, desperate to clamp her jaws down and hold him there in the intimate trap of her teeth. a terrible union of bone and flesh, tangible as anything. if she can taste the blood, then she knows it's real.
andy hardly feels attached to her own body now. the sounds of the crowd, the heat and stink of the barn β just noise, just a haze around the gray matter. he answers her. she doesn't fully hear him β she only knows that the shape of his mouth is somehow cruel and sad at once. the words it forms are neither an invocation nor a plea. does she even clearly remember what it sounds like, when he says her name? or is that another half-made up memory? a hole that her mind packed with the sediment of sentiment and longing.
there is no seven day march. only jack's shoulder impersonally brushing against hers as he pushes past.
the ice is cracking. she should leave well enough alone. she should turn back. it isn't as if this will kill her. it isn't as if she can bleed to fucking death for want of jack fucking klein.
but she's the damn hound, isn't she? and a hound is only good for so much. he won't let her heel β that leaves the chase. and jack hasn't figured out how to hurt her enough to stop her. hasn't found the will or want to maim her properly. he hasn't managed to get far enough away yet either. he won't β not until the currents take him. until then, there's only the physical distance, and space is a smaller obstacle than time. ]
Jack.
[ that isn't his name, here and now. she doesn't care. what's an identity to her anyway? to either of them? they aren't people. not like that.
(she's only ever real when he touches her. when he calls her andromache, or something older than that. a name only he knows.)
andy comes from behind. she moves with intention, the economy of her steps distinct from the staggering drunks. her grip finds the crook of his arm, digging in hard enough to bruise. the dog's maw, closing down. ]
We're not finished. [ her voice cuts. all ground glass and gravel. ] You will reckon with me.
( he should've ran. but he tried that, didn't he? a little stubborn stone got stuck in his head and tricked him into thinking that anything can be beaten if he ran or refused to move. so long as he rejected the pull towards his destiny, nothing would happen. stubbornness is in his blood. he can outlast anything, even god, to prove a point. his will is bigger and deeper than any ocean.
years were spent on the same day, over and over again. the same day, bashing his skull against the ground over and over again as he ignored the pull that steered him towards his destiny. the invisible strings around his wrists and ankles that tried to control him through this play. how he maintained his sanity, he doesn't know. maybe his stubbornness is stronger. eventually, it came to the point that he could time every event and every movement of that day down to the exact millisecond. the day never varied. the pull was always there.
but ultimately, the ocean is too big and deep. the sun beats down and burns. the thirst becomes painful. a boat sails more easily with the wind rather than against it. what else can be said? the pull was always there.
a butterfly remembers what it was. it remembers its migration paths and the mountain that hasn't blocked it in a millennium. it remembers where to fly generations later to places unknown. it remembers and acts because something deeper than tradition or knowledge commands it to remember and act. instinctual or natural. as intrinsic to the very biological nature as the shape of their wings or the color of his eyes. how else can it be explained other than that he does this because his eyes are the color of the ocean?
but who is he without the pull? the wind that guides his boat towards his destiny and hopefully home. the pull that was always there has disappeared, and he is lost, adrift in a sea of dirt. when he bashed his skull against the ground, all he heard was stagnant wind. the currents have washed him ashore here, but not home. is this punishment for his actions? to be left here to rot without reason or comfort, without guidance or purpose, like a shattered spar of mast. is exile his destiny?
when she grabs hold of his arm, his muscles tense. the hound will find only iron with her teeth. there's no chase he'll give; only silence as she speaks. he says her name: the wind that travels the plain. the fire that smolders in the dark. the unyielding earth. he says the name that only he remembers because love is also a curse. )
Let go.
( let go, because he's nothing but dirt. let go, because he cannot stand the shame. let go, because he no longer has the strength. let go, because when did love become misery? let go, because the pain beating in his head is more bearable. let go, because this is the end for him, and he would rather be alone like an animal separating itself from the pack than β
an oblong circle of a sticky, wet substance on the edge of a shed shines. even in the dim light, it catches his attention and, even in the dim light, he can guess what it is.
[ six thousand years ago, before written history was born in mesopotamia, an aging queen betrayed her only daughter. the girl she had hand-raised into a warrior, soon ascending to her reign β now heir to nothing but a mouthful of blood, her royal inheritance reduced to the half-dozen spears shoved unceremoniously through her body. the old bitch hadn't even had the nerve to do it herself. insult to injury β she'd delegated her filicide.
but the damnable gods have their sense of humor. andy hadn't died that day. or any day after that. it was only her fucking peace that died β all tangible sense of self, the tether of clear purpose, burning on the funeral pyre along with the name her queen-mother had given her.
it's all dirt now. no different than the dirt here. whatever remains of that lifetime, little more than a few forgotten burial mounds on the steppe and broken fragments in a museum somewhere. she's forgotten most of it. dreams of it in pieces, sometimes β wakes clinging to the fading threads, grasping for something that seems more imagined than remembered. it always slips away too easily, leaving behind only a faint ache beneath her ribs that's been diluted by the centuries.
but then jack speaks.
he speaks and it's all sharp again. like a knife in her lung, stopping her next breath dead in the base of her throat. it's blasphemy and invocation. a resurrection, sacred and profane at once. an act of violence. of intimacy. her name. her name. her name β
he's flayed her wide open.
she might have preferred the goddamn spears. ]
You.
