Marina’s body was cold. Undeniably. As Samarie’s shaking hands caressed the beginnings of curls above her pigtails, all she could feel was the frosty skin of her scalp steal the warmth from her knuckles greedily, as if it could absorb the ever-ebbing life force from the girl.
Though useless, tears flowed down her cheeks, shamelessly smudging the chalk symbol below them both. She’d long been told to hold her sorrows, that some dark priest or another would give her something to really cry about, but nonetheless, she remained lachrymose throughout this hellish festival.
Nearly two decades of continued physical torture, yet this hurt the most: Marina was dead.
Aphorisms drifted in her head, some spoken kindly, most not, about what to do when backed into a corner, but all she could focus on was Marina’s prostrate body and how deeply she yearned to follow her into whatever lay next.
Samarie opened her mind, attempting to grasp whatever thread of thought Marina might have, only to find a blank void, a space so deep and empty it was never to be filled again. The memory of their first “meeting” dulled the sharp corners.
Both were 14; a dark priest was carving a Sylvian sigil on the palm of her right hand, the dominant one, as tendrils of pain ripped screams from her closed lips. Her mind wandered, as it often did, to the thoughts of those luckier than her, students attending the Ministry of Darkness. The most vapid, witty, and endearing voice took hold of her cortex.
She had laughed, and the knife was plunged through the calloused skin.
A plaintive sob tore open her throat. Without words, she cursed the Gods for taking Marina away, and herself for being too cowardly to protect her.
She wished her skin to melt away so that it might warm Marina. Something primal threatened to burst from inside her and she had absolutely nothing to comfort it.
Her thoughts scrambled, past years showing their face as any possible future ones dimmed. She had nothing to live for, not after this.
As her hands reached into Marina’s pocket, searching for that knife she always kept on her and wholly prepared to use it on herself, another memory came to mind: a hushed conversation between dark priests and strangers clad only in bunny masks as they discussed the Kaiser and the rumors that his body was reanimated by some hapless knight with a horrific bowl cut through an ancient incantation.
‘Rebirth of the Beloved’, they had called it.
Samarie’s heart threatened to fall apart at the seams. She looked at the ritual circle below and saw the sloping lines of Sylvian’s sigil.
She wracked her mind for anything else: the woman had slit her wrists and bathed her beloved captain in rivulets of crimson, all the while her mouth was twisted in org*smic reverence of their Goddess.
Nothing else came to her.
A delighted voice rang out in her head, gently assuring her that there was nothing else to lose, now that her other half was gone.
“M-Marina…” she rasped, bringing the knife against her wrist, familiar with the sensation, “You gave my life meaning. Now… allow me to return the favor, p-please. I love you.”
A pressure against her neck forced her fingers to go limp, unceremoniously dropping the knife onto the dusty circle. Neck jerking, she turned to see that doctor from the train, grey eyes boring into her own with an animal ferocity.
She could sense the loving embrace of Sylvian coiled around him, feeding itself off his every sensation with the zeal only an old God could possess. Envy struck her heart.
“I know what you plan to do,” he said, voice level, “And I’m telling you now I won’t let it happen.”
Daan was crouched by her hunched form, knees nearly knocking into her narrow shoulder, as he kicked the knife away from her. Then in painfully slow moments, he sat by her and gingerly released his hand. Samarie realized he only had one arm and thought back to the soldier boy’s grating thanks to him for saving his life.
“Y-you…” she began, body seized by tremors, only for her breath to be stolen by a cry.
Gently, Daan placed his hand on her shoulder; Samarie flinched as if burned. With a placating nod, he scooted back and clearly waited for her to finish what she was saying. “You could’ve saved her… W-Why didn’t you save her?”
Then, she grabbed him by the shoulders, fingers (hopefully) digging into the stump of his arm, wildly shaking him back and forth as if she could scramble his brain and get him to listen.
“I came too late. Magna-Medicinal doesn’t work after some time passes,” he offered, showing no signs of indignation at her behavior, then, lifting his white eyepatch, showed the empty socket of an eye, revealing the pink, moist flesh behind, “I learned the hard way.”
She let go. “I-I heard it. I-In your thoughts. But w-with Marina, wasn’t it still s-soon?!”
An ill-fitting smile dawned on his face, cheeks unnaturally stretching as if the gesture was foreign.
“So you know. But too much time had passed. It wouldn’t have worked, but if it did, somehow, things would’ve taken a turn for the worse,” he said, unfazed. Suddenly looking to the ceiling, he continued, “You’ve seen that lady in the bunker, I’d guess… She was…”
Daan trailed off, then turning to face her, legs tensed, like a cat ready to pounce as she eyed the knife.
