He didn’t deserve this.
Running was impossible, for how everything hurt in the process of trying. She did it anyway. She didn’t have a choice, and the silent glow of the stars above was her only guide. She’d already stumbled several times over, gasping for breaths so difficult to cling to with oxygen so sparse. There was no alternative. The breeze was minimal, the air sickeningly stagnant. It left little to swallow, and her skin burned.
He didn’t ask for this.
She was losing time, by which she shunned her eyes in favor of her ears. Starlight or not, darkness was a flood she couldn’t escape. Coda was ensnared in the same at every angle, blanketed in the night and more than enough to drown her. Her senses were already weakened as it was. Her footsteps echoed where no sound could challenge them, and only her own labored breathing served as a contrast. She wouldn’t cry. It wouldn’t help.
He didn’t need this.
She’d checked the city. She’d scoured what of it she could, trailing alleyways and roadsides with strangled fear. She was his echo, in a way, for how she caught the faintest of screeches time after time. They were distant, and frustratingly so. Where he could run so freely, she could hardly hope to do the same. She cursed herself, over and over, as he slipped through her grasp. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to imagine. She already had a solid idea.
Every time she had it, she lost it just as quickly. Coda was sickeningly sizable, and he could pass her by time after time. She was more or less guessing as to his rationale and directive, provided he had any of either right now. She doubled over at last, enveloped by climbing stone and veiled corners. Mortal threats in the alley meant nothing. Right now, she feared for one thing alone, and he was nowhere to be seen. Silver Brevada speared sharply into her knee as she came to a panting halt, and she winced in pain.
Calm yourself.
She gritted her teeth. “I’m trying.”
Panic will not serve you in any manner.
“I know,” she murmured through heavy breaths. “I just…can’t figure out…where he would go.”
Would he walk no more than this place? You should know him better than I.
Eleanor straightened up, grasping oxygen and a flute in tandem. “I…I’m not certain. I’ve gone everywhere I could think to go. I’ve tried to follow the sound, and still I’m no closer.”
Of those places you would not consider, then, I suggest you entertain the thought.
“What do you mean?”
Discern his motive, perhaps, and pursue the unexpected.
She had suspicions of a catalyst, at least. A motive was simple enough on the surface, reflexive as it surely was. To elude her for so long spoke to outward hostilities rather than the alternative. In the sickest way, it was the only blessing she could count on. He wasn’t dead yet, if nothing else. It left no mercy for those caught in his line of fire, let alone himself if he was satisfied with the deed. For all intents and purposes, he wasn’t safe. She couldn’t lose him. She absolutely could not lose him.
“I believe I know what led him to suffer,” Eleanor said, every word shaky as it touched the night air. “I would…assume his motive to be violence, then. If there is more to it, I wouldn’t yet know of that.”
Then trail to where he would strike, perhaps.
“Coda is vast. Coda is not silent by night. He would have options all over the city, horrific as it is to say.”
Pursuit is unproductive. You will have no choice but to anticipate his decisions.
“He’s not rational,” Eleanor argued. Stifling tears was a struggle, and she knew Brava would chide her for it. For that reason alone, she blinked what she could into submission. “I…doubt he’d be acting on anything but impulse.”
Were he a Maestro, this would be over in an instant. She cursed her gift in silence, for how she would never dare express her frustrations to her partner. Eleanor closed her eyes for a moment, gripping the flute tightly as she steadied what breath she’d caught. Running was difficult. She didn’t have a choice, directionless as it was. Brava didn’t scold her.
She hadn’t tried the outskirts yet, although she knew Vincent was largely unfamiliar with the area. The world beyond the borders of the city was new to every Vacanti, really. She feared losing her way just as much as she feared losing him in turn. He was possibly lost already, had he opted to breach the city limits. She knew the path to greenery unseen. The outer residential districts were just as much an option, still afar and yet more recognizable. Her directional choices were split. If he sought violence, he sought the innocent. With a sinking heart, she went with the latter choice.
She’d never been to the outer districts regardless, and that, too, made navigation difficult. The fire helped.
Where she’d chased down the screech of agonizing smoke with desperation, it was true smoke that guided her way. Even before she’d breached the narrow walls of the cramped alleys in full, she found a clouded beacon. Whether it was related was debatable, although her soul screamed in affirmation. Hurried footsteps, aching or otherwise, left her bursting into the open night.
Beyond the stone walls, Eleanor nearly stumbled the moment her shoes tangled with rising grass. It took effort to keep her balance, and she only clung to Silver Brevada harder as she ran. Where her breath would soon be frozen, her blood was aflame. It didn’t outdo the house in the distance, granted.
