Wash felt strange - solid, somehow. It was dark, but he could hear things - the crash of the surf, the breeze on the trees and brush and grass. Small, quiet sounds that were only apparent thanks to their long absence. It was refreshing. Welcome. He felt like he was home, and he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation.
He kept his eyes closed for a little while longer, concentrating on his breathing.
He remembered what had lead to this. He remembered having to give up bits and pieces of himself, although he could not remember what. Wash supposed that if he was lying here, breathing and listening to the world carry on around him, he'd succeeded. They'd succeeded, all of them. All their little sacrifices had come together, to mean something. Something more.
He sat up slowly, tucking his knees into his chest and resting his arms on them for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He was on the island - he remembered that much at least. He didn't remember why or how he'd been conscripted, but it seemed unimportant somehow. Moments of his life, important ones, from here and from before were missing, but it was like a pulled tooth - he only noticed when he focused on it, ran his tongue over the gap.
He didn't try. For all that he forgot, he still remembered other things, things both great and terrible.
He remembered Shasa - Sasha, he corrected - holding her in his arms, fingers interlaced with hers as he was unmade. Fighting at her side, watching her agile, quick movements. Her efficiency that he feared and also envied. She was so beautiful, so perfect, if only she could see. She was violence contained, but could also be so soft and oh so pliable, molten with a dark heat that burned him up as it warmed him.
There were some things he almost wished he'd forgotten. His chest, burning and tearing - a woman's sweet whisper. It only hurts once. The dry, rasping call of the scissors, of a heart stolen and a heart returned. He had given and taken his heart so many times it was almost hard to keep track. He had done horrid things, evil things, to save her - to save himself.
He held her under the water, held her until she stopped moving, until the water was gone and there was just a door -
Wash didn't feel horror, though. He felt strange, disconnected. He wondered distantly if he'd finally snapped - is this what it felt like, to lose your sense of self? Your sense of right and wrong? He felt nothing for the woman in the half-remembered dream but guilt that he should feel something. Even that seemed to fade, until he was left with peaceful emptiness. A well of calm. He had done what he'd had to do. The stillness was almost comforting - he'd found a quiet place, a center he hadn't known he'd had. He'd been weak before, and still was - a liability. A burden. Prey. But still, he'd done things. He'd killed. There was no sense of regret or remorse; just the knowledge that it had been necessary.
It was in the past now, and that meant nothing and everything.
He stood, and as he did, he noticed something strange - his shadow. He hissed, and summoned his weapon - and then it spoke, and he stilled.
Memories.
So that had been the price of victory, then? Sally shuddered, and he noticed a heaviness, a weight that hadn't been there before - glowing white chains, deceptively delicate, wrapped around her, and dangling at their center was a small lock, inlaid with crosses and scrollwork.
A lock, to keep the past at bay.
He picked through the pieces of what he DID remember - had he really killed her, this mystery woman? Would God forgive him for what he had done if he had? It wasn't like the island had a priest- and if he wanted to go to confession, there was probably a lot more than that he'd had to answer for.
Denise. He remembered dates - fragments, pictures, she had meant something to him, once. But his most recent memories were of Sasha, of a small, shared room, a cramped bed.
Her pale body wrapped up in his.
If Denise was the price paid for keeping that little glimpse of heaven alive, that little light - it was a burden he could bear.
He examined the little lock, with it's crucifixes, carefully, turning it over in his large hands. What did it mean? Wash let it drop, and it clinked faintly against the shield. It meant, he supposed, whatever he wanted it to mean. He scanned the beach, taking in a deep breath of air - he'd been on patrol when it'd happened.
She wasn't here. But, he was sure, somehow, she was safe.
And that was all that really mattered anymore.