[ it's a ragged whisper. barely there. her hand faintly trembles, grounded only by the cruel dig of her fingers into his skin. and her eyes β black as pitch, much too wide. if he'd been looking at her, maybe he would have known. if not for the distraction of blood in the dim light, maybe β ]
You fucker β
[ her violence is muscle memory. maybe that was her real inheritance, in the end. a savage legacy that lets her move without thinking, leverage and adrenaline and a few hundred years of resentment giving her the vicious momentum she needs to throw him bodily to the ground, pinning him underneath her weight.
it shouldn't still hurt so much. it's all just fucking dirt. ]
You don't get to call me that β [ dirt and rage and love. ] You don't get to say my name and try to fucking leave.
( the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. violence begets violence begets violence. cain murdered his brother; her mother murdered andy. six thousand years later, and violence is still the only real inheritance any of them can claim. a savage legacy that connects those folks on the steppe to these folks on the plains. a cycle that he's been a witness to and a participant in again and again and again. without thinking, violence guides his movements, giving as well as taking. violence accepts violence accepts violence. maybe that's why her response neither surprises nor hurts him. he knows violence, and how to beget and accept it.
or, likely, the currents roaring in his ears, a sweet, placid song that dulls the impact of his head against the hard dirt. his hat and jacket are flung somewhere behind him, and a shrill laugh, directed at them or something else, echoes through the stillness. he doesn't know. he doesn't care. the pull. there's no fight against it. only a deep sigh of relief, as though resurfacing from the water. only a soft and gentle caress of the lovely sun above him, honest and fiery and lovely in a way that stirs something in him.
her hair brushes against his fingers, and his hand is firm on her cheek. "i'm here, and that means something," he thinks, and he knows and feels it. the currents' song in his head grows louder, at once alleviating and encumbering his heart. there's purpose in work, and a strength that hardens his mind for the voyage ahead. then, he shoves her face out of his line of sight to look behind her. in the dim light, the blood still shines on the edge of the shed. so it wasn't imaginary, or another sign of his crumbling sanity. there's something.
the pull is so strong that he easily frees himself of her, pushing her off him and standing. cautiously, he approaches the blood. on closer inspection, he realizes it's blood spatter and a signpost pointing him to look inside the shed. he unhitches the door and opens it before he catches a glimpse of a still human body lying prone on the floor. with the quick look and poor lighting, he can't tell who it is, but the blood on the walls and floors is enough for him. surrounding the body is a pool of blood that still glistens in the warm humidity. so, the murder occurred possibly half an hour ago. maybe during a fight, when the roar from the crowd could have masked the cries of a slaughter, and any witness could have mistaken the victim's shouts as belonging to a fighter.
he cranes his head to the east, then the west. one road leads in and out of town. a large hill looms over it, flanking it like a vulture on a tree, watching its next meal. ten years from now, dynamite will hollow out the hill, and a tunnel will skewer it. but tonight, it's a natural barrier that confines the murderer to one direction of escape. they could weave through the tight gaps between the wooden buildings that stand close to each other like a phalanx of greek soldiers, but not with a horse laden with provisions needed for the two-day journey to the next town. over sixty miles of dirt, flat plains that deceive and mislead, and murky air that distorts and lies. the spring rain has come and gone, leaving behind parched earth held down only by buffalo grass that prevents the wind from kicking it up into the air. fifty years from now, the red dirt β rich in iron β will choke the air and smother the sun, even as far away as new york city. but tonight, the dirt soaks up the blood from the murdered man.
precious minutes have already been lost. the murderer could've fled town by now, and he wouldn't know. but if they hadn't β if they were only just now packing to leave, or even waiting until dawn when the road is clearer, then there's a chance they could be stopped. but absconding is an admission of guilt, or, at the least, a suggestion of guilt. word always travels, even in a dusty, isolated place like this. the brutality of the murder demands justice, and the old gray sheriff would gather a posse to fly across the countryside like a storm of furies and hunt down the person responsible. no, it's likely the murderer hasn't left. they're somewhere here, either holed up at home, cleaning themselves at a water pump, or drinking away the guilt at the bar.
seconds tick by, precious time being lost. he can't be at two places at once, and he can't be two things at once: the bird that surveys the scene from afar and the worm that digs through the dirt. the road out of town must be watched, in case they do flee, as do the comings and goings of the townsfolk. but the townsfolk themselves must be watched for anything unusual. over the past sixteen days, he has familiarized himself with them, or, at least, the bar regulars enough that he could pick out odd behavior. each of them has their own story, own reason, or own secret that brought them to this town and drives them to the bottle. another story, reason, or secret could gnaw on their heart like a serpent, driving them to act suspiciously.
