It was snowing.
Celsus didn't feel it. He kept walking, his head bowed, his red hair falling in lank, dampened curtains on either side of his pale face, cheeks flushed from the cold, but otherwise adopting an almost greenish tinge, sickly and pallid. The persistent feeling of unwell had not abated; the nausea felt almost constant now, thick and clogging in his throat, and he'd long since grown accustomed to the whispers that shifted aimlessly throughout his mind.
Silence was almost unbearable. The loft was too silent, too empty. He'd taken to putting on loud music or television or something, anything to make the thick, oppressive, suffocating silence go away - and if course, it hadn't worked. It still pressed in on him, like the walls closing in, like the loft itself was contracting to crush him between plaster walls.
So he was here, now, walking down a long stretch of sidewalk outside of a deserted coffee shop. Outside, it was better. Outside, it wasn't painful to breathe, at least not in the same way that it was inside of the loft (empty empty empty). His boots left imprints in the newly fallen snow, quickly replaced by new snow that fell in fat, white flakes down across Destiny City and turned it into a muted wonderland of a sort.
The streets were deserted at this time of night, but it seemed brighter, somehow, the lightness of the snow competing against the inky grey-black skies. Celsus paused beneath a street light and looked up, his face half shadowed, the yellowish, fluorescent light casting a wedge across the front of his uniform and illuminating the golden medallions. They clinked with every step - stealth had never been one of his strong points, not since he'd awakened - and the sound was dull in the quiet air, the only other noise that of the soft rustling of snowflakes.
He felt it - the first, gentle touch of a power signature nearby. It was subtle, softer; weaker than his own. Chaos, because he knew the stain of it. Chaos, because he knew the taste of blackness on his tongue, because he had searched so long and hard for it that by now he could feel it in his lungs, curling up through his throat and choking him from the inside out.
Because you'll never make it, not really.
You'll never be the one they want.
You'll never be a proper knight because you are much
too
weak.
He kept walking. He felt the power signature again, closer by this time, falling into his path, and he wondered whether it was purposeful; if the bearer of the signature could tell the strength of the person that was drawing nearer and nearer to them.
(Strength was a laughable word. He had no strength. Not anymore.
Had he ever?)
Celsus took a few more steps forward, and he felt it strongly, somewhere deep inside his chest, the whispers shifting and undulating through his mind like soft hisses of snakes across his thoughts. The energy was just up ahead, the Chaos drawing him in as though it were a siren call echoing throughout the night.
A figure stepped out of an alleyway in front of him, clad entirely in black, save for the lavender trim at the neck and waist, and a strip down the front. Startlingly green eyes looked at him through the falling snow, and the expression on his face was a something like apprehension mixed with resignation.
"Hello," said Cerussite.
* * * * * *
He did not recognize the man who stood before him. Taller than himself, but only by a few inches, and with red hair that framed a pallid, sickly looking face. Cerussite would have imagined that, had it not been for the strange sense of weariness emanating from the man, that he would have been particularly imposing to come across.
But he was half hunched over now, his shoulders stiff and tense. The hem of his cape was dragging across the snow, soaking through so that it was a dirty gray in color instead of the pristine white that it probably should have been, like the rest of his uniform - not a senshi's uniform, but unfamiliar, unrecognized. Shadows rimmed his eyes, hollowing out his face, so that it looked gaunt and exhausted.
Cerussite wondered what was passing through his mind.
"Good evening," said the man, and his voice was hoarse, as though he was unused to using it at all, a rasping note to it as he stood there. A soft wind was gusting through his lank hair, making it blow in red strands across his face, catching in the frame of his glasses. "And who might you be?"
He felt his heartbeat pick up, felt his pulse climb.
"Cerussite," he said, "My name is Cerussite."
"Cerussite," the man repeated. "My name is Celsus."
There was silence for a moment as they looked at one another. Cerussite had not meant to run into someone whose power signature was as high as this; had been on his way home when he'd felt it, but there had been no escaping. He couldn't run fast, and by the time he'd made it into the alleyway, it had been too late. Staying hidden between the two buildings wasn't an option; he'd be trapped there, with no way out.
So he'd done the only think he could think of - and stepped out.
He almost regretted his choice now, the panic welling deep in his stomach like a terrible burning sensation that seemed to eat him away. Cerussite had a fleeting, reckless idea of trying to run, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes wide even as he tried to tamp down on the fear in his throat.
