The rest is silence.

 

—Marlev Shaspa

 

 

Yáxtor had spent the day locked away in the tower common room.

Now, as he climbed to the bedroom, he tried not to tremble. He did not have much success.

He entered the room, placed the lamp on a table and began to undress. The windows were open, and the air coming through them was cold. However, he did not close them.

He lay in bed and was thankful that Imri was not expecting him that night. At any other time he would have appreciated her smooth and delicious body, her greedy eyes and complacent ways, the way everything around her seemed to be always calm, but not now.

What he now needed was… what?

He was exhausted, but he did not feel so.

Actually, he was not quite sure how he felt.

But he needed to be alone.

Or maybe not.

He took a breath and closed his eyes.

Ámber. Ámber out of the Houses of Healing. Ámber taking water from the well. Ámber smiling as she passed by. Ámber at his side, attached to his body as a part of it, the better part, perhaps. Ámber making everything worthwhile, making sense of the world and stopping the darkness from being a threat.

And Ámber dead, hung by her own guts. Her face, a hideous mask. Her eyes, two cold and distant pebbles, where there was nothing familiar, recognizable.

He breathed again, eyes closed.

It was impossible to feel so much pain and stay alive. One could not be broken that way and remain sane.

Ámber. Ámber alive and Ámber dead.

Another breath.

But he had done it. He had recovered what he had lost, had spent the day immersed in his memories, twisting in the excruciating and heartbreaking pain that accompanied them, in the feeling that his world was gone forever and he could never recover it, in the horror of knowing she was not there, she would not be there anymore, in the certainty that nothing would make sense any longer. Never again.

He had felt, at last, everything he was supposed to feel. Those emotions were his, the pain and agony belonged to him. The memories were clear, accurate and stained with anger, suffering and despair.

And all that was useless.

He exhaled slowly.

And he suddenly noticed.

He was not alone.

Imri? No, Imri would not enter that way, and besides, he would have noticed the smell. What he felt now, however, was…

Something sharp and cold on his neck.

He opened his eyes and saw Yoranna, as she sat on his chest with a dagger caressing his skin.

Yoranna. Why did it have to be now? Why, of all possible days, today? Why not yesterday or tomorrow or any day?

She looked at him with rage, with a rage so cold that for the first time he felt fear. And at the same time, something inside him said: ‘Why not? Let’s get it over with’.

He thought of Fleng, he did not know why, and how he had lied to him. Recovering his memories had not given him the slightest clue as to what had happened or who was behind it all. All he had now were emotions he was not sure he wanted, and did not know how to get rid of.

Fleng? Why was he wasting time thinking of Fleng now?

Yoranna was motionless over him.

“You have taken her from me,” they were her first words.

And at first, he did not understand what she meant. In fact, he discovered he did not care too much what she was talking about.

Ámber.

“You have taken Imri from me… You have possessed her, as you did with that stupid Barlénder girl.”

“And with you,” Yáxtor said, without really thinking about what he was saying.

All that was of no importance.

“No. Not completely, never completely.”

He recalled Tsun Zune’s words: possessing Yoranna was like owning a tigress that was not entirely tamed, and never would be. And, Yáxtor recalled, he liked her for that very reason.

Ámber. Soft Ámber. So like him in some things that sometimes it was like talking to himself. Better, really, because she had a way of seeing the world that completed him and made sense of everything.

There was nothing to tame or possess. Ámber had given herself and he… he had done the same.

“Bad luck,” he said, returning suddenly to the present.

He looked at the woman who was on him, he felt the knife against his neck and was excited, so excited he could hardly resist the urge to take her there and now.

Easy. It’s not the time, wait.

What about Ámber?

“Bad luck for you,” Yoranna said. “I was willing to forgive you your disgusting life in exchange for Imri. But you have taken her from me.”

What about Ámber?

