Bane

February 29, 1980

Jonathan sat next to Trent's corpse. It was beginning to stink, and rot. Still yet, there were no flies, no creeping, crawling vermin coming to eat its flesh.

Eyes, red rimmed, Jonathan sat on the bloodied floorboards of the ruins, the blood itself dried in places, and congealed in others. For three days now he waited, waited to smell her perfume. Waited to see her appear as she did the night she warned him not to come.

The night he was forced to say goodbye without ever once being allowed to say it.

Not at her funeral, not at the wake, not between then and the moment Trent gave up the ghost did he find his closure.

Now, all he could do is wait. Wait for her to show. Wait for death to be finally merciful, and take him to see his wife.

Anything. He would accept anything, but he was only given silence, and the piss saturated stench of Trent's rotting carcass. Even the intermittent rains could not wash away enough of the blood, or.stink, and they did nothing to preserve the rot.

Death, or none, he would not return to The Order.

"This was your fault." Jonathan stared up at the black cloudy night sky as it began again to rain. He warned Him long ago that if she died, he'd hate Him.

...but even that was not so true.

How could he hate God for failures that were his own? It was God, and His rites and blessings given to The Order, passed down each generation that made him fast, and strong.

...just not strong enough, pe fast enough to save her. To save Nadjia.

Jonathan did not hate God. Jonathan hated himself. He hated his weakness. His heart. His longing, and his sorrow. He hated it all. To feel. To suffer.

Where was death?

His throat was raw. He needed to eat. To drink. He wanted neither. "...please Nadjia."

Movement nearby. Jonathan turned his head to stare at Clayton's silhouette at the opening to the ruins.

"Boy?"

Jonathan glared up at Clayton. "I'm done."

"There is no done, boy." Clayton stepoes through the hole of the ruins. "You're Order. Order to the day you die."

"You're going to have to to kill me."

"Well, I'm not doing that, either."

Jonathan's hoarse voice was hollow in the place where Nadjia once carved their names. Their initials at least. "I'm not going back."

Clayton stepped through the hole in the wall of the ruins. He took a seat on the other side of Trent's corpse, and pushed a gloved finger into one of the empty sockets. "Did he suffer?"

Jonathan's laughter was dark. "I took his eyes first. Then, I cut his throat. I was careful not to sever the artery. I needed him alive. I took the right lung, first. Then the left. I pissed on his corpse."

Clayton nodded. "It's not me, boy. Its Em. She's strong... but your mom. She's not strong enough to see you gone. Come home for your mom."

Jonathan shook his head, and felt a sharp sensation of falling in his stomach. He and Clayton were both on their feet, blades drawn.

They were many, too many, their faces in shadow, hooded and cloaked in black robes. Jonathan narrowed his eyes, trying to focus through the shadow, but could not. "Magick."

"No exit," Clay growled. "Dead to the last man."

Jonathan did not hesitate, flipped a dagger, and threw it with deadly grace. It apin through the darkness once, and plunged to the hilt in the cheat to the first that set foot into the ruins.