FALL (The Senses) (7 page)

The pain
lived on and it hurt so much at times that she ran to the bathroom and retched
her guts out. Hopelessness was a desolate emotion that grabbed hold and refused
to let go. Nevertheless, she’d found an outlet, something to help take her pain
away. She knew it was wrong, illogical and stupid, but surviving immortality
without Waleron was illogical.

She used
her knives to cut her skin. Never to kill herself, that would end the pain and
defeat the purpose. No, she cut to take away the emotional pain.

Waleron

Location:
Unknown 1987 (61 years presumed dead)

Sixty-one
years of unimaginable torture. Pain so horrific that often he passed out. The
silk webs strapped across his naked, shivering body cut like knives into his
flesh with the slightest movement. Even when the Lilac Jasmine locked him in
the cell, her webs remained latched to his skin so he was unable to Trace to
the Realm. She must have known that a Taldeburu was unable to Trace with open
wounds, except to the Realm. Like chains, her unbreakable webs that shot from
the tips of her fingers kept him trapped here.

Pain had
become his existence, his way of knowing that he lived and that this was real,
although he wondered how much of him would be real if he ever escaped. He
suspected that if it weren’t for his Scar, any goodness left inside him would
have been dead long before now. He realized that this was why the Goddess had
given him a unique tattoo unlike any other Scar. His Scar kept him sane,
reminded him of his oath of why he walked this Earth. The tattoo rested on his
shoulder and neck feeding on any anger, quiet and subtle, never moving. Without
the snake tattoo, he suspected he’d be crazed with rage by now, determined to
kill anyone in his path, good or evil.

The
unimaginable torture of standing contained in Jasmine’s webs was pure torment.
When his legs failed him, as they often did, the sharp silk strands cut into
his flesh so deep that only the density of his bones stopped them from cutting
him into pieces. He’d often pass out only to wake with wounds that released his
screams into the air like a tortured lion.

She had
removed the neck-prong device yesterday. He’d stood immobile for days, unable
to turn his head or the prongs would drill holes into his flesh. Every few
months she put it on him to test his resilience.

He
winced as he took a deep breath and the webbing sunk further into his flesh.
His jaw clenched, eyes staring forward into the darkness of the subterranean
room where Jasmine kept him hidden. It was void, filled with the scent of wet
stones and musky, soiled air. The room was the size of a large walk-in closet
with a low ceiling and walls made of cement. Waleron could feel the density of
what was beyond the walls, which he gathered was soil. He felt like a raw piece
of meat hanging on a hook in a cold cellar.

The one
and only candle flickered as he heard Jasmine coming down the stairs. Her
distinct aroma made his stomach lurch.

She
stopped in front of him and smiled, shaking her head from side to side and
clucking her tongue. “Do calm yourself, Waleron. You know it only makes the
pain worse.” She slipped her hand past the webs and like Moses and the Red Sea,
the strands parted. She gripped his right arm and pulled it past the barriers.
“Now look what you’ve done. All these cuts for nothing. You know it’s pointless
to fight what has become your fate.” She stroked his wrist with the tip of her
padded finger. He remained frozen, unable to pull back, unable to do anything
but feel her sickly touch on his skin. “I have news concerning your Delara.”

His
muscles flexed and he felt like his mind was on fire, burning with anguish and
fear of what her next words would be.

Jasmine
reached forward again, but this time lower, between his legs to cup him in her
hand, stroking the sensitive surface with the tips of her fingers as she often
did. His ice-blue eyes stared with undaunted coldness as she touched him
intimately, her body rubbing up against his own, fingers grasping him, playing,
stroking, hoping to get a reaction, but all he thought about was ripping
Jasmine to shreds. He’d suffer and live through this for that one day he would
get the chance to crush her slender frame in his hands. 