right now, he's living on seconds. if the murderer's apprehension is to occur within the next day or so, the investigation has to begin now. the old gray sheriff is asleep at home; his deputies are drinking whiskey at the jail. they can't be relied upon or informed, not until the morning when the body is inevitably discovered. do any of them know how to conduct a murder investigation anyway, or will they pin it on the newest face in town? who can he trust?
his restless gaze ricochets behind him to the only person he can trust. a person cursed to trust him. walking back to her, he holds out his hand, dirty and bloody, to pull her up. or offer a truce or an apology. )
Help me.
( the currents are ruthless, hardly giving an inch while taking miles. what appears to be mercy is merely that: mercy. no torture or cruelty. never death or failure. only an unbreakable chain that yokes them as one, binding them to the boat's mast as the storm rages. )
[ it's the hesitation that betrays her. a treacherous tremor in her grip and in her breath and in her chest that says some part of her still doesn't know what she means to do with him like this β whether the impulse to destroy is greater than the desire to have, and if her hands are even capable of forcing either thing. maybe she's cain, or maybe she's medea. she can't tell if the savage urge is anger or fear, love or vengeance. just madness, maybe. she can't tell the difference between any of it anymore. she can't tell if any of it even matters.
the things that hurt her all crumble into nothingness eventually. her queen-mother, that first heartbreak β only bone dust spread north of the black sea. her primordial name, the last fractured remnant of clan and hearth and home β hardly better than a dull knife, rust and steel to be used against her at the whim of a man who sometimes seems to prefer her rage to her devotion. it's all just blood and dirt. metallic grit between her teeth, bitterness to fucking swallow.
she should have let the black anger in the pit of her stomach find momentum in her body. she should have taken that pound of fucking flesh and torn free her bloody tithe. fanned open his ribs to look and see if any scrap remains inside for her. something to make them even. judgement and punishment from the crown princess of dirt. the goddess of excess profanity and precious little else. andromache of shit-all.
but she's powerless. too still, suspended in stalled violence β and jack is pulled by something that has no time for indecision. he's pulled, and he pushes, and she doesn't fight it. almost laughs β might have, if not for the marginal effort it would require. if not for all the ground glass in her throat. instead, she just accepts the dirt. her new fucking kingdom.
she hasn't seen it yet. the other abandoned corpse left to rot in this shithole of a town. that one, at least, is a bit more fresh than she is. until the ticking seconds turn into hours and days, then heat and insects will have their way with the meat. such negligible measures of time β that poor bastard will be bone and fillings before the bruise on her ego even begins to fade into a more tolerable yellow-green ache.
the sound of jack's voice? it digs into that bruise. hard.
the fresh hurt wells up like fluid in her lungs. makes something hateful swell against her palate. what comes out is all rasp and resentment: ]
Fuck you.
[ she's petulant when she's hurt. and he still hasn't said please. so she bats his hand aside and drags herself to her feet. doesn't bother to brush the dirt off. she has better sense with that kind of futile effort than she does when it comes to him.
chained they might be, and andy's more than willing to be dead weight. ]
( seconds tick by. precious time is being lost with every moment he's here with her, instead of inside the shed with the body. andy's help isn't needed. he can do this alone. that's how it is. exile is in his blood. on this strange and endless ocean, he drifts alone. every triumph that shines and every failure that cuts is on his head. help is rarely bestowed; the currents douse any burning bushes, so he's forced to rely on himself. he breaks his own bones, flays his skin, and pokes his eyes out for plans, stratagems, and shortcuts. he tests, prods, and thinks until success, even if it takes hundreds of trips. but that can't be relied upon. any trip on the currents could be his last, and does he want it to end on the painful note of failure?
no, that's why he does it alone. he has no one else to rely on but himself. that's how it is.
but who knows the churns of the deep blue sea? only he who's at the end knows how the currents roll to and fro. this time, he might get by without andy's help. but what of next time? next time, he might not be smart enough, or strong enough, or quick enough, or β or he won't be enough, and he'll fail and fail and fail. one foot is always in the past, the other in the future, and his mind's in the present, trying to make sense of it.
he needs her.
the moon is big in the sky tonight, and he looks at it, sighing. this far out from civilization, the silence becomes deafening. thoughts echo and take flight on their own. he wonders β he considers the possibility of that. he who plans, tests, and thinks every movement and emotion. take a leap of faith and let the words come as they do. no dress rehearsal, no edits, no white-out. only a slight hesitation as though he's calculating the chances that she'll swing at him as he leans close to her. it's not him β it'll never be him β but his ribs are fanned open enough to catch a peek of his heart, scarred and mangled.
his hands grip her shoulders, dusting off dirt. he kisses her forehead, where, sometimes, good ideas spring forward, like athena from zeus. )
I'm awful. ( then he moves down to kiss her brow, always pinched with irritation. ) Selfish. ( his mouth brushes against her left cheek, usually damp and salty with tears. ) Greedy. ( now, it's time for the right cheek, flushed from laughter. ) I take and need, and what do you get? Nothing. ( his lips hover over hers, like a butterfly fluttering over a flower, and his rough, callused palms holds her face. he wipes some dirt from her cheek with his thumb. ) I never want to hurt you.