It took her time to recognize it as such. She had to squint to make out a structure through the roaring flames at all. Unforgiving orange rose high into the darkened sky, streaming embers challenging the stars in turn. It grew brighter by the moment, one distant spark aglow in the depths of bountiful nature. She would be amazed if it didn’t spread, capturing an unfortunate forest in its scorching grasp.
The screams that plagued her ears were mortal, although it took time to classify them at all. They were ample enough. Those, too, were distant, and she had enough sickening context to unravel an inferno. She prayed they weren’t coming from inside. If she’d seen it from here, she doubted she was the only one--nestled between yet more occupied abodes as it was.
It was exactly half of her priority. It was too perfect, and her instincts were crying out.
Eleanor.
She’d been staring, helpless to witness the very sun descend upon one little home. It was her fault for keeping quiet. Brava knew her soul inside and out. “I…can’t prove anything.”
Do not lose focus, lest you lose him entirely.
Whether he meant it literally or figuratively was irrelevant. Either thought burned just as violently as the roaring Hell on the horizon. “I know. I just…I don’t know if it’s--”
She’d been confident in the grays of rolling smoke, vicious and abundant as it crashed against the cool air. It was surely of this world, grotesque in another way entirely. If nothing else, then, she knew of the violet by sound alone. Eleanor didn’t need to see it. The direction took her more than a moment to pin down, the far-off glow of ruthless flames her one source of luminescence in the dark night. The stars were of little aid, and she feared for what was to come.
Still, her safety meant nothing. He was all that mattered. He wouldn’t get away again. Eleanor pivoted sharply on one heel, nearly losing her balance a second time over. The moment she made to run, let alone hunt down the vicious agony she knew to greet her ears, she found no need. She uncovered it in the worst way.
He did her the favor. Where absent moonlight missed, only the glittering stars above weakly speckled his visage. So, too, was rippling violet crowned by a glow she could mistake for candlelight. He was cloaked in more than one flavor of darkness, wrapped in suffocating agony that besieged his body and poisoned his skin. Misery was his shroud, billowing in earnest from heaving shoulders. Agony called him home. Vincent was venomous in every way, down to the veil of suffering clouding his eyes.
She loathed the way they touched her own. They weren’t those she’d come to adore. The deepest sea, so carefully cultivated and beautifully loved, rested beneath polluting violet that shattered him in every way. He was broken and taken. If absolutely nothing else, he was alive.
“Vincent,” Eleanor called to him, her wavering voice cracking instantly.
He was wordless in return. His hands were more than occupied--one alone, really. The violence he clasped between unhesitant fingers twisted her stomach into permanent knots. Scarlet graced steel in excess, glistening with every subtle shift of his wrists. It was undoubtedly fresh, and her eyes pooled with tears. She didn’t dare question who, let alone how many. She didn’t dare kick herself eternally, as much as she wished to in the moment. She’d have all the time in the world to do so later. In a way, she was responsible by virtue of failing speed alone.
“Vincent, please, stop this!” Eleanor pleaded.
She knew better. Why the words exploded from her mouth regardless was beyond her. It was wishful thinking, and she’d never wished harder for anything in her life. His grip hadn’t relaxed. She had a vague guess as to what would come. It was a nightmare she needed to awaken from immediately, lest her soul shatter to irreparable pieces. She couldn’t do this.
Shimmering steel rose to greet the stars with painstakingly-slow movements. It never made it all the way up, content to level with her eyes from afar. It wasn’t as far a distance as she would’ve hoped. It was a simultaneous blessing and a curse, by which she could’ve thrown her arms around him and never let go. Vincent could run. Eleanor couldn’t. Only her soul would spare her, and the concept threatened to split her in two.
You cannot hesitate.
She’d given up on suppressing her tears. The trembling fingers draped over every hole of Silver Brevada caught her sorrow as it fell. Brava would be directly privy to her labored breaths soon enough. She doubted they escaped him in that moment regardless. Stammering was inevitable, her voice wobbling fiercely. “I-I…”
If you wish to save him, steel your soul. There is no other option. He has already drawn blood, and to falter is to endanger the innocent. If not for yourself, Eleanor, then battle for what must be done.
“Brava,” Eleanor murmured, simple and pained.
I say unto you again. You cannot hesitate. I will be at your side, and it will be done. Show me your resolve, and you will have my soul.