Jasmine
tightened her grip around him and he held back the groan of pain. He knew
exactly what she was doing—playing with him while speaking of Delara, hoping to
get him aroused. She constantly tested him in sick ways and sometimes, he hated
to admit, it worked. Not this time though. Delara’s name passing Jasmine’s lips
made him sick to his stomach. “I feel sorry for you, Waleron. The love of your
life, fucking another man must be a difficult image.”

Her
laughter was drowned out by his roar.

Jasmine
licked her lips, staring into his unforgiving eyes. “Perhaps it would be easier
to imagine your sweet, precious Delara lying in a ditch. My source says she was
beaten pretty badly.” Waleron’s entire body contracted. No. God no.

“Oh, not
to fret, she still breathes. Painfully I might add. A shame you cannot help
her.” Jasmine laughed and Waleron’s hands clenched into fists.

“Oh calm
yourself. It will be far better for her to die slowly than for one of us to end
it quickly. I thought of bringing her here, letting you watch her die, but no
point, really. The Vivian Forest is rather far from here and she wouldn’t last
the trip, I’m afraid. Once she’s gone,” Jasmine ran a finger down his chest,
“you will no longer see any reason to fight me.” She spun on her heel and left
him alone to play over the worst words he could ever hear in his immortal life.

Delara
is dying.

A bellow
of pure torture rocked the stones surrounding his prison. Oblivious to the
threads digging into his flesh Waleron shouted and fought against the cocoon.
His pain mixed with fear over what was happening to Delara. He was unable to
protect her.

Waleron’s
oath was all he was and he’d lose a large part of himself by saving her. He’d
always thought he’d rather die than risk using his Scar. Now—he’d rather die
than lose Delara, yet using his Scar also meant he may never be able to be with
Delara again.

The Scar
was a gift from the Goddess when he was born, although Waleron had always seen
it as a detriment. It was different than the other Senses Scars; his held
darkness. Any rage, anger, and wrath he felt were taken in by his Scar. It sat
silent and unmoving on his skin, feeding on volatile emotions.      

The
Goddess never wanted Waleron to lose control, so his Scar absorbed his emotions
when they became too intense, especially in situations like he was in now. If
his Scar hadn’t been feeding on his rage he would have already lost his sanity.
Waleron’s Scar was a shield that kept his oath to protect the Senses and all
their traditions in the forefront of his mind. It also was unable to leave his
skin. In other words, if he ever called upon his Scar for help, he became his
Scar.  The absorbed darkness, rage, and anger became part of him, because his
Scar would now live as part of him. Waleron would never be the same man again.
The Scar would be able to take control of him and destroy all he cared about.
But he would risk everything and anything to get to Delara.

His
mother, Arossa Urrutia, a sadistic witch and one of the first Senses, had
begged the Goddess to put the Scar on him. The ultimate torture, a Scar that
Waleron could never call to without severe consequences. All his mother cared
about was for her son to live his oath. To
be
his oath to the Goddess.

There
were thousands of silk threads across Waleron’s body and they had to be broken
individually. Time was an issue, as he had no idea when Jasmine would return.
The Goddess claimed the snake held a fire within, but warned Waleron that
awakening his Scar would allow it to slowly control his body because it could
never be forced to rest and lie dormant on his skin again. His Scar would take
him over, forcing him to act only with the fury his Scar had fed off of since
the day he was born.

“Light
giveth to my soul. Coiled on my skin the darkness to keep away. Shine through
your radiance, aid my plight and burn these threads.”

The
coiled snake tattoo on Waleron’s neck began to slither at his low chant,
unraveling its massive body to slink over his ear. Its sleek, black form felt
like the flame of a candle being held over his skin as it awakened to his call.
He had to do this. There was no other choice.

The
first thread snapped and with it, relief. Waleron’s heart drummed and sweat
formed on his brow. There was no going back.

It was
two hours before his body was free from the sticky webs and then another hour
before he managed to gain his balance and walk. Waleron headed towards the door
that imprisoned him in hell and was surprised to find it unlocked. Jasmine had
become too confident in her webs.