( scarred and mangled as his heart is, does it still beat? are these lies that drip softly and sweetly from his lips, or the truth, hard and bitter? but lies are never always bad, and the truth is never always good. most of the time, people only care about being right, whether it's true or well-earned. he takes and needs, and what does andy get? kisses sprinkled between pretty words β lies or truths that break and flay, or offer the satisfaction of being right. that's for her to judge. all he can give is his version of the truth, no more alive than the poor stiff in the shed, but also brimming with intrigue and discovery. that's all he's ever been able to offer: distraction and a little frivolity from the long, cold tedium of life. )
[ it might have been a mercy if he'd just left her there to her kingdom of dirt and self-loathing. that pain, she had expected β she could accept the bruised ego, the sting of rejection. separation. anger could have cauterized those wounds β let them scar down into bitterness. she could survive that. she has before.
but the hope β the radiant ache of it, how it surges into her throat just to feel the weight of his hands on her shoulders, to find it still familiar despite the long decades β she can barely stand it. the terrible tenderness of it all β how he kisses her face with such reverence as to rival mary magdalene when she knelt at the feet of the fucking christ.
some part of her resents him for it. because she knows it isn't just simple sentiment β it never is with jack. and she resents herself too, because it doesn't matter a fucking lick that she knows. it still works on her. it probably will for the next thousand years at least. and by then, he'll have found another way to take her apart. hell, she'll have shown him how. the last six millennia wasn't enough to teach her any better, and she can't help wanting to offer up all her fucking soft spots when it means he might touch her gently once in a while.
it's just the inevitable injury of letting someone close enough to be known.
screws her over good at the negotiating table too. they both understand how this will go now. maybe it was always going to go this way, no matter how much she kicks and screams and tells him to fuck himself. there's no leverage she can muster against the minute space between their mouths.
he says he never wants to hurt her. but the ache underneath her sternum just then feels like it might split her in two. it's only by an inch that stubborn pride lets her turn her head away, breaking his hold on her. a futile act of defiance. the walls have already crumbled. no seven day march β just four chaste kisses, and jericho lays bare at jack's mercy.
her voice comes out rough and quiet: ]
It's not nothing.
[ if she tries, maybe she can catch a glimpse of that red myocardium inside his chest, that battered thing beneath the bone β and maybe, if she tries, she can imagine there's a little sliver of it that still belongs to her. ]
Just tell me what you want me to do. [ a sidelong glance then. ] Or show me.
( the hound's eyes are sharper than her age would indicate, easily spotting his lie in the trees and among the truths, half-truths, half-lies, twisted facts, and omitted information that he burrows under to camouflage and hide his real thoughts and feelings. at some point, there had been fewer trees, fewer branches that stretched forth with canopies of leaves that blocked out the sun and darkened the ground below. fewer birds singing and chittering and distracting and annoying and confusing, too. it was simpler then, to spot and uncover the truth from him. less hurt, less shame, and less suspicion burdened him, but less insight and less prudence as well. the mist from the currents blinded him, and, in a way, it still does. he swims blindly, gasping for air and maybe the truth. or a satisfying and believable enough lie that can placate his exhausted muscles to stop and rest against the surging waves. a gust of wind to take him further, or another anchor around his ankle to pull him down more? this far out, does it really matter? there's nothing ahead of him but endless currents. neither honesty nor duplicity will shrink the ocean or dry up the river that cuts through those numerous and imposing trees. he's too lost to escape; his mind is only focused on how to burrow, camouflage, and hide.
his laugh rings loudly in the night air. the rumble in his chest shakes loose the cobwebs in his lungs, pulling and stretching the muscles of his mouth to a sharp smirk. )
Oh, don't be a Gloomy Gus. ( he takes off her hat, kisses the top of her head, and plops it back on. ) After this, I'll buy you a drink, and you can regale me with tales from your travels.