"What are you, Celsus?" he asked, and there was the smallest of tremors to his voice. "You're not a senshi...are you..?"
There was, oddly enough, the softest sense of laughter that accompanied the man's next words, but it was not humorous, or lighthearted. In fact, it felt more like a bark than anything else, the sound forced out of him, ragged and bitter, as though it tasted bad on his tongue.
"No," said the man - Celsus - with a strange, twisted smile. "a knight."
It was not said with pride. Cerussite was frozen in place.
"A knight?"
Green eyes, similar to his own in color, but perhaps a little darker, rose to meet his gaze. The expression was haunted; and in the split second before it happened, Cerussite knew it would, could see as though it were a movie reel unfolding in front of him, rabbit fast and tangling together in a blur.
"A failure," whispered the knight, and lunged.
* * * * * *
Celsus could hear the pounding in his own ears, his own pulse loud as he swung a fist, and it connected painfully hard with the lieutenant's side. He heard a rasp of breath, a strangled gasp for air - and then a foot was braced against his stomach, and he was forcibly pushed back, Celsus letting out a snarl of irritation.
The lieutenant had doubled over, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he wheezed, a hand on his ribs. Celsus was already diving forward again, cape flashing around him, and this time he tried for a kick, swinging his leg sideways in a wide arc.
Cerussite let out a sound that was almost a cry, but not quite, twisting rapidly and Celsus's foot missed him by inches. He cursed, readjusted his balance to accommodate for the misstep, and pivoted, but Cerussite had already pushed forward, half lowered, and drove his shoulder into Celsus's chest.
There was a brief scuffle, feet sliding in the snow. Celsus stumbled under the unexpected weight thrown against him, a sharp gasp escaping him, and for a moment the two of them were tangled together enough that he couldn't quite figure out what to do. The lieutenant was skinnier, more slender, but Celsus's head felt thick, his mind sluggish; and the dizziness that gripped him was unhelpful, a disadvantage even with his prolonged experience.
He grabbed blindly and found a handful of hair, yanking hard. This time Cerussite really did cry out, his head snapping back, hands automatically rising to try and disengage Celsus's fingers - but his grip, in spite of his constantly trembling hands, was strong, and Celsus threw the boy sideways, against the side of the building.
He hit it with a heavy thump that seemed endlessly loud in the silent night.
* * * * * *
Stars exploded in Cerussite's vision, the side of his head connecting painfully with the brick of the building. Pain was immediate and blinding, a splintering, stabbing sensation against his temple, and he staggered, gasping as he tried to regain his footing.
He turned just in time. The knight's fist careened towards him, but Cerussite spun on the spot and threw himself bodily against his torso, ignoring the nausea that was rising rapidly in his throat, the fact that his leg and head were both throbbing.
Ignoring the fact that he was just a small, insignificant lieutenant, and this was a strong knight with a look in his eyes that made Cerussite feel, for the first time in his life, as though he were falling deeper and deeper into a pit of never ending blackness that would soon consume him.
They both fell. Celsus's back hit the snowy sidewalk with a raged yell of surprise and pain torn from a ragged throat. Cerussite, carried on with the momentum, had landed partially atop him, and now he tried to dig an elbow into his stomach, anything to keep him occupied long enough to move away.
Something hit him in the side of his face - a hand - and Cerussite toppled sideways, and now their positions were reversed. Celsus slung a leg over him, knee pressed against stomach so that his breath staggered horribly out of him, so that he almost vomited right then and there from the sudden, intense pressure.
His wrists were caught, pinned down even as he struggled, and Cerussite felt terror rising in him, thick and fast.
No, he thought desperately, and there was a blow across his face now, ringing throughout his skull, the pain doubling. He felt his head lifted as his vision swam in and out of sight, and then his head was cracked down onto the snow covered sidewalk hard enough that he screamed, hard enough that he thought he was surely, surely being broken apart right then and there.
No.
Stop.
"Please."
The word came out of him a desperate, ragged gasp, unintentionally. Cerussite felt a bubbling, gurgling sound and realized belatedly it was coming from his own throat as a pair of thumbs pressed down at the base of his neck, blood sliding down the side of his head, the corner of his mouth. His hands rose automatically to grapple at wrists he knew he had no chance of breaking, fingers digging in, clutching.
