( there is dirt everywhere. on the floor, on the walls, and in the bed. if he drags his finger across the surface of the table, there'll be dirt. this town was probably built entirely of dirt. it's on his tongue and down his throat when he drinks water or eats the food brought by the bellhop, a very grandiose and fraudulent title for the barefoot eight-year-old boy with a slight cleft lip and a freckled face. if he coughed, he'd hack up dirt.
the solution, then, is to remain indoors with the windows shut. but it's only a few hours before he begins to succumb to ennui. the hotel room, which is already small and cramped, with enough space for just a narrow bed, table, chair, and washbasin, condenses to only what can be seen from his line of sight. the air compresses, and the mercury on the thermometer rises from the glare of the uncompromising sun through the dusty windows. it's as though there's a noose around his neck that's tightening with every passing moment. but when he rubs his eyes, the room is too large, too quiet. like being alone in the middle of an ocean, and the noose tightens more.
after three hours, he opens the windows to let the dusty wind in again. the little curtains blow in the afternoon breeze as he pulls up a chair to watch the townsfolk. the street is deserted. most people seek protection from the sun's harsh glare by staying indoors. two young women with matching dusty pink parasols stroll by. a rotund woman walks by a minute later, her three children following behind her like ducklings. some young boys carrying fishing poles run down the dirt road, laughter and jeers filling the still air. the old sheriff and a deputy emerge from the jail, their expressions serious under their brims. even at this distance, he can see the dirt in their wrinkles. the people here are made of dirt, and he's suddenly reminded of the blessing about being taken from dust, then returned to dust. with a studious look, he rubs some dirt between his fingers β it's red, rich in iron.
the currents have brought him to 1883, and sixteen days ago, a carriage brought him to this town. this blot on the landscape, with its drab, rickety, wooden buildings, that's the only source of civilization for miles, and its citizens, who are more dirt than human. the air is depressive and stagnant, which can't be blamed entirely on the current dry season. the railroad creeps closer each day, and his ears strain to hear the reassuring whistle of a train that can take him away from this dirt.
his fingers thread through the sweaty strands of his hair, agitation and boredom flaring within him. once or twice over the last sixteen days, he's thought about picking up smoking to pass the time more pleasantly. but he dismisses the idea as stupid because he doesn't know anything about cigarettes or smoking, and he doesn't want to see if there's actually dirt in his spit. getting blacked out drunk was also a possibility, but was ultimately dismissed. if he's here for something, he should be here for it.
"and if i'm here, that means there's something..."
it's what he's been telling himself for the past fortnight. either it's a lie, or he's finally cracked under the oppressive heat and boredom, or the weight of the currents. but who else would've known where he'd be, and what language to use to entice him to leave the comparatively pleasant city of denver to come here? only someone that he knows β or will know, in his future and their past.
he doesn't live in a straight line. for him, time is an ocean pushing and pulling a coconut among its waves; he's there, then there, then over here, then there. he never goes in one direction for long before he's snapped in the complete opposite direction, and he's never in one place for long before he drifts away. it's probably why he's so restless now. anytime or place before, he could find comfort and purpose in work, and that was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, even if the work wasn't. but now here, he has to live in a straight line and watch the dirt flow like sand through the hourglass.
the sun begins to dip below the surrounding mountains, and some relief blows in from the east. the boys return from their fishing trip, and their laughter and jeers are quieter but no less happy. the sheriff and deputy return to the jail, but the sheriff leaves a few minutes later for home. people pour outside, and the streets become lively in the evening light. he grabs his hat and leaves his room. he's careful not to make a sound when he walks down the stairs, so he doesn't alert the hotel owner's wife to his presence. but today, he's not in the mood to entertain her coy and flirtatious remarks. he escapes the hotel without being seen and makes his way down the street, forcing through the river of people until he eventually arrives at the saloon. but he doesn't push open the double doors and enter the rowdy and crowded bar. instead, he walks around the back of the building to a small barn, where a steady stream of people move back and forth between the saloon and the barn. to the saloon to get their fill of alcohol and music, then to the barn for their fill of blood and sport, and then back to the saloon to spend their winnings. back and forth until the sun came up.
he goes in the back where the other fighters are, and strips off his hat, jacket, and shirt. he throws a few punches and touches his toes to get warmed up, but he mostly spends the time before his match flicking beans into a pail. the air is thick with anticipation, vitriol, and smoke when he's called to the ring, a clearing in the middle of the barn surrounded by dozens of spectators. some cheer him while others hurl insults. he's made and cost each of them a lot of money with each victory, so the polarizing reaction is neither unsurprising nor offensive to him. in the dim light of the oil lamps, his bare chest glistens with sweat as he waits for his opponent to enter the ring and the bell to sound.
normally, he's keen to get the fight over, knocking out the man with a single punch and then collecting his winnings so he can nurse a bottle of wine under the great expanse of stars before the next fight. but today, he's in no mood to be kind. he takes his time to punish his opponent, hitting him with body shots. the owner tried to hustle him by putting forth a ringer, daniel jericho, a mean bastard with shoulders the size of boulders and fists like an axe. but the owner's dealing with the ultimate hustler here, and he lets jericho get in a few good shots before he starts going to work on his kidneys. some hope first before reality sets in.
his fists strike against jericho's hard muscles, and he almost wants to indulge in cruelty and go for the legs. but he knows the owner will use that as an excuse to disqualify him, so he sticks to the ribcage and arms for now. although his opponent has about six inches and eighty pounds on him, he's strong, quick, and clever enough that they're on equal footing. his biceps flex with each punch, and his feet dance with each dodge. round one comes and goes, and the fight will probably end in the second, but he doesn't want that. he wants some action, some competition. something to sink his teeth into and thrash against the ground until it went limp. )
[ that dusty shithole of a town is far enough from the nearest railway for her and a blue dun by the rather low-effort name of grullo to become well-acquainted with each other. maybe even bond a little, as much as the species barrier allows. they're no tom mix and tony, but the beast tolerates her on the long ride, humoring her habit of steering from the knees to ride hands free.
the dirt and heat reminds her of the dry season on the west african coast β the blistering harmattan wind, carrying the hot saharan air towards the ocean. that place was fucking lifetimes ago, seems like, though a half a century and change should hardly make a difference to her at this point.
but time always seems to stretch when she's alone, contorting itself until the hours and days become meaningless increments, each moment indistinguishable from the next. she could just lay in all that godforsaken dirt, hemorrhaging the years away and hardly even noticing it. at her age, it's hard to find a frame of reference that matters. empires rise and fall. kings live and die. everything turns into more fucking dirt.