He threw
on the clothes Jasmine left in the small cell he often sat in for weeks then
walked up several flights of cement stairs until he reached a wooden door. He
tried to lift the latch—locked.

Waleron
punched his fist into the rotted wood repeatedly until the wood splintered in
all directions. He stepped through the opening and stared up into the moonlit
sky.

The
fresh air was a gift, cleansing his pale, deprived body of the last sixty-one
years. It swept over his skin, feeding his blood, lending its strength. He
peered up at the sky, his eyes lingering on the stars. His star. The brightest
one in the sky that reminded him of Delara’s eyes when she laughed. He used the
power of nature and all the power left inside him and Traced to the Realm. It
was the only place he could go without healing first. He’d have Zurina heal the
open wounds enough so he could Trace to the Vivian Forest and then they’d find
Delara.

If she
was still alive. If he wasn’t too late.

Found

“Baby.”

Waleron?
He sounded so real, as if…as if he was right next to her. He used to call her
that—baby. A long time ago.

“Maitagarri,
please.”

His warm
breath swept across her cold skin. No. Her memories were haunting her before
death. Waleron was dead and with him her heart and soul.

“Jedrik.
Zurina. I found her. East side of McCowen Road, half mile North of Vivian
Road.”
Silence.
“She’s
dying damn it. Get here now.”

Waleron?
His telepathic voice was so clear in her mind as if she could reach up just a
bit and her hand would grace his skin and she’d melt into the warmth of his
body. God, she really was going to leave this earth. Finally. Finally, she’d be
with him.

Something
heavy lowered on top of her and she flinched, instinct taking over as she tried
to curl into a ball to avoid any further abuse to her body, but her limbs
failed to cooperate. Some fabric tickled her chin, rough, but warm and heavy,
not suffocating only comforting.

A gentle
hand came beneath her head, lifting it until she was resting on some sort of
spongy surface. She breathed in and abruptly stopped as Waleron’s scent
inundated her senses. It felt so real. So reassuring. Her love had arrived and
it felt right. She wasn’t scared only...relieved.

The soft
whispers in undistinguishable Basque dialect made her reconsider slipping into
death. Words spoken with a deep English lilt she knew as Waleron’s made her
swollen lids pry open, wincing and hesitating as pain shot through her head
from the effort.

A shadowy
figure crouched beside her, a man with broad shoulders and with small cuts all
over his face, but it was when she saw his eyes...eyes like...those ice-blue
eyes she’d fallen in love with. But that—that was impossible. They belonged to
a man who was dead. She had to be hallucinating, her last moments giving her a
final glimpse of him.

Had his
ghost come to take her away? Or was her mind imagining him?

She
tried to move away confused by what was happening.

“No.” A
hand tightened on her right shoulder pressing down, not forcefully, only with
assurance that it was better if she listened to his words. “Do not move, Maitagarri,”
he said.

She took
a swift inhale of breath which was quickly cut off and choked by what she knew
had to be blood in her lungs. Maitagarri. Only Waleron called her that. It was
him, yet believing that Waleron was next to her was—

“I am
here, baby.”

Oh
god, it was him.

Tears
that had dried and evaporated hours ago began to stream down her face washing
away the dirt and leaving clean lines of skin visible. She felt  Waleron’s
fingers pacifying her with a gentle stroke across her temple. “Be calm, baby.
Stay still and all will be well.”

She
groaned, half with pain and half with delusion, afraid he would disappear along
with his touch, his voice. To believe and then have that belief ripped away
again before she died would be the ultimate torture.

“How?
How could he do this to you?” His voice was deeper as the words tumbled from
him as though he could no longer hold them back. “God, Delara. If you had
died...” he paused sucking in gulps of air then started again, “Please I beg of
you, live. Hold on for me, baby. Zurina is coming.” He brushed back the hair
along her brow and she felt particles of dried blood sprinkle over her face
which he carefully blew away.