( not that he expects much divulgence from her. not that he wants any divulgence. it's always a mystery which version of each other comes sweeping along the currents. beautiful singing creatures that shine with youth and optimism, or abandoned shipwrecks that creak and moan. for his part, it's always a mystery which version of himself he sees in the distance: a lighthouse that's faint in the fog and yet bright enough to draw him closer until he smashes into rocks. on every trip on the current, he has to contend with the consequences of whatever version preceded him, and on every trip, he has to consider how this version's consequences will affect the next. sometimes, the consequences are a slap across his face; or a gun's barrel or a blade to his throat. sometimes, it's a smile or a hug from a new old friend. but always, there's a harsh and painful blow of reality when he learns that there are still more trips on the currents left for him. faith in a safe return home is how he survives β or is it delusion? is there a difference? but it's a question he doesn't need to answer if andy doesn't speak about which version she knew last. ignorance is how he actually survives.
stepping behind her, he snatches up his hat and jacket from the ground and brushes off the dirt. blood and mud are caked on both articles of clothing; a patchwork of the consequences that led to this moment. he hands them to andy. )
Hold these? And keep an eye on the door. Cigarettes are in the front pocket.
( not that he smokes, the urge from several hours ago having been extinguished with a stomp. out here, though, cigarettes are a currency, sometimes even more valuable than cold and impersonal money. it's an invitation to people to relax and spill their story. humans crave intimacy and kinship, even out here on the brink of civilization. the cigarettes might come in handy when he begins to question people.
but he won't know who to question and about what until he gets into the shed and examines the body. the enormity of the task ahead of him weighs on his mind. the possibility of failure is a shadow he can never shake. swimming blindly is all he can do. he's far too out to do anything else.
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no subject
sometimes it's harder. sometimes the only thing she knows how to do is provoke β to know the lay of the land, putting pressure on the ice, testing for the fissures so the cold dark underneath doesn't swallow her whole. even when coming back together hurts less than this, she never really forgets: this terrain is treacherous. time is the enemy. the currents do what they will, and even if she's resigned herself to all inevitable insult and injury, laying her throat bare for it doesn't make her bleed less.
the least she can do is bleed with a little pride. stubborn, stupid pride. not that she has any delusions β ego won't stem the hemorrhage. she still feels as though she's standing in front of him with her gleaming guts on display in her arms. but she won't yield. she can't. wrath and hubris are her crutches. the only things keeping her on her feet when he denies her like this.
she doesn't even really blame him. not always. because none of it is fair. they're victims of forces greater than themselves β cosmic forces, some impossible metaphysical thread that pulls relentlessly at both of them. victims too, of each other. she wouldn't deny it, if accused β she is the hound, doggedly on his heels, desperate to clamp her jaws down and hold him there in the intimate trap of her teeth. a terrible union of bone and flesh, tangible as anything. if she can taste the blood, then she knows it's real.
andy hardly feels attached to her own body now. the sounds of the crowd, the heat and stink of the barn β just noise, just a haze around the gray matter. he answers her. she doesn't fully hear him β she only knows that the shape of his mouth is somehow cruel and sad at once. the words it forms are neither an invocation nor a plea. does she even clearly remember what it sounds like, when he says her name? or is that another half-made up memory? a hole that her mind packed with the sediment of sentiment and longing.
there is no seven day march. only jack's shoulder impersonally brushing against hers as he pushes past.
the ice is cracking. she should leave well enough alone. she should turn back. it isn't as if this will kill her. it isn't as if she can bleed to fucking death for want of jack fucking klein.
but she's the damn hound, isn't she? and a hound is only good for so much. he won't let her heel β that leaves the chase. and jack hasn't figured out how to hurt her enough to stop her. hasn't found the will or want to maim her properly. he hasn't managed to get far enough away yet either. he won't β not until the currents take him. until then, there's only the physical distance, and space is a smaller obstacle than time. ]
Jack.
[ that isn't his name, here and now. she doesn't care. what's an identity to her anyway? to either of them? they aren't people. not like that.
(she's only ever real when he touches her. when he calls her andromache, or something older than that. a name only he knows.)
andy comes from behind. she moves with intention, the economy of her steps distinct from the staggering drunks. her grip finds the crook of his arm, digging in hard enough to bruise. the dog's maw, closing down. ]
We're not finished. [ her voice cuts. all ground glass and gravel. ] You will reckon with me.
no subject
years were spent on the same day, over and over again. the same day, bashing his skull against the ground over and over again as he ignored the pull that steered him towards his destiny. the invisible strings around his wrists and ankles that tried to control him through this play. how he maintained his sanity, he doesn't know. maybe his stubbornness is stronger. eventually, it came to the point that he could time every event and every movement of that day down to the exact millisecond. the day never varied. the pull was always there.
but ultimately, the ocean is too big and deep. the sun beats down and burns. the thirst becomes painful. a boat sails more easily with the wind rather than against it. what else can be said? the pull was always there.
a butterfly remembers what it was. it remembers its migration paths and the mountain that hasn't blocked it in a millennium. it remembers where to fly generations later to places unknown. it remembers and acts because something deeper than tradition or knowledge commands it to remember and act. instinctual or natural. as intrinsic to the very biological nature as the shape of their wings or the color of his eyes. how else can it be explained other than that he does this because his eyes are the color of the ocean?
but who is he without the pull? the wind that guides his boat towards his destiny and hopefully home. the pull that was always there has disappeared, and he is lost, adrift in a sea of dirt. when he bashed his skull against the ground, all he heard was stagnant wind. the currents have washed him ashore here, but not home. is this punishment for his actions? to be left here to rot without reason or comfort, without guidance or purpose, like a shattered spar of mast. is exile his destiny?
when she grabs hold of his arm, his muscles tense. the hound will find only iron with her teeth. there's no chase he'll give; only silence as she speaks. he says her name: the wind that travels the plain. the fire that smolders in the dark. the unyielding earth. he says the name that only he remembers because love is also a curse. )
Let go.
