Jonathan sat next to Trent's corpse. It was beginning to stink, and rot. Still yet, there were no flies, no creeping, crawling vermin coming to eat its flesh.
Eyes, red rimmed, Jonathan sat on the bloodied floorboards of the ruins, the blood itself dried in places, and congealed in others. For three days now he waited, waited to smell her perfume. Waited to see her appear as she did the night she warned him not to come.
The night he was forced to say goodbye without ever once being allowed to say it.
Not at her funeral, not at the wake, not between then and the moment Trent gave up the ghost did he find his closure.
Now, all he could do is wait. Wait for her to show. Wait for death to be finally merciful, and take him to see his wife.
Anything. He would accept anything, but he was only given silence, and the piss saturated stench of Trent's rotting carcass. Even the intermittent rains could not wash away enough of the blood, or.stink, and they did nothing to preserve the rot.
Death, or none, he would not return to The Order.
"This was your fault." Jonathan stared up at the black cloudy night sky as it began again to rain. He warned Him long ago that if she died, he'd hate Him.
...but even that was not so true.
How could he hate God for failures that were his own? It was God, and His rites and blessings given to The Order, passed down each generation that made him fast, and strong.
...just not strong enough, pe fast enough to save her. To save Nadjia.
Jonathan did not hate God. Jonathan hated himself. He hated his weakness. His heart. His longing, and his sorrow. He hated it all. To feel. To suffer.
Where was death?
His throat was raw. He needed to eat. To drink. He wanted neither. "...please Nadjia."
Movement nearby. Jonathan turned his head to stare at Clayton's silhouette at the opening to the ruins.
"Boy?"
Jonathan glared up at Clayton. "I'm done."
"There is no done, boy." Clayton stepoes through the hole of the ruins. "You're Order. Order to the day you die."
"You're going to have to to kill me."
"Well, I'm not doing that, either."
Jonathan's hoarse voice was hollow in the place where Nadjia once carved their names. Their initials at least. "I'm not going back."
Clayton stepped through the hole in the wall of the ruins. He took a seat on the other side of Trent's corpse, and pushed a gloved finger into one of the empty sockets. "Did he suffer?"
Jonathan's laughter was dark. "I took his eyes first. Then, I cut his throat. I was careful not to sever the artery. I needed him alive. I took the right lung, first. Then the left. I pissed on his corpse."
Clayton nodded. "It's not me, boy. Its Em. She's strong... but your mom. She's not strong enough to see you gone. Come home for your mom."
Jonathan shook his head, and felt a sharp sensation of falling in his stomach. He and Clayton were both on their feet, blades drawn.
They were many, too many, their faces in shadow, hooded and cloaked in black robes. Jonathan narrowed his eyes, trying to focus through the shadow, but could not. "Magick."
"No exit," Clay growled. "Dead to the last man."
Jonathan did not hesitate, flipped a dagger, and threw it with deadly grace. It apin through the darkness once, and plunged to the hilt in the cheat to the first that set foot into the ruins.
They flooded in.
Clay held his ground. "They've seen our faces!"
"To the last one, old man! No prisoners!"
Clay held his ground as the rushed in, thrusting their arms out. He felt small bursts of energy rush toward him, dissipating over him.
Amateurs.
Clayton rushed the closest to him, cutting, slashing, stabbing, and striking to no avail. The witch was so fast - almost fast as he - as if they were anticipating his attacks before they happened.
Behind him, Jonathan's assault was more effective. He slashed, and cut the next robed figure in line for slaughter, cutting them a roas the belly. She screamed out in pain, hunched over his blade. Jonathan rolled over her back pulling his blade from her, and landed crouched next to the first dead long enough to pull his second blade free.
Clayton found himself on the retreat, his attacker reaching for his blades. They caught his polished steel blades and the blades became snakes in his hands. Clayton gasped, staggering over his own feet, and dropping the snakes which fell to the floor with a glint and metallic clatter.
They were only daggers. Illusion. They could use illusion. Burning the house down around them.
The witch was gone. Clay dove for his blades, and rolled, recovering g to his feet as Jonathan continued fighting over a mounting pile of bodies. "Run old man!"
"Not without you, boy."
"Fuck you, I told you I'm not going back. Mom will need you."
"Boy!"
"Leave me, or they'll find you among us while they're sifting through the dead!"
Clayton glanced at the entryway. Jonathan was still facing down so many. "We can do this!"
"I'm done with The Order!" Jonathan cut another down. "If you're not going to join me for the reunio , get out!"
Fuck, Nadjia.
"You come home alive, boy!"
Jonathan fought as Clayton slipped out of the ruins.
♚ ♚ ♚
Jonathan was down to the last of them.
There was one, one in particular, who kept dancing around his attacks, and pulling others out of his way.
Jonathan closed his eyes, clearing his mind. Their attacks came, blunt weak punches. He deflected them, sensing their attacks. The witch - the fast one - was close.
She was close.
So, they had a leader.
Jonathan sheathed his daggers, green eyes wide open, adapted now to the dark. His gloved hand was on her diminutive throat before she could react.
She's small.
He plucked her from her fold, pulling her to him tight, blade unsheathed and to her throat. A faint perfume wafted up from beneath her robes. He knew who it was before she pulled back her hood, the shadow dissipating from her face.
"Stop!" Her voice held authority, authority he did not know she had. Her hands were outstretched, warning back the others. One at a time they pulled theirnhooda back, revealing their faces from behind conjured shadow.
Jonathan knew them all. "Amir? Angela - Angela Blackwood?"
He dropped his dagger, the blade clattering at Nida's feet.
"Jonathan." Amir's gentle shaking voice hung in the air, his eyes brimming.
"Not you. Why?"
"Jonathan, we were only here for the boy, the dead boy."
Jonathan stole a glance at Trent's mutilated corpse, and let Nida go. She turned to face him. "We cannot let you go, baby boy."
"Then kill me."
Amir stayed put behind Nida, but then remains of their coven closed in.
"No." Nida's commanding tone was only a whisper, but the others stopped.
"Angela, you're Order." Jonathan's voice cracked, tears spilling down his cheeks.
Angela Blackwood, the long estranged wife of Donovan Blackwood cast her gaze to the corpse covered floor, blood streaming out from beneath the dead bodies.
Jonathan fell to his knees, and reached for his blade. Nida knelt suddenly and caught his gloved hand in hers.
There was no strength in him left, no will to fight. Her wide eyed blue stare locked onto his green eyes. "Come home, baby boy. Let me tend to you."