and her? she stays the same. eternal. stagnant. so sick of it sometimes that she idly humors the merits of flaying herself alive to escape her own godless flesh β or just to feel something, maybe. the novelty of it. but the melodramatic impulse usually dies as little more than a mental itch, reigned in by her prefrontal cortex and the natural inertia that seems innate to all such long-lived animals. in the end, it's too much trouble. whiskey and a few cigarettes make for less mess.
she can be cold on the surface. but itβs a brittle veneer β underneath is a starving thing, a pitiful creature made of a terrible, hungry yearning. the last several centuries are littered with her failed attempts to smother that thing, put it out of its damn misery, make herself be a little sensible for once. because she knows β given an inch on the leash, that part of her will devour the rest whole. that part of her β it canβt be trusted. itβs savage, driven blindly by attachment and instinct.Β it takes her battered heartΒ and her tender ego, grinding it all up in a greedy maw that inevitably spits her back out later.Β
andy never fights it as hard as she should. she definitely didnβt fight it much with him. a token resistance at best, half-assed in the face of his charisma and those damnably blue eyes. now theyβll both be victims of her reckless sentiment and willful stupidity β and the moods in between, when she nurses the wounds inflicted on her by the intervening decades, bracingΒ herself against theΒ uncertainty on the other side. bricks get laid back into that metaphorical wall when they're apart. she always needs to be warmed up again.Β
maybe that's fair and maybe it isn't. andy knows that time is just as fucked up for him as it is for her. doesnβt understand how it works exactly β not anymore than she understands her own temporal fuckery β but that almost seems beside the point now. defining the how wouldnβt make it any easier. she still can't predict which version of jack klein sheβll find this time or the next. the ways that he might have changed. she wouldnβt be able to guess which version of her heβd seen last either. it makes the concept of past and future almost laughable. just one big cosmic joke with her feelings as the punchline. sheβll piss herself off if she tries too hard to untangle it all.Β
at least the horse β her only present company β canβt call her out on her bullshit.Β
besides, sheβs here now, isnβt she? all reason and better sense be damned. if she tries explaining it out loud, sheβll sound acutely crazy even by her own lax standards for sanity. she canβt even really explain it to herself β why she keeps doing this, chasing after a man that unpredictably jumps around time when sheβs forced to march indefinitely straight through it. the silver lining is that sheβs long stopped bothering to want most of it explained β his shit and hers,Β their apparent inability to participate in the space-time continuum like normal fucking people. and the why β the question of her own motives β well. that bit is probably best left unspoken either way.Β
itβs the kind of answer that canβt be taken back. andy isnβt sure she can tolerate saying it verbally β even if itβs obvious. even if itβs the only justification for the madness that makes any sense. but she wouldnβt be here otherwise. wouldnβt have tried to pass on that message from one jack to the next. wouldnβt have come to this dusty shithole on just jack kleinβs word. no, she would have followed her gut instinct to abandon the whole messy affair before it can hurt her in a way that lasts.
instead, once grullo is watered and fed, andy follows the noise and the people. itβs a small town with few amusements β not hard to find where everyoneβs gathered, and easier still to slip into the barn. enough liquor and adrenaline in that crowd for a stranger to goΒ more or less unnoticed. sheβs not so remarkable in her dark canvas duster and worn leather boots, half-camouflaged by dirt after the journey.Β theyβre not paying attention to her. theyβre all watching him.
her own body language reads as uninterested β aloof from those around her, face obscured by curling wisps of gray from a dwindling cigarette. but beneath the wide brim of her felt hat, sheβs watching too. those dark eyes bear a heavy stare, trained on the familiar figure in the ring as he tenderizes daniel jerichoβs flank. wouldnβt surprise her if the poor bastard is pissing red later. probably says something unflattering about her that she canβt quite suppress a little thrill to witness jackβs brutal grace in motion. blame it on her barbarian bloodline. she inherited an instinct for violence, and she knows this could be over the minute jack klein deigns to allow it.Β
she can wait. sheβs been waiting all this time. might as well let jack have his fun before whatever the hell their reunion brings to bear. ]
( pain and anger darkens jericho's face when another punch drills into his kidney, but in his green eyes, panic flashes like a match in the dark. it's futile. he should know that his opponent isn't going to ease up, especially not after their unsuccessful con. the fire is quickly dying, and there are things in the dark he should worry about. realization was slow to set in for jericho, but it's a lesson that his opponent is willing to teach.
if this is work, it's work. focusing on the sense of purpose it brings is better than dwelling and being consumed by thoughts and emotions. it's easier to be angry than to feel anything else. it's better to be so busy with the work that he's too exhausted to feel or think about anything else. he can't allow himself to stop to think or reminisce about memories that aren't even his. that's not how this goes. he fights, and he moves on. why fuck with the process?
his blood runs hot through his veins, burning his cheeks ruddy as his fist collides with daniel jericho's torso. it's like punching a wall. but the man buckles, and the referee steps in to give him a moment to regain his footing. the crowd swells. they can sense the end. a few more hits, and the fight will be over.
he steps away, content to give daniel jericho a moment. don't say that he isn't capable of kindness, though it's more pride that keeps him planted in the center of the ring. he looks out at the sea of spectators around him, seeing and watching the faces of the people β men, women, young, old, drunk, sober, clean, dirty, poor, rich. faces of people who bet on him or bet against him; faces that will be long forgotten by the time he resurfaces. his restless gaze skips across the faces like a stone across the surface of a lake. each of them is a stranger, and yet it feels as though he knows each of them like old friends. on every single face, there's boredom, anger, concern, and an intense longing for a sense of purpose that drove them here of all places. careworn faces, desperate for relief and comfort. strange place to look for it, here on the outskirts of a brawl, but β
his mind stops, tripping over its feet. he's finally cracked. the smoke is too thick in here. the warm, humid air is getting to him. one of those free hits was harder than he realized. he must be seeing things. dark, glittering eyes that surely can't and shouldn't be here when they should be thousands of miles away. is that β?
daniel jericho's axe connects with his jaw. blood explodes on his tongue. blackness envelopes his vision as he topples to the ground. his landing is hard, like a boulder slamming against the surface of a lake. the air is knocked out of him. the spectators and smoke and bloodlust have crowded out the oxygen in the barn, and his lungs struggle to breathe. he's drowning. all he hears is the thundering of waves. the currents. they're here. to take him away. where? he doesn't know. he doesn't care. they're here. there's no fight against the pull. take him away. they're here, they're here, they're here β!