( let go, because he's nothing but dirt. let go, because he cannot stand the shame. let go, because he no longer has the strength. let go, because when did love become misery? let go, because the pain beating in his head is more bearable. let go, because this is the end for him, and he would rather be alone like an animal separating itself from the pack than β
an oblong circle of a sticky, wet substance on the edge of a shed shines. even in the dim light, it catches his attention and, even in the dim light, he can guess what it is.
it's blood. )
no subject
but the damnable gods have their sense of humor. andy hadn't died that day. or any day after that. it was only her fucking peace that died β all tangible sense of self, the tether of clear purpose, burning on the funeral pyre along with the name her queen-mother had given her.
it's all dirt now. no different than the dirt here. whatever remains of that lifetime, little more than a few forgotten burial mounds on the steppe and broken fragments in a museum somewhere. she's forgotten most of it. dreams of it in pieces, sometimes β wakes clinging to the fading threads, grasping for something that seems more imagined than remembered. it always slips away too easily, leaving behind only a faint ache beneath her ribs that's been diluted by the centuries.
but then jack speaks.
he speaks and it's all sharp again. like a knife in her lung, stopping her next breath dead in the base of her throat. it's blasphemy and invocation. a resurrection, sacred and profane at once. an act of violence. of intimacy. her name. her name. her name β
he's flayed her wide open.
she might have preferred the goddamn spears. ]
You.
[ it's a ragged whisper. barely there. her hand faintly trembles, grounded only by the cruel dig of her fingers into his skin. and her eyes β black as pitch, much too wide. if he'd been looking at her, maybe he would have known. if not for the distraction of blood in the dim light, maybe β ]
You fucker β
[ her violence is muscle memory. maybe that was her real inheritance, in the end. a savage legacy that lets her move without thinking, leverage and adrenaline and a few hundred years of resentment giving her the vicious momentum she needs to throw him bodily to the ground, pinning him underneath her weight.
it shouldn't still hurt so much. it's all just fucking dirt. ]
You don't get to call me that β [ dirt and rage and love. ] You don't get to say my name and try to fucking leave.
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or, likely, the currents roaring in his ears, a sweet, placid song that dulls the impact of his head against the hard dirt. his hat and jacket are flung somewhere behind him, and a shrill laugh, directed at them or something else, echoes through the stillness. he doesn't know. he doesn't care. the pull. there's no fight against it. only a deep sigh of relief, as though resurfacing from the water. only a soft and gentle caress of the lovely sun above him, honest and fiery and lovely in a way that stirs something in him.
her hair brushes against his fingers, and his hand is firm on her cheek. "i'm here, and that means something," he thinks, and he knows and feels it. the currents' song in his head grows louder, at once alleviating and encumbering his heart. there's purpose in work, and a strength that hardens his mind for the voyage ahead. then, he shoves her face out of his line of sight to look behind her. in the dim light, the blood still shines on the edge of the shed. so it wasn't imaginary, or another sign of his crumbling sanity. there's something.
the pull is so strong that he easily frees himself of her, pushing her off him and standing. cautiously, he approaches the blood. on closer inspection, he realizes it's blood spatter and a signpost pointing him to look inside the shed. he unhitches the door and opens it before he catches a glimpse of a still human body lying prone on the floor. with the quick look and poor lighting, he can't tell who it is, but the blood on the walls and floors is enough for him. surrounding the body is a pool of blood that still glistens in the warm humidity. so, the murder occurred possibly half an hour ago. maybe during a fight, when the roar from the crowd could have masked the cries of a slaughter, and any witness could have mistaken the victim's shouts as belonging to a fighter.
he cranes his head to the east, then the west. one road leads in and out of town. a large hill looms over it, flanking it like a vulture on a tree, watching its next meal. ten years from now, dynamite will hollow out the hill, and a tunnel will skewer it. but tonight, it's a natural barrier that confines the murderer to one direction of escape. they could weave through the tight gaps between the wooden buildings that stand close to each other like a phalanx of greek soldiers, but not with a horse laden with provisions needed for the two-day journey to the next town. over sixty miles of dirt, flat plains that deceive and mislead, and murky air that distorts and lies. the spring rain has come and gone, leaving behind parched earth held down only by buffalo grass that prevents the wind from kicking it up into the air. fifty years from now, the red dirt β rich in iron β will choke the air and smother the sun, even as far away as new york city. but tonight, the dirt soaks up the blood from the murdered man.