"Please."
Don't.
I have to go home.
I can't -
I don't want to die here, I can't die here, stop, please, please, stop -
Please -
* * * * * *
Stop this.
You can't do this.
Stop it, Celsus.
His fingers pressed harder.
* * * * * *
Blackness was encroaching in his vision. He knew there were tears in his eyes, because he had never been able to control his emotions before, because he was "such a crybaby" (and he heard it, in Hitch's teasing, adoring voice, heard it as clearly as if he was standing beside him).
"Please," he whispered, a choking sound.
His hands were slackening on Celsus's wrists.
* * * * * *
He was shaking violently. He did not even know himself.
"You," said Celsus, "Show me. Let me see your face."
He did not know why it was important, not now, but his head was spinning dangerously, and he could hardly move, could hardly breathe. One face was just another in the Negaverse. One lieutenant was just another, a soldier, faceless and robotic.
But he wanted to see.
One face. Then he'd be done.
Then it would be over.
* * * * * *
He couldn't.
He -
* * * * * *
"Show me."
* * * * * *
His breath was leaving him. He couldn't hold on much longer, his chest rattling for air.
The guise - the glamour - the protection - slid away.
* * * * * *
The world stopped.
He knew it stopped, because everything stopped. His breath, his heart, his body, his thoughts, all came to a terrible, screeching, aching halt. Celsus crouched in a frozen, motionless position, his eyes widening farther with each passing second. The only thing that kept moving was the snow around them, falling softly.
And the trembling of his hands, which had quelled, ever so briefly; and now started again, more intensely than before.
"No," said Celsus, "No."
* * * * * *
He didn't understand. His mind felt foggy, hazy, his thoughts a terrible, cluttered collection of sound and emotion and feelings that made no sense whatsoever. A ringing was in his ears, a muffled voice, the feeling of hands against his neck, digging into his windpipe.
And then those hands were gone, and the air rushed back into his lungs, violently fast and furious.
Tolliver St. James choked, his eyes flying wide.
* * * * * *
It was impossible.
The redheaded man on the ground, gasping for air, was not the only one who felt as though they had been strangled.
Celsus could not breathe.
* * * * * *
He felt weak. Slowly he began to come into himself, as though through a fog, and Tolliver pushed himself, painfully, agonizingly up into a sitting position, still heaving for breath, his watery eyes searching for the knight and wondering why the reprieve.
He found him, standing a few feet away.
He was staring, white faced at Tolliver, with an expression of the utmost terror on his face that Tolliver did not understand.
"Why?" he rasped, and his voice came out hoarse, ragged. "Why - "
The knight's face was deathly pale.
* * * * * *
No.
The world had ended, was still ending.
Why, he was being asked, Why?
What have I done?
"Tolliver," he said. "No."
* * * * * *
He did not understand.
"How do you know my name?"
* * * * * *
Ludicrous laughter was bubbling in his throat. He felt a terrible, horrible, painful ache in his chest that seemed to be overtaking him, and the universe had turned on him before, had given him challenges, but this - this - was some cosmic joke.
His face was hot. Celsus was not aware that he was crying; that his cheeks were streaked with tears that burned.
You have taken everything from me now.
It's all over.
The smallest, weakest of laughs escaped him as slowly, slowly he shook his head.
"Oh, Olly," Celsus whispered.
* * * * * *
Olly.
Only one person in the entire world had ever called him that. Only one person had ever thought to call him that, and had never called him by such a nickname in public. Hitch called him Tolli. Hitch called him babe, baby, sweetheart. Love.
Only one person called him Olly.
The world was crashing down around Tolliver. He'd forgotten his neck, the fact that his entire body ached and throbbed so painfully it was ingrained within him. Forgotten everything else except the man standing in front of him, the man with the red hair and the glasses and green eyes so very, very like his own.
"Fritz..?"
* * * * * *
The smile was weak, then disappeared entirely.
What have I done?
A choking sob, shaking, awful, so painful he wanted to lose himself entirely and never, ever come back.
"I'm sorry," whispered Celsus, "I'm so sorry."
And then he was gone, and the world was gone with him, crashing, burning, disappearing under his feet like melting snow.
[ WORDCOUNT: 2612 ]
Reply