they're not.
it's still 1883, and he's still in a small, sweltering barn surrounded by spectators on his sixteenth day here. the yells and whistles are sharp needles to his brain, jolting him back to consciousness. like a man possessed, he scrambles to his feet before the referee counts him out. his legs sway, but he stands. why is he standing? why is he doing this to himself? he should stay down and be counted out. that's what everyone wants: for the butterfly's wings to be clipped. that's what he should want too, isn't it? if he buries himself in the dirt and quits, maybe the currents will leave him.
he stands, although his footing is unsteady and his vision is blurry. he stands, although he doesn't want to. it's pride that keeps him planted in the center of the ring and raises his fists. he can't stop.
the events of the next thirty seconds occur so quickly to make anyone believe it's exaggerated or staged. but the witnesses have seen enough of his matches to know what they saw and settle on a truth. some will say that the fight β indeed, all of his fights β have been rigged, but others will claim it was real. opinions aside, the events are what they are. the man with no name blows his trumpet, and the walls of jericho fall. with a single punch, he knocks down the mountain of a man, and he doesn't get up.
the crowd roars, ecstatic, shocked, and indignant by the result. there are screams for a rematch or a refund. praise is showered upon both opponents for a good, exciting fight. sour looks are traded along with money to the winners and their triumphant grins. plenty of people have won it big by betting on him, and he'll fetch a pretty penny for his work. but he doesn't care. all he wants to do is get to the back room to collect his belongings and leave before she catches up to him. )
[ she can never really know which andy he knew last. maybe he's come from some piece of her timeline that she can't remember clearly anymore. or maybe a part of it that she hasn't even lived yet. only the rotting gods know how many more centuries she'll be cursed to drag her immortal flesh across the continents β the gods, and some version of jack klein, if he's so unlucky as to still be running into her then. she can't imagine what she'd be like in another five thousand years. how utterly wretched. how divorced from her own humanity. her unchanging meat. she's clung to the tatters of her own self for so, so long β what could possibly be left by then?
by comparison, the andy of the relative present might not be so bad. it isn't quite as fair, holding her up against the young nomad from the eurasian steppe β her joyous ferocity in the beginning, the bright shining mania of new and impossible power. her heart and her blade were both famished in those days, invincible and eager for anything. she wore a smile like a wolf with meat in its teeth, radiant and blood-thirsty. that had been andromache the undying. the unkillable. a warrior. a queen. a fucking god.
those were the old days. now, she's andromache the fucking tired. andromache the dusty. andromache, who just finished her last cigarette and feels her mood twinge further south for it. there's as much smoke slithering inside her brain as there is from between her lips β the stirring of her foul temper, nerves grated to more goddamn dust between the long journey and watching jack be cracked right in the face by a man twice his size and probably three times hers.
she doesn't intervene. not yet. but by the way her eyes narrow into mean slivers of black, she's thinking about it. daniel jericho's a big boy, and apparently quite used to a little one-on-one β he might dislocate her arm or her jaw, break her ankle maybe. but it wouldn't stop her. she could still get her fingers into his eyes. her teeth into his ear. her kneecap could make quick work of any future progeny, humbling the man from between his legs.
such a display might have been beneath andromache, princess of the scythians. but that bitch's kingdom is nothing but dirt now, and anyway, it's a moot point by the time andy's done humoring idle thoughts of violence. jack is on his feet. daniel jericho is not. somewhere in between all of it, she could swear his gaze meets hers for a tenous split second.
judging by the way jack turns tail from the ring, she might not have been so nice the last time he met her. must have been one of her shittier eras. maybe they hated each other a little then. maybe she hates him a little here, for making her chase him down after riding through the desert all fucking day and night. hunting used to be good sport to her, but she's old now, and not such a good goddamn sport herself.
he'll find her barring the door to the back room, leaning against the frame with her arms folded across her chest. her greeting is all sarcasm and gravel. ]
Should I take it personally that you're trying to fuck off without saying good-bye?
( like one giant organism, the crowd expands and contracts around him as he pushes his way through towards the back room. hands brush against his arms and dig into his shoulders. their voices ring in his ears, their hot breaths on his neck, heightening his agitation. a fella who lost ten bucks on him and another five on a bottle of bourbon gets in his face, and he shoves him out of his way with ease and continues.
it should neither surprise nor irritate him that andy followed him to the back door. why should it when it's been the nature of their relationship since almost the beginning? he leads, she follows. as four comes before five, and wednesday follows tuesday. the sun sets, and the moon rises. that's how it goes. natural and correct. so her appearance doesn't surprise him, but it does irritate him.
but why should it? truth be told, the last time he crossed paths with her was fine. enjoyable, even, which made leaving more difficult and regrettable. but the tides always come in. maybe she could sense its approach, like animals before a tsunami. how his mind seemed to drift away more often as though floating on a lazy river, or how he spent hours holed up in the basement, working on something. he never said. his lips were sealed, and the door was locked. thankfully, she never asked. was she too indifferent or too afraid to ask? five thousand years, and it's still tricky reading her sometimes.
the thick clouds hanging in the sky that morning worried him. perhaps a storm hid somewhere up there, like a tiger in the brushwood. perhaps torrential rain, strong winds, and lightning. with the chill in the air, it could be snow and hail. perhaps the weather would turn for the worse, and all outgoing planes out of portland would be canceled. it might mean another day with andy. another day that he could pretend to be a normal guy living in the suburbs. after all, what was he supposed to do? despite his worshippers who would disagree, he can't control the weather. if it's something he can't do, no matter how hard he tries, due to extenuating circumstances, then who's to say that an event has to happen as planned? if man can control how the mississippi flows, who's to say that he can't control how history flows?
but he knows history, and the penalty for trying to change it. the tides always come in. if it rained or snowed, it still wouldn't be bad enough to close anything down. flight 305 will always leave at 2:50 in the afternoon with him on it.
he lingered in the doorway, half inside, half outside. clad in a black suit with his hair combed back, it seemed that he was leaving to sell insurance in some skyscraper downtown. nothing was out of the ordinary. she must've known, however, because her hug was tight, almost painful, and she didn't let go even when he tried to pull away. but she did. even her stubbornness can't stop the tides.
but that feels like forty years ago. a whole other life. a whole other man. he hardly remembers the shimmering of dew on the grass, the fog obscuring the peak of mount hood, or the softness of her hair against his fingers. all he knows is dirt, the weary creaking of the weathervane, and the blood in his mouth. he's not that man anymore, but was he ever, or was it yet another coat to wear then readily discard? just another role to play to keep a professional distance.
not her, though. five thousand years, and she still takes it personally. he'd almost roll his eyes, or laugh, or both at the endearing insanity of it. that stubborn pettiness is probably why a little bit of humanity still clings to her; some flesh stuck to the stone. it's easy then to predict her, and yet more difficult. she knows how his bullshit smells, but how will she react? already there's a lie waiting on his busted lip. a sweet piece of flattery and a blood-stained smile to placate. will she accept it with a resigned smile, or break his nose? it's a coin toss, and a game that he's played often. probably too often, which is why he decides to skip the bullshit, the lying, and the pride that makes it impossible for him not to be the one pulling the strings.
behind him, the crowd is heady and loud, drowning out almost every noise and emotion that isn't bloodlust. but somehow his soft, weary voice rises above and floats across it. )
Just tell me why I'm here.