precious minutes have already been lost. the murderer could've fled town by now, and he wouldn't know. but if they hadn't β if they were only just now packing to leave, or even waiting until dawn when the road is clearer, then there's a chance they could be stopped. but absconding is an admission of guilt, or, at the least, a suggestion of guilt. word always travels, even in a dusty, isolated place like this. the brutality of the murder demands justice, and the old gray sheriff would gather a posse to fly across the countryside like a storm of furies and hunt down the person responsible. no, it's likely the murderer hasn't left. they're somewhere here, either holed up at home, cleaning themselves at a water pump, or drinking away the guilt at the bar.
seconds tick by, precious time being lost. he can't be at two places at once, and he can't be two things at once: the bird that surveys the scene from afar and the worm that digs through the dirt. the road out of town must be watched, in case they do flee, as do the comings and goings of the townsfolk. but the townsfolk themselves must be watched for anything unusual. over the past sixteen days, he has familiarized himself with them, or, at least, the bar regulars enough that he could pick out odd behavior. each of them has their own story, own reason, or own secret that brought them to this town and drives them to the bottle. another story, reason, or secret could gnaw on their heart like a serpent, driving them to act suspiciously.
right now, he's living on seconds. if the murderer's apprehension is to occur within the next day or so, the investigation has to begin now. the old gray sheriff is asleep at home; his deputies are drinking whiskey at the jail. they can't be relied upon or informed, not until the morning when the body is inevitably discovered. do any of them know how to conduct a murder investigation anyway, or will they pin it on the newest face in town? who can he trust?
his restless gaze ricochets behind him to the only person he can trust. a person cursed to trust him. walking back to her, he holds out his hand, dirty and bloody, to pull her up. or offer a truce or an apology. )
Help me.
( the currents are ruthless, hardly giving an inch while taking miles. what appears to be mercy is merely that: mercy. no torture or cruelty. never death or failure. only an unbreakable chain that yokes them as one, binding them to the boat's mast as the storm rages. )
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the things that hurt her all crumble into nothingness eventually. her queen-mother, that first heartbreak β only bone dust spread north of the black sea. her primordial name, the last fractured remnant of clan and hearth and home β hardly better than a dull knife, rust and steel to be used against her at the whim of a man who sometimes seems to prefer her rage to her devotion. it's all just blood and dirt. metallic grit between her teeth, bitterness to fucking swallow.
she should have let the black anger in the pit of her stomach find momentum in her body. she should have taken that pound of fucking flesh and torn free her bloody tithe. fanned open his ribs to look and see if any scrap remains inside for her. something to make them even. judgement and punishment from the crown princess of dirt. the goddess of excess profanity and precious little else. andromache of shit-all.
but she's powerless. too still, suspended in stalled violence β and jack is pulled by something that has no time for indecision. he's pulled, and he pushes, and she doesn't fight it. almost laughs β might have, if not for the marginal effort it would require. if not for all the ground glass in her throat. instead, she just accepts the dirt. her new fucking kingdom.
she hasn't seen it yet. the other abandoned corpse left to rot in this shithole of a town. that one, at least, is a bit more fresh than she is. until the ticking seconds turn into hours and days, then heat and insects will have their way with the meat. such negligible measures of time β that poor bastard will be bone and fillings before the bruise on her ego even begins to fade into a more tolerable yellow-green ache.
the sound of jack's voice? it digs into that bruise. hard.
the fresh hurt wells up like fluid in her lungs. makes something hateful swell against her palate. what comes out is all rasp and resentment: ]
Fuck you.
[ she's petulant when she's hurt. and he still hasn't said please. so she bats his hand aside and drags herself to her feet. doesn't bother to brush the dirt off. she has better sense with that kind of futile effort than she does when it comes to him.
chained they might be, and andy's more than willing to be dead weight. ]
Didn't need me in the fucking barn.
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no, that's why he does it alone. he has no one else to rely on but himself. that's how it is.
but who knows the churns of the deep blue sea? only he who's at the end knows how the currents roll to and fro. this time, he might get by without andy's help. but what of next time? next time, he might not be smart enough, or strong enough, or quick enough, or β or he won't be enough, and he'll fail and fail and fail. one foot is always in the past, the other in the future, and his mind's in the present, trying to make sense of it.
he needs her.
the moon is big in the sky tonight, and he looks at it, sighing. this far out from civilization, the silence becomes deafening. thoughts echo and take flight on their own. he wonders β he considers the possibility of that. he who plans, tests, and thinks every movement and emotion. take a leap of faith and let the words come as they do. no dress rehearsal, no edits, no white-out. only a slight hesitation as though he's calculating the chances that she'll swing at him as he leans close to her. it's not him β it'll never be him β but his ribs are fanned open enough to catch a peek of his heart, scarred and mangled.
his hands grip her shoulders, dusting off dirt. he kisses her forehead, where, sometimes, good ideas spring forward, like athena from zeus. )
I'm awful. ( then he moves down to kiss her brow, always pinched with irritation. ) Selfish. ( his mouth brushes against her left cheek, usually damp and salty with tears. ) Greedy. ( now, it's time for the right cheek, flushed from laughter. ) I take and need, and what do you get? Nothing. ( his lips hover over hers, like a butterfly fluttering over a flower, and his rough, callused palms holds her face. he wipes some dirt from her cheek with his thumb. ) I never want to hurt you.