But Ámber was not there, only Yoranna. The woman who was making his flesh burn was not Ámber, but Yoranna. The wild creature he wanted to possess and make his until death was not Ámber, but Yoranna.

What about Ámber?

Dead, in a past that no longer made sense, that was just pain. That was not his.

Slowly, watching every movement, his hand touched the knife on his neck.

“Don’t move,” she said.

“Easy,” he whispered.

Suddenly he realized she was not going to kill him; if she had wanted to kill him, she would have done so already. He did not know what Yoranna had come to do to his room that night, but it had not been to kill him.

Ámber, he thought one last time. And he let the memory slip to the darkest part of his mind, the place far apart where pain and remorse dwelled. Everything that was not useful would not help him to survive. Like Ámber.

So, with a final effort, he pushed her aside and focused all his attention on the woman who was with him.

“What have you come for?” he asked.

“I came for Imri,” she said. Every syllable she uttered was a sharp, accurate knife; lethal. “To take her with me. And you have stolen her from me. She’s yours. Every corner of her is yours now. And you won’t return her to me.”

Yoranna’s anger was cold, measured, as if she had spent all that time learning to control it and to release it at the right time. She ruled her rage, Yáxtor understood, and that made her more dangerous than ever. And the idea of breaking that control made him feel more excited.

“No,” he said.

“No, of course you won’t. How could you do it? Once tasted, how could you give her away? She calms your nightmares, and makes the fear of things in the dark go away, doesn’t she?”

Yáxtor could not help but agree. True, he did not have nightmares, and his dreams were always quiet, but since he had slept with Imri he felt more relaxed, more at ease with himself, more at peace. In fact, her presence had given him the strength to recover his memories and deal with them.

“At least you appreciate her for what she is worth,” Yoranna said. “Not much, but it’s something.”

He carefully scrutinized the woman’s body, trying to contemplate her in a dispassionate way. He did it with no effort, despite the desire he felt for her.

He soon distinguished the small bulge at her waist. No doubt it was the messenger inhibitor.

“I’d say I’m sorry, Yoranna,” he said, articulating his words carefully. “But that does not get her back to you, of course. And besides, it does not matter.”

“What you put inside me, what you put into her…”

“It will remain there,” he said, and he himself was surprised at how relentless his voice was.

He sensed Yoranna gritting her teeth, and the pressure on his neck increased. Perhaps he had pushed her too far; or maybe not enough. She was still in control, governing her anger like a hound, but Yáxtor saw she was struggling more and more. She would soon release all her hatred and anger, and he would seize the moment.

“You may go,” he said, in the same tone. “Or you can stay. But if you do the latter, deal with the consequences. Stop complaining and accept things as they are,” he added, in a tone of disgust and contempt.

She blinked in disbelief, and suddenly became a wild animal. That was all Yáxtor needed.

With a slap, he deflected the dagger from his neck, jumped up and pushed the woman against the wall. He heard her screaming as she tried to stand up and he slid out of bed but he jumped up and took a few steps back. In his hands was the messenger inhibitor. He threw it to the ground and stepped on it.

With a click, the device turned off.

Yoranna got to her feet and prepared to jump on him. Her whole body was a weapon about to be fired, focused on a single purpose. He had to move carefully, Yáxtor understood, or his next move could be the last.

Gorgeous, he thought.

“I repeat my offer, Yoranna,” he said. “You may go in peace or you may stay.”

She hurled herself at him, and Yáxtor barely dodged her attack. He felt the dagger graze his chest, stepped back and turned on his feet and again just barely dodged the woman’s attack.

Perhaps he had gone too far, after all. Maybe he had been overconfident. Perhaps Yoranna was more than he could handle.

A new attack. Again he ducked at the last minute.

He did not take his eyes off her and, above all, never lost his smile, full of insolence and a confidence he was beginning to be not so sure about. But the smile was essential, the smile had to make her lose control, stop thinking clearly, pounce on him before she was actually prepared.