( if she's here, there's a reason. and the sooner she tells him, the sooner he can say "adios" and split. )
[ the quiet weariness of his voice bruises something in the vulnerable spaces between her ribs β a little ache she'd rather ignore. she isn't sure what shape it would take if she chose to acknowledge it. guilt maybe, for that stubborn pettiness he already expected from her, or nostalgia β a bitter longing for the lifetime before this one, when all that mattered to her in the world was bound by the gunwale. out at sea, she wasn't so cruel and he wasn't so tired. the warmth she'd held in those days only made the loss more keen when the tides came again.
maybe it should be a relief that he doesn't bother to lie. maybe it says something about her that she finds herself needled by it instead. it's probably for the best that she's never been the type to willingly introspect β only the rotting gods know what she'd unearth there, if by their will there's anything left in her ancient skull besides more fucking dirt β but if she were, she might find some remnant of her distant ruling days: a royal ego, wanting its due tribute, even if it's paid in gilded excuses. she wants the song and dance. the effort of it. some tangible evidence that he still gives enough of a damn to bother.
in these moods, this damnable woman wants her tithe. that pound of flesh. he can press it to her lips, or she can tear it free with her teeth. she'd governed by her blade, not by her grace β so fuck it, she might even prefer the teeth.
a mouthful of blood goes down easier than the truth anyway. ]
Ask me nicely first.
[ her knife could split a man's throat with such ease as to make the violence look like tenderness β but here, with jack, with her words, she's rendered into a brute, proficient only with the dull edge of her wryness. it's a clumsy weapon for these circumstances, and a worse shield against the simple fact that he knows her. knows how she can be when she's like this, uncertain of her footing and seeking provocation for the familiar territory of a fight. sometimes, that's the only landmark she can find.
even now, there's a sharpness to her. like she's in the room with an enemy instead of the man who's spent a hundred half-realized lifetimes as her friend, her partner β even her husband now and then, if impulse or convenience struck just right.
(she still has them β the rings, strung on a chain and safe against her sternum, warmed by the skin there.)
her posture is all purposeful nonchalance, a thin disguise laid over the coiled braid of muscles along her spine, smaller tensions at the corners of her mouth and the shape of her eyes. subtle, but sheβs drawn like a bow string, taut in waiting. with a word or a touch, he could release her β let her loose, let her bleed freely from the wound of his absence until she finds the catharsis she needs to be a little honest. but neither of them gives. the sinew stays tight. and his distance hurts her in a way she can't make herself swallow.
it's nothing but her pride in the end. and what fucking pride it is, somehow all the more unyielding for the fractures. daniel jericho fell easy by comparison. andromache of scythia demands her seven-day march. ]
( it wasn't just sixteen days of crawling up the walls and bashing his skull against the ground, limbs shaking and fingers twitching to do something. but sixteen days of crawling up the walls and bashing his skull against the ground in his mind, trying to avoid dwelling on the thoughts. the questions. the regrets. the memories. those are traps. a maelstrom that will pull him down, down, down, unless he keeps moving.
for a man with seemingly all the time in the world, he lives on seconds. the currents are ruthless, hardly giving an inch while taking miles. what appears to be mercy is merely another form of torture. death and failure are never options, and he is forced to try again and again and again until he attains their standard of perfection. the greatest cruelty is that he remembers. remembering is a necessary curse, an unbearable chain around his neck that grows heavier and heavier through every surge or ripple. remembering is the immovable object, and he's the unstoppable force.
it makes sense why he should remember. how else is he supposed to learn the lesson this trial is meant to teach if he can't remember it? if indeed there is a lesson or even a point to this. if this is anything more than an exhibition on baking bagels. if he isn't just another job, doomed to be a pawn used by god to prove a point that's far beyond his comprehension. if there is a lesson. if. that conjunction looms ever larger with each passing current. if he should return home, if he should hold onto his principles, if he should try to maintain a semblance of sanity β
all that's left is his dignity, but that too seems to be slipping through his fingers with each passing moment that andy keeps him here. he knows why. tension straightens her spine; two fires smolder where her eyes are. she's no different than the cheering and roaring crowd behind him, frenzied as another fight begins. he knows what she wants, and he knows because he's no different from her. she's the hound that always catches, and he's the fox that always escapes. a paradox that spans the night sky and thousands of years. but he won't give what she wants. or can't. the strength required for that can only come from towering, mighty men like daniel jericho, or the trains that draw closer to the town. strength that he isn't capable of. how can he be the man that she wants when he barely has the strength to stay the man he is now?
he participates in these fights not because he enjoys inflicting pain on others, or because he likes to crow in victory, or because he must keep his skills sharpened. he participates because the pain he suffers is enough to silence the thoughts and memories that infest and overgrow in his mind like blackberry bushes. ignorance and the empty superficiality of strangers is easier to endure than the shame of honesty with someone he knows. let his desperation be his own burden to bear.
the man she traveled to this town for doesn't exist, if he ever did. what was he like? no matter. what she sees before her now is a mirage. he can't give her what she wants.
a sardonic smirk pulls at his mouth, his expression a slurry of misery, pity, and disappointment. who tricked her into traveling all the way here: his note or her hope? )
You don't know.
