Sunset
Bane scoured the floor of his ruins until he found it. The trapdoor. The way beneath the ruins. He pulled it open, and slid into the hole, pulling the trapdoor shut above him.
Alone.
Bane searched the memories of Jonathan Walker, the echoes of emotion, and found nothing on alone...
...but he could feel it, whatever it was.
It was nothing words could describe, nothing he could comprehend; it was something as alien to him as walking on two legs, or seeing only through his own eyes.
Bane stared at the skeletal remains of three children huddled in a corner. Something happened here once, something to do with fire. They tried to escape the flames... and maybe they did, but no one came to their rescue.
Was that what alone was?
Bane removed his mask, and dropped it at his feet. He removed
His gloves, and ran a hand over his scarred face.
Jonathan's scarred face.
Was this alone?
Bane stepped slowly toward the skeletal remains of the children. The smallest had a fabric facsimile of a rabbit.
A stuffed animal.
It was threadbare, and moth eaten. Bane reached for it - stopped - hesitating. She died with the others. Died with them. She was not alone.
They were not alone.
Bane plucked the stuffed animal up into a large hand, and it disintegrated.
He stared at the flakes of decaying fabric in his hand.
Outside, above the cellar, rain pelted the ruins through the holes in its ceiling, it's roof; winds howled through old rafters, and empty, half burned rooms. Down below, Bane rose up.
He was not whatever he was before. He was not the Emim. He was not Jonathan Walker. He was something else.
Not mortal. Not emim. Not Nephilim.
Not anymore.
Bane sneered, his brow furrowing, teeth bared. He growled, the bass in his voice echoing in the empty cellar. He cringed at the sound of his voice - not even his own - but now the only voice he had.
Alone.
This was what alone felt like.
He stepped carefully over the earthy cellar floor, and knelt next to the bone face plate he wore as a mask.
This is not me. It is someone else. A bitter memory of a creature once bound to a fallen giant... a slave to the bridge in-between; a slave to Taal, the dead god. A time before time existed, in a place that spanned forever, he was one of eight things that were one mind, one being in eight - seven - bodies.
The foolish boy, Jonathan, got the better of the exchange. Perhaps he was damned to walk the endless planes in the kingdom of the dead god, but with someone he cared for... and someone who cared back.
Even he was not alone.
Bane pulled the bone mask back over his face, and shook his hair over his shoulders.
They would all go. Coven. Inquisition.
When the smoke cleared, he would be the last standing.
Alone.
✟ ☧ ✟
10:11 PM
The wind howled through the pines, the tree line at Twin Knolls park slowly reclaiming it's territory through cracked, tilting sidewalks, and crumbling bike paths.
The new year came quietly, without fanfare, or fireworks, and if anyone was celebrating, no one celebrated at Twin Knolls.
Rain pelted Bane's mask in cold waves, rolling in droplets off his leather duster.
Driftwood was quiet, tonight. Not simply quiet, because it was raining, or because it was late; Driftwood was quiet, itself. The very spirit of the city felt dormant, hibernating as though it were a long winter, and Driftwood a slumbering beast.
Tonight, the Inquisition stayed off the streets, and out of the shadows; Coven, if any still dared, cast without consequence. Bane knelt, and then sat on the top of the hill. Here, a long time ago, this place was something... not only to Jonathan Walker, and his dead girl, but to everyone in Driftwood. The bands played, the sky lit up in magnificent explosions, and people cheered in another year.
No more. Not here, at least .
Bane leapt to his feet at the sound of twigs snapping under foot, spinning and drawing his pistols. Suheila stood quiet, her eyes to the ground. "Do you take the new year so lightly? Every year the dark as the last? Do you treat every year like the one before?"
Bane lowered his guns, and holstered them. He resumed his seat at the top of the hill. Suheila stepped up beside him, and sat. "I suppose time means little to you."
Bane shook his head, once, subtly. "Time."
"You should come out of this weather before you get cold, or sick."
Bane shrugged. "No cold. No sickness."
"I can get sick."
Bane nodded, once.
"What is this place to you? Why are you here?"
Bane stood abruptly, shaking the rain off himself, wet clothes matted tight to his body, clinging to his kevlar vest. "Go away, girl."
"I am afraid."
Bane looked over his shoulder.
Suheila shook her head. "Afraid to go home."
Bane turned, and faced Suheila.
Suheila stepped in a half circle around him. Bane's head turned, following her slowly to until she stood before him. Suheila lifted her shirt, bearing midriff, exposing faint scars, fresh burns, abrasions, and bruises. She lifted her shirt higher until the bottom of her brazier showed. "They go up further."
Bane reached out, and pulled her shirt back in place, glad his face was masked, lest she see him capable of expression.
He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled it all at once.
"Please help me."
"Your problem, witch."
"You don't mean that, and you know you don't. Help me before he kills me."
Bane shook head. "Your problems."
"Yours, too." Suheila's frowned, her brow knit into a tight furrow.
Bane said nothing, did nothing. He stared into her eyes, her beautiful eyes, fighting that something inside him that begged him to remove a glove, to reach out with and touch her face.
"Just kill me, then! If you don't, he will. Eventually."
