Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ White Shadows and Black Reflections ❯ Henkersmahlzeit, part I ( Chapter 10 )

First of all, lots of thanks to moimoi-chan, who was so nice to review on mediaminer and give me a boost in morale. I apologize for taking so long to update, but at times, I'm an awfully slow writer. ; )

 

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Waking up again felt like being pulled from the grave. The soothing darkness of oblivion gave way to the glaring, unforgiving light of consciousness. Grief and guilt were squatting in the depths of his bowels like a pair of nightmarish ghouls, pulling and poking at his innards with sharp daggers and yet keeping him alive.

 

He very much wanted to run and hide, loose himself in madness again, anything to protect him from having to face his existence, but he simply had no power left to move. He was just too drained and too cold. So incredibly cold. There was no place to hide left anyway. Not anymore. He realized with dread that the memory and the knowledge were here to stay.

 

He took note of the fact that there were soft fingers gently stroking his brow. His head lay cushioned in someone's lap and a voice, a rich contralto obviously belonging to the same person as the fingers, was humming a mellow lullaby. It stood in stark contrast to the ice lurking in his heart, and despite its' soothing effect, he felt utterly miserable. Defeated.

 

It hit him then that his vendetta had been a sham, a lie. It wasn't God. Never had been. It had been him. He was the one to blame. He had been such a fool. Such a bigot little fraud.

 

Heh.

 

Laughter rose in the back of his throat like a deluge, spilling from his lips like poison, rough and harsh. It echoed dully in his ears and it hurt, but he couldn't stop. Just couldn't stop. Soon his whole body was shaking, wracked by laughter and choked sobs.

 

It was all such a joke. Such a fucking, damn joke. And he had played it on himself.

 

The hands just kept stroking him, calm and comforting and he was weirdly glad for that. Not being abandoned for once was a nice, even if it didn't change anything.

 

He knew that there was no more point in fighting. No more point in killing. No more point in living. The purpose holding him upright even though he was shattered beyond repair, keeping him alive, driving him forever onward had evaporated like fog in the sunlight.

 

Unfortunately, for the first time ever, he was bloody terrified of dying.

 

The thought alone sent nausea rolling through his body like a ship on the verge of capsizing in a tempest. If he died, she might be waiting for him on the other side. And what would he tell her then? How could he look into her eyes and tell her that after ending her life, he had gone on killing because he was too weak and cowardly to face the truth?

 

“You still don't remember her name, do you?”

 

The question was unexpected and it hit him like a sledge-hammer. He hadn't realized that there still were pieces missing. His eye flew open.

 

The first thing he noticed about the woman holding and stroking him was the colour of her eyes. Green. Brilliant, laughing, emerald green. And she had freckles. Strawberry-blonde hair and a buxom figure. A white blouse and a green dress with puffed sleeves and a wide skirt. It reminded him of the picture of a dairy-maid he had once seen in one of his children's books.

 

“You think it doesn't matter anymore, do you? Because you think that nothing in this world would set things to rights again?” He noticed that she smelled like fresh milk too. Similar to his sister, but not quite the same. What the heck was she trying to get at?

 

He frowned and she ruffled his hair, in a good-natured way that didn't feel patronizing, even though it might have.

 

“You might be wrong, you know. It can be all right again. But if you're too hasty now, you will loose your chance to figure things out. Just keep following the path, you're nearly there. It's important.”

 

His sister, his family and so many others were dead at his hands, all for nothing. Meaningless. Futile. And it had all come to pass because he had been weak and cowardly and stupid. His fault, his alone. The knowledge HURT. Left him bleeding to death on the inside. Broken, crushed, flayed, burning with agony and despair, eaten alive by the acidic fires of being aware, and she was implying that things weren't so BAD? That there was HOPE?

 

Confused irritation bloomed into fury and the touch that he had found comforting before was unbearable now. Her words incensed him. What the hell did SHE know? He had dedicated his entire existence to fighting an unholy crusade, only to discover that his promised land was a barren waste where hollow dreams crumbled to dust and contorted delusions marred the surface, black and thorny and bloody.

 

Fuck this and fuck her.

 

In an instant, he was on his feet too, snarling and ready to wring her neck, but she just smiled and held something out to him. Something that stopped him cold in his tracks. The vision had just pulled another trick out of its sleeve and left him floundering like a fish on land.

 

It was a picture. A picture of him and his sister. They were holding each other and smiling mischievously into the camera.

 

He remembered his mom taking that picture and he also remembered her writing their names on the back of it. His hand was shaking as he accepted the picture and turned it over.

 

“Breanna and Jei, 8 and 5 years old” it read.