( he pushes by her to step into the back room and get away from the living miasma. it's a mess of smells β sweat, body odor, blood, vomit, urine, smoke, and kerosene. about a dozen dirty men are packed in the 8x8 room, like animals in the bowels of noah's ark. hardly any space to sit, move, or even breathe, but just enough for him to squeeze by without bumping into anyone. the few lamps throw a chiaroscuro of shadows across the men's faces, pulling, twisting, and exaggerating their expressions β confusion, fear, begrudging respect, and resentment. the heels of his boots scrape against the hard dirt ground. it takes only a minute, but feels like forty days to find and gather his clothes and get outside.
the night air is like a pair of rough, warm hands against his face. it's hardly any cooler than it was in the barn, but out here, the air is free. he takes in a deep breath, and the dust scratches against his nostrils. he spits out blood. sweat still glistens on his forehead and chest as he pulls on his shirt. along with the dirt, sweat's been a constant companion these past two weeks.
a few drunkards stagger by him. the crowd outside has thinned out. it's late enough that most people have settled into their spots for the rest of the night: in bed, at the fight, or under a barstool. the first option is the most appealing to him, but he wouldn't even consider getting into bed without a long and thorough bath first. the hotel has no plumbing, though, and the staff are either asleep or drunk by now. he'd have to fill and carry the pails himself to the bathtub, unless he wanted to take a dip in the watering trough instead.
(it's easier to entertain these thoughts than the blackberry bush thoughts, or to think about who he left behind.) )
[ 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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the solution, then, is to remain indoors with the windows shut. but it's only a few hours before he begins to succumb to ennui. the hotel room, which is already small and cramped, with enough space for just a narrow bed, table, chair, and washbasin, condenses to only what can be seen from his line of sight. the air compresses, and the mercury on the thermometer rises from the glare of the uncompromising sun through the dusty windows. it's as though there's a noose around his neck that's tightening with every passing moment. but when he rubs his eyes, the room is too large, too quiet. like being alone in the middle of an ocean, and the noose tightens more.
after three hours, he opens the windows to let the dusty wind in again. the little curtains blow in the afternoon breeze as he pulls up a chair to watch the townsfolk. the street is deserted. most people seek protection from the sun's harsh glare by staying indoors. two young women with matching dusty pink parasols stroll by. a rotund woman walks by a minute later, her three children following behind her like ducklings. some young boys carrying fishing poles run down the dirt road, laughter and jeers filling the still air. the old sheriff and a deputy emerge from the jail, their expressions serious under their brims. even at this distance, he can see the dirt in their wrinkles. the people here are made of dirt, and he's suddenly reminded of the blessing about being taken from dust, then returned to dust. with a studious look, he rubs some dirt between his fingers β it's red, rich in iron.
the currents have brought him to 1883, and sixteen days ago, a carriage brought him to this town. this blot on the landscape, with its drab, rickety, wooden buildings, that's the only source of civilization for miles, and its citizens, who are more dirt than human. the air is depressive and stagnant, which can't be blamed entirely on the current dry season. the railroad creeps closer each day, and his ears strain to hear the reassuring whistle of a train that can take him away from this dirt.
his fingers thread through the sweaty strands of his hair, agitation and boredom flaring within him. once or twice over the last sixteen days, he's thought about picking up smoking to pass the time more pleasantly. but he dismisses the idea as stupid because he doesn't know anything about cigarettes or smoking, and he doesn't want to see if there's actually dirt in his spit. getting blacked out drunk was also a possibility, but was ultimately dismissed. if he's here for something, he should be here for it.
"and if i'm here, that means there's something..."
it's what he's been telling himself for the past fortnight. either it's a lie, or he's finally cracked under the oppressive heat and boredom, or the weight of the currents. but who else would've known where he'd be, and what language to use to entice him to leave the comparatively pleasant city of denver to come here? only someone that he knows β or will know, in his future and their past.
he doesn't live in a straight line. for him, time is an ocean pushing and pulling a coconut among its waves; he's there, then there, then over here, then there. he never goes in one direction for long before he's snapped in the complete opposite direction, and he's never in one place for long before he drifts away. it's probably why he's so restless now. anytime or place before, he could find comfort and purpose in work, and that was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, even if the work wasn't. but now here, he has to live in a straight line and watch the dirt flow like sand through the hourglass.
the sun begins to dip below the surrounding mountains, and some relief blows in from the east. the boys return from their fishing trip, and their laughter and jeers are quieter but no less happy. the sheriff and deputy return to the jail, but the sheriff leaves a few minutes later for home. people pour outside, and the streets become lively in the evening light. he grabs his hat and leaves his room. he's careful not to make a sound when he walks down the stairs, so he doesn't alert the hotel owner's wife to his presence. but today, he's not in the mood to entertain her coy and flirtatious remarks. he escapes the hotel without being seen and makes his way down the street, forcing through the river of people until he eventually arrives at the saloon. but he doesn't push open the double doors and enter the rowdy and crowded bar. instead, he walks around the back of the building to a small barn, where a steady stream of people move back and forth between the saloon and the barn. to the saloon to get their fill of alcohol and music, then to the barn for their fill of blood and sport, and then back to the saloon to spend their winnings. back and forth until the sun came up.
he goes in the back where the other fighters are, and strips off his hat, jacket, and shirt. he throws a few punches and touches his toes to get warmed up, but he mostly spends the time before his match flicking beans into a pail. the air is thick with anticipation, vitriol, and smoke when he's called to the ring, a clearing in the middle of the barn surrounded by dozens of spectators. some cheer him while others hurl insults. he's made and cost each of them a lot of money with each victory, so the polarizing reaction is neither unsurprising nor offensive to him. in the dim light of the oil lamps, his bare chest glistens with sweat as he waits for his opponent to enter the ring and the bell to sound.
normally, he's keen to get the fight over, knocking out the man with a single punch and then collecting his winnings so he can nurse a bottle of wine under the great expanse of stars before the next fight. but today, he's in no mood to be kind. he takes his time to punish his opponent, hitting him with body shots. the owner tried to hustle him by putting forth a ringer, daniel jericho, a mean bastard with shoulders the size of boulders and fists like an axe. but the owner's dealing with the ultimate hustler here, and he lets jericho get in a few good shots before he starts going to work on his kidneys. some hope first before reality sets in.
his fists strike against jericho's hard muscles, and he almost wants to indulge in cruelty and go for the legs. but he knows the owner will use that as an excuse to disqualify him, so he sticks to the ribcage and arms for now. although his opponent has about six inches and eighty pounds on him, he's strong, quick, and clever enough that they're on equal footing. his biceps flex with each punch, and his feet dance with each dodge. round one comes and goes, and the fight will probably end in the second, but he doesn't want that. he wants some action, some competition. something to sink his teeth into and thrash against the ground until it went limp. )
no subject
the dirt and heat reminds her of the dry season on the west african coast β the blistering harmattan wind, carrying the hot saharan air towards the ocean. that place was fucking lifetimes ago, seems like, though a half a century and change should hardly make a difference to her at this point.
