by DreamchaserDarine ([email protected])
Disclaimer: Suikoden and all related stuff are © KCET—the story is my own. I use Tir for McDohl's first name, because, though it isn't the name I prefer for him, it's the 'official' one. This story brought to you by the number 42 and the letter Z. Comments are much appreciated. Thank you for reading!)
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He plunged his right hand again into the cold water. Its soft splash was the only sound in the night, other than the muted, ever-present noise of the waves beating against the island castle's rocky base. Moonlight and a slight breeze streamed through the glassless window, carved right out of the white stone, in a wall on the far end of the room.
His palm stung. He barely noticed it—and scrubbed at it again, harshly, with a cloth, spotted dull red. Taking a long, ragged breath he strained to examine his hand in the torchlight. The shadows' movement echoed the flickering flame on the wall, but that darkness on his palm was no mere shadow that would slip away when he moved this way or that. It was a black shadow made tangible, and try as he might, desperate though he may have been, it would not wash away.
Why wouldn't it? He slathered a bar of soap over the offending flesh. It burned. He attacked it again with the cloth. He had to get rid of it—he had to clean it, remove that bloodstained curse from his hands and his heart and his soul… Again the hands slipped under the water. He swished them about. Dissolve, dissipate. Couldn't one remove stains from anything else this way? Why did this have to be different?
Another pair of hands appeared, pulling his from out of the water. Maybe those hands were worn, calloused, but they were clean. They were not marked like his. He stared a moment at those hands.
"Master Tir…"
No, he couldn't face that voice, not yet. He tried to pull away—the stain was still there, still afire underneath the surface of his hand. It must be washed, again and again, until it disappeared. That was the only way. Couldn't she see?
But the hands were strong, and he could not break their grip. His arms went limp, and the bloodstained rag fell from his left hand into the water to disappear. Fingers tried to turn his right hand—no, don't do that. He clenched it into a fist. But again he was powerless against those hands, which pulled his fingers away and opened his raw palm to the air. The rune stared up at him, its blackness tinted with the red of his own blood.
Don't touch me. It will infect you, too, and your hands will be forever stained like mine. Your hands are too pure; please, don't let them suffer like mine—
"Young Master, look at me."
Don't look at me. I can't face you. I am tainted, I am shameful. My hands are bloody, my soul is bloody—
The wash bucket was pushed away. Slowly, but nevertheless it spilled over the side and pooled in the cracks in the dusty stone floor.
It isn't my blood; it's my friends', it's my father's—If I look at you, it could be your blood, too—
His left hand was freed, and he let it drop to his knee. A finger reached out, hesitantly, to trace the shape of the stark figure on his right palm.
No, no, no!
"No!"
He reeled away, almost rolling across the floor, and cradled his hand.
"Young Master…?"
"Don't touch it…"
The silence wanted an answer.
"It could—I could—"
"What would happen?" the voice asked gently. The voice was caring, nurturing, he wanted to hide inside it, forever, away from the world, but—
"It might take you, too," he said softly. He looked up, blinking, trying to push back the threatening clouds at the edges of his vision. A face came into view—Cleo's face. Cleo's familiar face, kind and friendly, sisterly and wise. Some of his earliest memories were of that face. I want to always remember you that way, the way we were before this nightmare. Don't let my memories be tarnished…
"I don't want to lose you." He choked on the words.
"Young Master…"
She knelt beside him, and enveloped him in her arms like a small child. Fear surged through him, at first—fear of the Soul Eater, fear of himself, fear for her safety. But those arms were so comfortable, so kind—they pushed the uncertainty back, gently but forcefully. The terror would be kept at bay so long as those arms were there.
"Young Master… …Yes, you're right. It might take me." She paused, and then continued. "But it might not. That's what's important. Do you remember what Gremio told Kirkis, when we found his village destroyed?"
He remembered, but stayed silent, wanting to hear the words again. Gremio's words. It took Gremio--
Her voice interrupted his thoughts. "'As long as we have hope, we can survive.' We have the hope that it might not. Say it, now. It might not."
"It might not…" he whispered diligently, but still uncertainly.
"That's right. And right now, it hasn't. The present is what matters—if you lose sight of it and dwell on what might be, what is may pass you by. Don't mourn me yet: I'm still here, and so long as I have any say in it, I will always be here for you."
She was silent for a moment, reflecting.
"That's what I hope. That's what I swore to Master Teo, and to you. That's what I'll hold on to until the bitter end. Will you?"
It won't work. You didn't want Odessa to die, but she did. You didn't want Gremio to die, but he did. And Ted. And your father. How can anything stop the Soul Eater? How can anything stop death?
Maybe we can't.
We can't!
But Sylvina and Stallion lived, and came back to Kirkis. Pahn came back to us. I want to believe Cleo. I want to hope.
"I'll try."
"Good." She hugged him tightly for a moment, then let go and stood. "Now, Master Tir, you need to sleep, if you can. And if you can't, remember what I said, remember what Gremio said." She extended a hand to help him up. He took it, with his left hand, and stood slowly.
Cleo's eyes flicked to his right palm. "First, though, we should put something on that," she said. "There's no sense in letting it get infected."
He followed her upstairs, leaving the bucket and rag behind, forgotten. Soon, when the echoes of their footsteps had faded away, the night was still again, the only sound the waves continuing their endless splashing against the rocks.