"No."
"Do it!"
"No." Bane shook his head, and scratched at the back of his neck; he became all too aware of the habit, and forced himself to stop, dropping his hand back to his side. "He kills you. One less."
✟ ☧ ✟
Bane stood at the door to Suheila's apartment. It was too early for this sort of risk; it was reckless; the neighborhood was still alive with people, wide awake.
Before his arrival, Bane removed his mask before setting boot in he complex of living spaces (they're called apartments), if only to better blend in should anyone see him.
Bane raised a knee, preparing to thrust his foot through the door, paused, and put his foot down.
He reached for the doorknob.
The door was not locked.
Bane reached into his rain saturated leather duster, drawing his totem, the bone mask he called his face, and walked into Suheila's apartment so casually, he could live there himself.
He shut the door behind him.
"Where have you been?" A familiar voice, a young man's, called from behind a closed door.
Bane drew in a breath, and held it.
The closed door opened, and the familiar voice became a familiar face. Bane narrowed his eyes. "You."
"You!" The man in the doorway, the same youth from only a few years ago, thrust his hand out. There was no spiral or energy, no shock wave; there was no scorching, or impact. "Let us see what you fear..."
Jonathan Walker's dead girl Nadjia walked past Bane, across polished wood floorboards to the stairwell.
"...We should watch TV in my room."
Bane watched her ascent up the stairs. Her voice echoed from the stairwell. "Are you coming with me?"
"You don't have a television in your room." Bane flinched, startled as Jonathan's voice echoed from behind him. Moments later the boy walked past him.
Jonathan stopped at the base of the stairs, looked back at Bane - through Bane - and back up the stairs.
(Decisions, decisions.)
Jonathan followed her ascent. Bane reached toward him with a gloved hand, and drew it back, squeezing his eyes tight shut. He shook his head, hitting himself
In the forehead with the palm of his hand. When he opened his eyes, he was there, in Suheila's apartment, the man still in the doorway.
"I see... so you're Jonathan Walker. I wonder... does your brother know who you are? Does anyone?"
"Jonathan Walker is gone."
"Sure, sure. How very science-fiction-fantasy of you. Not very original, is it? Will you cut off David's hand before your big reveal?"
Bane tilted his head, feeling naked without his totem. He stared at it, the mask still in his enormous hand.
"Hiding behind some mask doesn't change who you are."
Bane drew his pistol, but found it trained on Nadjia. She stood at the base of the stairs. "We should watch T.V. in my room."
Bane shook his head.
He could smell her skin, and her hair; the familiarity was overwhelming.
"Are you coming?"
(You don't have a television in your room...) "You don't have a television in your room..."
Bane covered his mouth with his empty hand. He squeezed shut his eyes again. When he opened them, the man was face to face with him.
"You killed my parents."
"They were in my way."
"My name is Logan Henley. Remember my name for your next life."
Logan had Bane's long dagger in his hands, the tip of the blade already planted over Bane's heart. The giant gasped as the blade slid through his kevlar vest, through his chest, and into his heart. Logan let go the blade, stepping back.
Bane dropped his pistol, and gripped the hilt of his dagger, swaying.
He dropped to a knee, and looked up from the floor of the apartment.
Nadjia stood at the base of the stairs.
(There are no stairs)
"...We should watch T.V. in my room."
(She is not there)
Bane pulled the dagger from his chest, the smeared blood on the footling blade beading into small red droplets. "There is no next life for you."
Bane struggled to his feet, and stood, stepping toward Nadjia. She ascended the stairs. He heard Jonathan behind him.
"You don't have a T.V. in your room..."
Bane pulled his mask over his face, his eyes wet with the reaction to the pain in his chest.
The pain of Nadjia, and Jonathan.
Bane closed his eyes, and tilted his head, listening.
"We should watch T.V. in my room."
He could hear breathing behind her voice. It came in quiet, rapid breathes. The kind of breathing that came with concentration... or fear.
Bane tossed his dagger up, it spun in the air once, and he caught it by the blade.
He heard the breathing shift, and move. Bane flung the blade, and the sound of Nadjia's voice stopped. He opened his eyes to see the scene dissolve as Logan Henley fell to his knees, Bane's blade embedded to the hilt through the center of Logan's throat, the man-witch's eyes wide in shock.
Bane smiled behind his mask, as he rose back to his feet. "I am Bane..."
Bane aggressed on Logan as the man-witch pulled desperately at the hilt, the blade firmly in place; the man-witch struggled in futile blood choked gasps to speak. Logan fell to his knees, the color draining from his face. Bane kicked him onto his back.
"Do no harm." He reached for the hilt of his blade, pushing Logan's hands free from the grip, and drew the blade out slowly. Logan's blood flooded from the wounds, pumping in out of his throat in a rhythmic pulse, flooding over his throat, and into the carpeted floor. Bane knelt beside him, resting on a knee.
Logan pushed a hand up against Bane's bone-mask totem. Bane ignored him, pushing the blade of his dagger to the side of Logan's throat, and he began to saw.
✟ ☧ ✟
Suheila woke, her back to the cellar wall beneath the MacAllen ruins, comfortable beneath the crude fur skins Bane kept for warmth.