but time always seems to stretch when she's alone, contorting itself until the hours and days become meaningless increments, each moment indistinguishable from the next. she could just lay in all that godforsaken dirt, hemorrhaging the years away and hardly even noticing it. at her age, it's hard to find a frame of reference that matters. empires rise and fall. kings live and die. everything turns into more fucking dirt.
and her? she stays the same. eternal. stagnant. so sick of it sometimes that she idly humors the merits of flaying herself alive to escape her own godless flesh β or just to feel something, maybe. the novelty of it. but the melodramatic impulse usually dies as little more than a mental itch, reigned in by her prefrontal cortex and the natural inertia that seems innate to all such long-lived animals. in the end, it's too much trouble. whiskey and a few cigarettes make for less mess.
she can be cold on the surface. but itβs a brittle veneer β underneath is a starving thing, a pitiful creature made of a terrible, hungry yearning. the last several centuries are littered with her failed attempts to smother that thing, put it out of its damn misery, make herself be a little sensible for once. because she knows β given an inch on the leash, that part of her will devour the rest whole. that part of her β it canβt be trusted. itβs savage, driven blindly by attachment and instinct.Β it takes her battered heartΒ and her tender ego, grinding it all up in a greedy maw that inevitably spits her back out later.Β
andy never fights it as hard as she should. she definitely didnβt fight it much with him. a token resistance at best, half-assed in the face of his charisma and those damnably blue eyes. now theyβll both be victims of her reckless sentiment and willful stupidity β and the moods in between, when she nurses the wounds inflicted on her by the intervening decades, bracingΒ herself against theΒ uncertainty on the other side. bricks get laid back into that metaphorical wall when they're apart. she always needs to be warmed up again.Β
maybe that's fair and maybe it isn't. andy knows that time is just as fucked up for him as it is for her. doesnβt understand how it works exactly β not anymore than she understands her own temporal fuckery β but that almost seems beside the point now. defining the how wouldnβt make it any easier. she still can't predict which version of jack klein sheβll find this time or the next. the ways that he might have changed. she wouldnβt be able to guess which version of her heβd seen last either. it makes the concept of past and future almost laughable. just one big cosmic joke with her feelings as the punchline. sheβll piss herself off if she tries too hard to untangle it all.Β
at least the horse β her only present company β canβt call her out on her bullshit.Β
besides, sheβs here now, isnβt she? all reason and better sense be damned. if she tries explaining it out loud, sheβll sound acutely crazy even by her own lax standards for sanity. she canβt even really explain it to herself β why she keeps doing this, chasing after a man that unpredictably jumps around time when sheβs forced to march indefinitely straight through it. the silver lining is that sheβs long stopped bothering to want most of it explained β his shit and hers,Β their apparent inability to participate in the space-time continuum like normal fucking people. and the why β the question of her own motives β well. that bit is probably best left unspoken either way.Β
itβs the kind of answer that canβt be taken back. andy isnβt sure she can tolerate saying it verbally β even if itβs obvious. even if itβs the only justification for the madness that makes any sense. but she wouldnβt be here otherwise. wouldnβt have tried to pass on that message from one jack to the next. wouldnβt have come to this dusty shithole on just jack kleinβs word. no, she would have followed her gut instinct to abandon the whole messy affair before it can hurt her in a way that lasts.
instead, once grullo is watered and fed, andy follows the noise and the people. itβs a small town with few amusements β not hard to find where everyoneβs gathered, and easier still to slip into the barn. enough liquor and adrenaline in that crowd for a stranger to goΒ more or less unnoticed. sheβs not so remarkable in her dark canvas duster and worn leather boots, half-camouflaged by dirt after the journey.Β theyβre not paying attention to her. theyβre all watching him.
her own body language reads as uninterested β aloof from those around her, face obscured by curling wisps of gray from a dwindling cigarette. but beneath the wide brim of her felt hat, sheβs watching too. those dark eyes bear a heavy stare, trained on the familiar figure in the ring as he tenderizes daniel jerichoβs flank. wouldnβt surprise her if the poor bastard is pissing red later. probably says something unflattering about her that she canβt quite suppress a little thrill to witness jackβs brutal grace in motion. blame it on her barbarian bloodline. she inherited an instinct for violence, and she knows this could be over the minute jack klein deigns to allow it.Β
she can wait. sheβs been waiting all this time. might as well let jack have his fun before whatever the hell their reunion brings to bear. ]
no subject
if this is work, it's work. focusing on the sense of purpose it brings is better than dwelling and being consumed by thoughts and emotions. it's easier to be angry than to feel anything else. it's better to be so busy with the work that he's too exhausted to feel or think about anything else. he can't allow himself to stop to think or reminisce about memories that aren't even his. that's not how this goes. he fights, and he moves on. why fuck with the process?
his blood runs hot through his veins, burning his cheeks ruddy as his fist collides with daniel jericho's torso. it's like punching a wall. but the man buckles, and the referee steps in to give him a moment to regain his footing. the crowd swells. they can sense the end. a few more hits, and the fight will be over.
he steps away, content to give daniel jericho a moment. don't say that he isn't capable of kindness, though it's more pride that keeps him planted in the center of the ring. he looks out at the sea of spectators around him, seeing and watching the faces of the people β men, women, young, old, drunk, sober, clean, dirty, poor, rich. faces of people who bet on him or bet against him; faces that will be long forgotten by the time he resurfaces. his restless gaze skips across the faces like a stone across the surface of a lake. each of them is a stranger, and yet it feels as though he knows each of them like old friends. on every single face, there's boredom, anger, concern, and an intense longing for a sense of purpose that drove them here of all places. careworn faces, desperate for relief and comfort. strange place to look for it, here on the outskirts of a brawl, but β
his mind stops, tripping over its feet. he's finally cracked. the smoke is too thick in here. the warm, humid air is getting to him. one of those free hits was harder than he realized. he must be seeing things. dark, glittering eyes that surely can't and shouldn't be here when they should be thousands of miles away. is that β?
daniel jericho's axe connects with his jaw. blood explodes on his tongue. blackness envelopes his vision as he topples to the ground. his landing is hard, like a boulder slamming against the surface of a lake. the air is knocked out of him. the spectators and smoke and bloodlust have crowded out the oxygen in the barn, and his lungs struggle to breathe. he's drowning. all he hears is the thundering of waves. the currents. they're here. to take him away. where? he doesn't know. he doesn't care. they're here. there's no fight against the pull. take him away. they're here, they're here, they're here β!