“Y-your wife?”
He somberly nodded.
“I-I’d quite like it i-if Marina… c-came back, e-even if she was monstrous, a-and…” Samarie began, throat closing. She was reminded of the time a well-meaning dark priest had snuck her a treat from the mess hall, and how that sugary snack had then disagreed with her. Upon discovering her covered in her own vomit, the others pressed her already retching mouth into the filth, forcing her to consume it three times over, in hopes of calling Virtuvia’s aid.
Nothing had come of it, save for an aversion to all things sweet.
Daan carefully put a cold hand on her forearm, pulling her to the present.
“Breathe,” he said, loudly inhaling through his nostrils and puffing his chest, eye expectantly waiting for her to mimic him.
Barely resisting the urge to permanently cut off her oxygen supply, she followed his lead, allowing the cool, putrid air to fill and then leave her lungs until he pulled his hand back.
“I-I’d prefer it i-if she k-k-killed me…” she whispered, “B-Besides…Y-You’re a d-doctor, right?”
He nodded.
“H-How much longer d-do you think I have? F-Five years? Three? A m-month? I’m not s-stupid. I know I’m d-dying!” she hissed, looking at Marina’s body as if it would start cheering.
Daan’s face softened as if he were about to shoot a lame horse, pity furrowing his (visible) brow and parting his lips. He said, “Samarie, you aren’t…”
“Liar! Liar! Liar! Y-You’re thinking that I’d be l-lucky to see t-t-twenty!” she all but screamed, hands pulling at the matted mess of her hair and finding a wet, limp bundle tangled between her knuckles, yanked far too easily from her scalp.
“I get it. After my wife died, if I’d been told that there was nothing I could do, I’d have been totally beside myself, but you have to believe me, there is something out there for you,” Daan assured.
Samarie’s blackened lips turned upward in a snarl.
“No-! No! You don’t get it! You have so much l-love! W-When, when, when-! have you been without? I h-h-hear it, d-do you know how I hear it! You d-drown in love while I d-die parched— d-do you think anyone would ever miss me?— this is all I have! Y-You understand nothing! First, you had your p-parents, and when they left, you met your w-wife, and then now, e-even now, you’re still w-w-wanted! T-That man from the Vatican, I hear e-everything he thinks about you! F-F-Four f*cking years of my life on one g-girl who barely knows my name and even that’s too much love for me! Kill me, i-if you won’t let me do this!”
Daan’s shoulders sagged and he seemed to age a decade in the minute it took her to speak. Voice shaking, he said, “You should go to the train.”
“I d-don’t care, a-anymore! H-he’s there. T-that boy you saved i-instead of her. H-he doesn’t love her, not the way I do! I h-hate hate hate h-him! I-If you knew h-how much… y-you’d leave Marina and I… be,” she wept, weakly trying to push him away. Tears began to caress the dark crevices of her gaunt cheeks, filling them out as if to hide the years of malnutrition.
She covered her face with shaking hands, knees curling protectively over her hunched form.
“D-Don’t f*cking look at me!” she screamed.
“I’ve had men four times your age die sobbing in my arms,” Daan admitted, “No shame here.”
Without thinking, she unfurled, practically throwing herself at him, sobs taking hold of her emaciated form, forcing her to hide into herself, hands blindly grappling at the silk vest.
Daan jolted at the surprisingly strong force she exerted, then wrapped his arm around her, hand smoothing down her greasy crown of hair.
“I w-wish I had a h-home to go back to,” she said, voice muffled by Daan’s shoulder, “I-It’s barely been an h-hour and I already m-miss her so much.”
“My father-in-law left me quite the sum after he died,” he began, “I’ve the means to live ten lifetimes in luxury. After we escape this hell, I’ll give you enough to spend what time you have left in comfort, if you’d like.”
“W-What about you?” Samarie asked, “W-Where w-will you go?”
“I’m not sure. I might open a bar, if you’d want to learn about cleaning tables and splitting checks,” he said softly, “I might need some help, on account of the whole missing an arm situation.”
Wordlessly, she nodded, loosening her hold on Daan’s shoulders and drying her eyes, sparing a glance at the body of Marina.
Her heart ached beyond measure, so deeply that she could nearly feel bile rise in her throat. She knew losing Marina would scab over and that it was her nature to incessantly pick at it until she bled out, but there was also a hesitant inkling of a newly borne future: a job, a (possible) father-figure, and a life outside the blood-stained walls of the Ninth Circle.
With that, the two set off for the train together.