Bane stood a silhouette before her, a solitary lantern flickering behind him. "Go home."
Suheila frowned. "We talked about this. He will kill me."
Bane moved swiftly, and Suheila felt setting heavy drop onto her lap. Her eyes adjusted to see the expression of terror frozen on Logan's face. She pushed Logan's head of her lap. It rolled toward Bane, who stopped it with a heavy boot. He kicked the head toward the skeletal remains still huddled in the corner of his cellar. "Go home."
"I can't go back there. It must be a bloodbath. Let me stay here."
Bane stared down at her. Suheila could see the bold green in his eyes through the eyelets of his bane mask. Bane began to shake his head, but found himself nodding. "Stay. Go. Whatever suits you."
"...and if I do?"
Bane stared down at her, surprising even himself as he extended his arm, and offered a gloved hand. Suheila accepted his hand, and he pulled Suheila to her feet.
Suheila reached up for his mask, and he flinched. She froze a moment, and then continued, pulling the mask back to the top of his head. Standing on the tip of her toes, she stroked his scarred face.
"I know you. I know that I know you... I wish I knew how. You are so familiar." She traced his scars with the tip of her fingers. "God, what kind of life have you lived?"
Bane blinked, the urge to hurt her fled completely. She stepped toward him - into him - and wrapped her arms as far around him as she could. "Tend to me, creature. Let me tend to you. This feels like fate."
Bane heaved a breath, and released it in a long, deep sigh.
Decisions, decisions.
✟ ☧ ✟
Bane lay on his back, his large head on Suheila's lap.
"I would protect you with my life." Suheila stroked her petite fingers through his dread locked hair.
"...wrong."
"Maybe. Maybe this is the wrong kind of right. It feels like fate. You felt like fate. You feel like fate. I can taste fate. I feel it in my veins like fire. The threads of Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos are all around you, taut, and loose, straight, and twisted. They're slack, and so many cut... yet here you are, and here you live."
"Witch."
"Witch Hunter."
Bane grumbled. Suheila smiled.
"You can't hurt me. You don't want to... and I can't hurt you, either... and if I could, I wouldn't."
"Too much talk." Bane shook her hand off his hair, and sat upright. He plucked his mask up from beside her, and stared at it.
"What is that?" Suheila touched the bone mask with her finger.
"Me."
Her brow creased. "I don't understand."
Bane pointed at the faceted black glass handing from the simple cord on her neck. "From there."
"From Lillian Plow?"
He shook his head. "Endless."
Suheila looked down at the small shard of black glass hanging from her neck. "It must be such a place of power to produce such miracles."
"Slavery."
"What?"
"Taal. Tree. Towers. Black glass."
Suheila felt a cold pang in the pit of her stomach; fear. "...I am no slave. Not to The Order. Not to any coven. To no one."
Bane pointed again to the shard. "Shackles. Slavery."
Suheila stared down at the black glass, and then into Bane's eyes. "What do I do?"
Bane blinked once, and said nothing.
Suheila reached for the faceted shard, and gripped it tightly in her hand. She pulled at the cord, but it would not break. Suddenly the flesh in her hand sizzled, smoldering around the black glass, a thin brown stream of smoke escaping between each her fingers. Suheila screeched, and let the shard go, her palm seared, and blistering around the fresh burn, and melted skin.
"It knows." Bane's voice was little more than a whisper, and Suheila's eyes began to brim.
"Help me. Help me. Get it off me now!"
"One way." Bane drew his pistol and pushed the front of the barrel between Suheila's eyes. He cocked the weapon. Suheila squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling down her cheeks. She began to sob. Bane withdrew the pistol, de-cocking it, and sliding it back into his holster in a single motion.
"Death. Escape."
"I don't want to die."
"I do not want to kill you." Bane sat up, and stretched.
"Witch Hunter." Suheila slumped onto Bane's lap, pulling the furs over her.
Bane stared down at her.
"You're beautiful." Suheila stared up at Bane's scarred face. "You should leave the mask behind you."
He shook his head, setting the mask down beside him. "Shackled. Slavery."
"You too, huh?" Suheila rolled onto her side. "Can we just stay here, and forget what's outside?"
Bane desired that, but said nothing. He carefully scooped Suheila up into his arms, and stood. He held her in his arms like a small child a long time, breathing the familiar smell of her skin, and hair. She smelled like Nida, and Jonathan's Nadjia. All he wanted to do - his only compulsion in the moment was to breathe her in.
There was work to do, and she was not a part of that.
He dropped her onto the floor of the cellar, and she landed with a sharp thud on the dirty floorboards. "Go."
Suheila rubbed her shoulder, sore from the impact. "Go? What about last night? What we've shared?"
"Go."
"No! Not unless I can see you again."
Bane pulled the bone mask onto his head, and down over his face, securing the crude leather straps in place. He pulled his hair over the straps, and stared at the girl, and nodded once. "Soon."
"Soon?"
He nodded, and then ascended from the cellar, leaving the trapdoor open behind him. His voice echoed around her from the corners, the walls, and the floor.
Soon.