they're not.
it's still 1883, and he's still in a small, sweltering barn surrounded by spectators on his sixteenth day here. the yells and whistles are sharp needles to his brain, jolting him back to consciousness. like a man possessed, he scrambles to his feet before the referee counts him out. his legs sway, but he stands. why is he standing? why is he doing this to himself? he should stay down and be counted out. that's what everyone wants: for the butterfly's wings to be clipped. that's what he should want too, isn't it? if he buries himself in the dirt and quits, maybe the currents will leave him.
he stands, although his footing is unsteady and his vision is blurry. he stands, although he doesn't want to. it's pride that keeps him planted in the center of the ring and raises his fists. he can't stop.
the events of the next thirty seconds occur so quickly to make anyone believe it's exaggerated or staged. but the witnesses have seen enough of his matches to know what they saw and settle on a truth. some will say that the fight β indeed, all of his fights β have been rigged, but others will claim it was real. opinions aside, the events are what they are. the man with no name blows his trumpet, and the walls of jericho fall. with a single punch, he knocks down the mountain of a man, and he doesn't get up.
the crowd roars, ecstatic, shocked, and indignant by the result. there are screams for a rematch or a refund. praise is showered upon both opponents for a good, exciting fight. sour looks are traded along with money to the winners and their triumphant grins. plenty of people have won it big by betting on him, and he'll fetch a pretty penny for his work. but he doesn't care. all he wants to do is get to the back room to collect his belongings and leave before she catches up to him. )
no subject
by comparison, the andy of the relative present might not be so bad. it isn't quite as fair, holding her up against the young nomad from the eurasian steppe β her joyous ferocity in the beginning, the bright shining mania of new and impossible power. her heart and her blade were both famished in those days, invincible and eager for anything. she wore a smile like a wolf with meat in its teeth, radiant and blood-thirsty. that had been andromache the undying. the unkillable. a warrior. a queen. a fucking god.
those were the old days. now, she's andromache the fucking tired. andromache the dusty. andromache, who just finished her last cigarette and feels her mood twinge further south for it. there's as much smoke slithering inside her brain as there is from between her lips β the stirring of her foul temper, nerves grated to more goddamn dust between the long journey and watching jack be cracked right in the face by a man twice his size and probably three times hers.
she doesn't intervene. not yet. but by the way her eyes narrow into mean slivers of black, she's thinking about it. daniel jericho's a big boy, and apparently quite used to a little one-on-one β he might dislocate her arm or her jaw, break her ankle maybe. but it wouldn't stop her. she could still get her fingers into his eyes. her teeth into his ear. her kneecap could make quick work of any future progeny, humbling the man from between his legs.
such a display might have been beneath andromache, princess of the scythians. but that bitch's kingdom is nothing but dirt now, and anyway, it's a moot point by the time andy's done humoring idle thoughts of violence. jack is on his feet. daniel jericho is not. somewhere in between all of it, she could swear his gaze meets hers for a tenous split second.
judging by the way jack turns tail from the ring, she might not have been so nice the last time he met her. must have been one of her shittier eras. maybe they hated each other a little then. maybe she hates him a little here, for making her chase him down after riding through the desert all fucking day and night. hunting used to be good sport to her, but she's old now, and not such a good goddamn sport herself.
he'll find her barring the door to the back room, leaning against the frame with her arms folded across her chest. her greeting is all sarcasm and gravel. ]
Should I take it personally that you're trying to fuck off without saying good-bye?
no subject
it should neither surprise nor irritate him that andy followed him to the back door. why should it when it's been the nature of their relationship since almost the beginning? he leads, she follows. as four comes before five, and wednesday follows tuesday. the sun sets, and the moon rises. that's how it goes. natural and correct. so her appearance doesn't surprise him, but it does irritate him.
but why should it? truth be told, the last time he crossed paths with her was fine. enjoyable, even, which made leaving more difficult and regrettable. but the tides always come in. maybe she could sense its approach, like animals before a tsunami. how his mind seemed to drift away more often as though floating on a lazy river, or how he spent hours holed up in the basement, working on something. he never said. his lips were sealed, and the door was locked. thankfully, she never asked. was she too indifferent or too afraid to ask? five thousand years, and it's still tricky reading her sometimes.
the thick clouds hanging in the sky that morning worried him. perhaps a storm hid somewhere up there, like a tiger in the brushwood. perhaps torrential rain, strong winds, and lightning. with the chill in the air, it could be snow and hail. perhaps the weather would turn for the worse, and all outgoing planes out of portland would be canceled. it might mean another day with andy. another day that he could pretend to be a normal guy living in the suburbs. after all, what was he supposed to do? despite his worshippers who would disagree, he can't control the weather. if it's something he can't do, no matter how hard he tries, due to extenuating circumstances, then who's to say that an event has to happen as planned? if man can control how the mississippi flows, who's to say that he can't control how history flows?
but he knows history, and the penalty for trying to change it. the tides always come in. if it rained or snowed, it still wouldn't be bad enough to close anything down. flight 305 will always leave at 2:50 in the afternoon with him on it.
he lingered in the doorway, half inside, half outside. clad in a black suit with his hair combed back, it seemed that he was leaving to sell insurance in some skyscraper downtown. nothing was out of the ordinary. she must've known, however, because her hug was tight, almost painful, and she didn't let go even when he tried to pull away. but she did. even her stubbornness can't stop the tides.
for a brief moment, the sun broke through the curtain of clouds, and, as gently as the rays that touched the leaves and flowers surrounding their house, he caressed her cheek. he said that he'd be back late, but keep the television on for him: cbs on channel 6. and then, he picked up the black attachΓ© case and the brown paper bag, threw his black raincoat over his shoulder, and left without looking back. he dropped the car off at the nearby grocery store (with a letter addressed to andy in the front seat) and then took a bus to the airport. he ended up on channel 2, channel 4, channel 6, and every news channel across the country and the world. walter cronkite referred to him as "d.a. cooper."
but that feels like forty years ago. a whole other life. a whole other man. he hardly remembers the shimmering of dew on the grass, the fog obscuring the peak of mount hood, or the softness of her hair against his fingers. all he knows is dirt, the weary creaking of the weathervane, and the blood in his mouth. he's not that man anymore, but was he ever, or was it yet another coat to wear then readily discard? just another role to play to keep a professional distance.
not her, though. five thousand years, and she still takes it personally. he'd almost roll his eyes, or laugh, or both at the endearing insanity of it. that stubborn pettiness is probably why a little bit of humanity still clings to her; some flesh stuck to the stone. it's easy then to predict her, and yet more difficult. she knows how his bullshit smells, but how will she react? already there's a lie waiting on his busted lip. a sweet piece of flattery and a blood-stained smile to placate. will she accept it with a resigned smile, or break his nose? it's a coin toss, and a game that he's played often. probably too often, which is why he decides to skip the bullshit, the lying, and the pride that makes it impossible for him not to be the one pulling the strings.
behind him, the crowd is heady and loud, drowning out almost every noise and emotion that isn't bloodlust. but somehow his soft, weary voice rises above and floats across it. )
Just tell me why I'm here.