However, when he was attacked again, he asked himself if he had succeeded. He could barely hold the hand with the dagger before it cut his neck and, even then, he could not avoid a knee to his groin.

He ignored the pain. He launched it into the darkness with the memories of Ámber.

He gritted his teeth and, in a brutal way, forced her to drop the knife. He caught it before it reached the ground and threw it out the window.

Still, face to face, it was as if time had stopped for a moment. Then with violence, Yáxtor pulled the woman to him.

She resisted, fought and fought back, as he expected her to do, a rabid animal that could no longer think and did nothing but let loose all the hatred in her. But this time Yáxtor did not hesitate, did not budge and did not flinch. They were finally in his territory, and that meant he had won.

She said nothing, not even once.

Time was slipping by slowly. And, inch by inch, he was overpowering her.

When he entered her, he saw she was gritting her teeth and looking at him with eyes full of anger, hatred and desire.

His tigress. Half-tamed. Never fully tamed. Always dangerous.

He felt she resisted, fighting against the desire, against the impulses and instincts his messengers were putting in her, again, in the depths of her. That only increased his excitement.

Ámber.

No, not now.

He threw her back to the darkest corner of his memory and focused on the tigress that was under him, on the way he was making her his.

“I will kill you,” she whispered through her clenched teeth. And even her threat sounded like a promise of lust. Sharp words could destroy him, but could not wash over him.

“Maybe,” he said.

Yes, maybe.

“You belong to me,” he said.

“Never,” she growled. “Never. Never. Never.”

“Maybe. Not entirely, but you belong to me enough.”

“No. What you are possessing is not me. It never will be me, do you hear? Never.”

And suddenly, Yáxtor stopped.

She looked at him, still full of rage and desire, without knowing what was happening.

He looked down and for the first time, looked beyond her eyes and saw himself through them.

No, that was not her, he told himself.

What does it matter?

But it did matter. Maybe. Just a little, but it mattered. That was not her. The creature he was possessing was not Yoranna. She was what he had built from her.

As they have done with me.

“I know what I have done,” he said suddenly, without recognizing fully that voice as his. “I know how I’ve changed you. I know how you hate yourself because you’re enjoying what you hate. And how you hate me for making you enjoy what you despise. And you hate yourself, for being unable to avoid it. And me, for making you unable to help it.”

“I’ll kill you,” was all she could say.

“No, I don’t think so. After all, I’m dead. Yáxtor Brandan is dead. And you are also dead, like me.”

She did not understand what he was saying.

“I am not what I should be. And I will never be. Neither will you. Do you want to stay as you are?”

Yoranna did not respond.

“Do you want to stay as you are?” Yáxtor repeated.

She shook her head, still looking at him, trying to kill him with the sharp cold rage that lived in her blue eyes.

“I cannot turn you back into what you were. Not anymore. I have changed too much in you. I had probably changed you too much even before tonight, or you would have really come to kill me instead of… whatever. But I can stop you from being what you are now. Do you understand what I am offering you?”

The silence was like a living thing, dense and heavy.

“Yes,” she said at last, and it was as if the word had escaped from her.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“So be it.”

He put his hands round her neck and, still moving inside her, he began to squeeze. Gently at first, stronger, as the pace increased. She never stopped resisting, never stopped looking at him with hatred, never stopped wanting him and wishing for his death, even when her eyes glazed and her body shook one last time.

 

 

On the bed, Yoranna’s body cooled slowly.

Leaning against the window, oblivious to the cold of the night, Yáxtor smoked.

Carefully, slowly, he regained his memories. There was Ámber again, smiling for the first time. He saw himself, holding his newborn son. Saw Amber swinging, hanging from her guts. In his memory, he tried to take her down, slipped and fell. He howled his pain on the floor, like a wounded animal. He savored the emotions that accompanied the memories; all of them.

But that changed nothing.

 

Gijón,

July 2008 / February 2009

May 2012