( scarred and mangled as his heart is, does it still beat? are these lies that drip softly and sweetly from his lips, or the truth, hard and bitter? but lies are never always bad, and the truth is never always good. most of the time, people only care about being right, whether it's true or well-earned. he takes and needs, and what does andy get? kisses sprinkled between pretty words β lies or truths that break and flay, or offer the satisfaction of being right. that's for her to judge. all he can give is his version of the truth, no more alive than the poor stiff in the shed, but also brimming with intrigue and discovery. that's all he's ever been able to offer: distraction and a little frivolity from the long, cold tedium of life. )
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but the hope β the radiant ache of it, how it surges into her throat just to feel the weight of his hands on her shoulders, to find it still familiar despite the long decades β she can barely stand it. the terrible tenderness of it all β how he kisses her face with such reverence as to rival mary magdalene when she knelt at the feet of the fucking christ.
some part of her resents him for it. because she knows it isn't just simple sentiment β it never is with jack. and she resents herself too, because it doesn't matter a fucking lick that she knows. it still works on her. it probably will for the next thousand years at least. and by then, he'll have found another way to take her apart. hell, she'll have shown him how. the last six millennia wasn't enough to teach her any better, and she can't help wanting to offer up all her fucking soft spots when it means he might touch her gently once in a while.
it's just the inevitable injury of letting someone close enough to be known.
screws her over good at the negotiating table too. they both understand how this will go now. maybe it was always going to go this way, no matter how much she kicks and screams and tells him to fuck himself. there's no leverage she can muster against the minute space between their mouths.
he says he never wants to hurt her. but the ache underneath her sternum just then feels like it might split her in two. it's only by an inch that stubborn pride lets her turn her head away, breaking his hold on her. a futile act of defiance. the walls have already crumbled. no seven day march β just four chaste kisses, and jericho lays bare at jack's mercy.
her voice comes out rough and quiet: ]
It's not nothing.
[ if she tries, maybe she can catch a glimpse of that red myocardium inside his chest, that battered thing beneath the bone β and maybe, if she tries, she can imagine there's a little sliver of it that still belongs to her. ]
Just tell me what you want me to do. [ a sidelong glance then. ] Or show me.
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his laugh rings loudly in the night air. the rumble in his chest shakes loose the cobwebs in his lungs, pulling and stretching the muscles of his mouth to a sharp smirk. )
Oh, don't be a Gloomy Gus. ( he takes off her hat, kisses the top of her head, and plops it back on. ) After this, I'll buy you a drink, and you can regale me with tales from your travels.
( not that he expects much divulgence from her. not that he wants any divulgence. it's always a mystery which version of each other comes sweeping along the currents. beautiful singing creatures that shine with youth and optimism, or abandoned shipwrecks that creak and moan. for his part, it's always a mystery which version of himself he sees in the distance: a lighthouse that's faint in the fog and yet bright enough to draw him closer until he smashes into rocks. on every trip on the current, he has to contend with the consequences of whatever version preceded him, and on every trip, he has to consider how this version's consequences will affect the next. sometimes, the consequences are a slap across his face; or a gun's barrel or a blade to his throat. sometimes, it's a smile or a hug from a new old friend. but always, there's a harsh and painful blow of reality when he learns that there are still more trips on the currents left for him. faith in a safe return home is how he survives β or is it delusion? is there a difference? but it's a question he doesn't need to answer if andy doesn't speak about which version she knew last. ignorance is how he actually survives.
stepping behind her, he snatches up his hat and jacket from the ground and brushes off the dirt. blood and mud are caked on both articles of clothing; a patchwork of the consequences that led to this moment. he hands them to andy. )
Hold these? And keep an eye on the door. Cigarettes are in the front pocket.
( not that he smokes, the urge from several hours ago having been extinguished with a stomp. out here, though, cigarettes are a currency, sometimes even more valuable than cold and impersonal money. it's an invitation to people to relax and spill their story. humans crave intimacy and kinship, even out here on the brink of civilization. the cigarettes might come in handy when he begins to question people.
but he won't know who to question and about what until he gets into the shed and examines the body. the enormity of the task ahead of him weighs on his mind. the possibility of failure is a shadow he can never shake. swimming blindly is all he can do. he's far too out to do anything else.
he enters the shed. )