( if she's here, there's a reason. and the sooner she tells him, the sooner he can say "adios" and split. )
no subject
maybe it should be a relief that he doesn't bother to lie. maybe it says something about her that she finds herself needled by it instead. it's probably for the best that she's never been the type to willingly introspect β only the rotting gods know what she'd unearth there, if by their will there's anything left in her ancient skull besides more fucking dirt β but if she were, she might find some remnant of her distant ruling days: a royal ego, wanting its due tribute, even if it's paid in gilded excuses. she wants the song and dance. the effort of it. some tangible evidence that he still gives enough of a damn to bother.
in these moods, this damnable woman wants her tithe. that pound of flesh. he can press it to her lips, or she can tear it free with her teeth. she'd governed by her blade, not by her grace β so fuck it, she might even prefer the teeth.
a mouthful of blood goes down easier than the truth anyway. ]
Ask me nicely first.
[ her knife could split a man's throat with such ease as to make the violence look like tenderness β but here, with jack, with her words, she's rendered into a brute, proficient only with the dull edge of her wryness. it's a clumsy weapon for these circumstances, and a worse shield against the simple fact that he knows her. knows how she can be when she's like this, uncertain of her footing and seeking provocation for the familiar territory of a fight. sometimes, that's the only landmark she can find.
even now, there's a sharpness to her. like she's in the room with an enemy instead of the man who's spent a hundred half-realized lifetimes as her friend, her partner β even her husband now and then, if impulse or convenience struck just right.
(she still has them β the rings, strung on a chain and safe against her sternum, warmed by the skin there.)
her posture is all purposeful nonchalance, a thin disguise laid over the coiled braid of muscles along her spine, smaller tensions at the corners of her mouth and the shape of her eyes. subtle, but sheβs drawn like a bow string, taut in waiting. with a word or a touch, he could release her β let her loose, let her bleed freely from the wound of his absence until she finds the catharsis she needs to be a little honest. but neither of them gives. the sinew stays tight. and his distance hurts her in a way she can't make herself swallow.
it's nothing but her pride in the end. and what fucking pride it is, somehow all the more unyielding for the fractures. daniel jericho fell easy by comparison. andromache of scythia demands her seven-day march. ]
If you won't even say my name, then say please.
no subject
for a man with seemingly all the time in the world, he lives on seconds. the currents are ruthless, hardly giving an inch while taking miles. what appears to be mercy is merely another form of torture. death and failure are never options, and he is forced to try again and again and again until he attains their standard of perfection. the greatest cruelty is that he remembers. remembering is a necessary curse, an unbearable chain around his neck that grows heavier and heavier through every surge or ripple. remembering is the immovable object, and he's the unstoppable force.
it makes sense why he should remember. how else is he supposed to learn the lesson this trial is meant to teach if he can't remember it? if indeed there is a lesson or even a point to this. if this is anything more than an exhibition on baking bagels. if he isn't just another job, doomed to be a pawn used by god to prove a point that's far beyond his comprehension. if there is a lesson. if. that conjunction looms ever larger with each passing current. if he should return home, if he should hold onto his principles, if he should try to maintain a semblance of sanity β
all that's left is his dignity, but that too seems to be slipping through his fingers with each passing moment that andy keeps him here. he knows why. tension straightens her spine; two fires smolder where her eyes are. she's no different than the cheering and roaring crowd behind him, frenzied as another fight begins. he knows what she wants, and he knows because he's no different from her. she's the hound that always catches, and he's the fox that always escapes. a paradox that spans the night sky and thousands of years. but he won't give what she wants. or can't. the strength required for that can only come from towering, mighty men like daniel jericho, or the trains that draw closer to the town. strength that he isn't capable of. how can he be the man that she wants when he barely has the strength to stay the man he is now?
he participates in these fights not because he enjoys inflicting pain on others, or because he likes to crow in victory, or because he must keep his skills sharpened. he participates because the pain he suffers is enough to silence the thoughts and memories that infest and overgrow in his mind like blackberry bushes. ignorance and the empty superficiality of strangers is easier to endure than the shame of honesty with someone he knows. let his desperation be his own burden to bear.
the man she traveled to this town for doesn't exist, if he ever did. what was he like? no matter. what she sees before her now is a mirage. he can't give her what she wants.
a sardonic smirk pulls at his mouth, his expression a slurry of misery, pity, and disappointment. who tricked her into traveling all the way here: his note or her hope? )
You don't know.
( he pushes by her to step into the back room and get away from the living miasma. it's a mess of smells β sweat, body odor, blood, vomit, urine, smoke, and kerosene. about a dozen dirty men are packed in the 8x8 room, like animals in the bowels of noah's ark. hardly any space to sit, move, or even breathe, but just enough for him to squeeze by without bumping into anyone. the few lamps throw a chiaroscuro of shadows across the men's faces, pulling, twisting, and exaggerating their expressions β confusion, fear, begrudging respect, and resentment. the heels of his boots scrape against the hard dirt ground. it takes only a minute, but feels like forty days to find and gather his clothes and get outside.
the night air is like a pair of rough, warm hands against his face. it's hardly any cooler than it was in the barn, but out here, the air is free. he takes in a deep breath, and the dust scratches against his nostrils. he spits out blood. sweat still glistens on his forehead and chest as he pulls on his shirt. along with the dirt, sweat's been a constant companion these past two weeks.
a few drunkards stagger by him. the crowd outside has thinned out. it's late enough that most people have settled into their spots for the rest of the night: in bed, at the fight, or under a barstool. the first option is the most appealing to him, but he wouldn't even consider getting into bed without a long and thorough bath first. the hotel has no plumbing, though, and the staff are either asleep or drunk by now. he'd have to fill and carry the pails himself to the bathtub, unless he wanted to take a dip in the watering trough instead.
(it's easier to entertain these thoughts than the blackberry bush thoughts, or to think about who he left behind.) )
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.
no subject
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. )