Where violet stared her down, it was silver that rose to her lips. The far-off flicker of a horizon alight was much too little light by which to track his every move. The starry sky was weaker still, and the darkness plaguing the grassy outskirts was as literal as it was symbolic. Agony screamed where Vincent was silent. Eleanor screamed on the inside in turn.
Logically, it would work. As to whether she wept for his suffering, his catalyst, his actions, or his consequences, she was unsure. Even now, stealing a deep breath she lamented taking, she prayed to whatever god would listen that he would escape agony of his own accord. It was a fruitless prayer. Still, she clung to it, her hands shaking around Silver Brevada as she hunted for what life surely rested behind his veiled gaze.
Eleanor found none. Vincent lunged. So, too, came flashing steel.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Fresh as it was, every fleck of crimson spilt so remorselessly splashed to the ground between hurried steps. In Vincent’s wake was left red and violet alike. He was horrifically fast, and she’d long since deduced he would outdo her significantly. It was all she could do to stand her ground, even as an experienced weapon drew a straight path to her throat. For the briefest moment, she wondered if he’d already struck the same spot upon another tonight. She wondered if he’d done so more than once.
She surrendered her aching soul to Silver Brevada. Where her body failed her with age, her lungs were still strong. It was the one thing she could count on, even as her hands grew weaker each day. To move so quickly along the keys was borderline painful. In that moment, her heart hurt worse. Eleanor traded every exhale for an inhuman chill, frost born of her breath gracing every shrill note. She didn’t dare wound him in full, and it took time to settle on a methodology. Piercing was out of the question. She settled for that which was rounded, heavier, blunt to a safer degree. It wouldn’t make it less painful.
The glittering hail that crackled beneath her icy song was still undoubtedly lethal, should her aim fail her. She had no alternatives. Already, she’d mentally strung together the only path to salvation she could conjure. It began with violence, and she loathed the fact. Vincent bore down upon her with such speed that she audibly caught the whoosh of a blade slashing the night. She held fast to her frozen offenses, screaming in the only way that mattered. She, too, bore down upon him.
Hail once level with her shoulders tore through the air, barreling into his soft body with unbearable force. He physically recoiled as weighted ball after ball of frosted violence beat upon him, the sound of every strike against flesh enough to leave Eleanor wincing. She heard him grunt in pain several times over, and yet was powerless to do more than blight him with the same.
Vincent didn’t back down, surging forth with a knife poised to cut her down at the first opportunity. She hated the way that she had to go for his knees. The noise that came with heavy chunks of ice crashing down onto his bones was abhorrent. Given how he cried out, it was possibly worse. She was beginning to wonder if a piercing approach would’ve been less cruel, after all.
Vincent staggered, at least, more than susceptible to the pain of her frozen assault. It was never enough to deter him in full, and the bloodied weapon rose to meet her again and again. No less than once, he nearly met his mark as she caught her breath. It was solely by luck that the tip of the blade collided with Silver Brevada, one clang erupting as metal met metal. Eleanor, instead, was the one to cry out, stumbling in reverse as she scrambled for distance. It was all she could do to deflect, then, a different cry entirely seeping into the flute.
The deepest blues that burst from the grass underfoot were her one saving grace, climbing high and severing her line of sight. The crack that came with the birth of her crystalline barrier spoke to endurance. It served her well in the worst way, and she had suspicions he’d rebelled against it instantly. Every subsequent crack after crack that followed left flecks of flaking frost speckling the earth, abused and discarded. Her heart threatened to burst, solid defenses or not. Close as he was, she hesitated to doff her haphazardly-assembled safety. She didn’t have a choice.
It still hurt to let her fingers trail along the shimmering keys, and of that, too, Eleanor had no choice. Her frozen melody, shrill in every way, grew to be explosive in turn. A shield so hastily crafted splintered and crackled, deep fissures sprawling amongst the chilling glacier before her. It was enough to work with, despite her pledge of avoiding that which would pierce. If she planned to pin him down--literally--she was running out of options. With sharp notes in place of sharper shards, an icy song gave way to a delicate crash and shattering glass.
Her glacier crumbled and burst, repelled well in reverse and well beyond her. It left Vincent squarely in her line of fire, and he endured the full force of a soul of ice at once. Every jagged shard that sailed through the night air smashed into his body in the worst way, large and bulky as they were. It left them no lighter and no less of a threat.
The range was more than enough to steal his balance, let alone his proximity to the ground. He was knocked clean off his feet with a gruesome thud, tumbling no less than thrice over in the plush grass below. Eleanor was fairly certain he’d hit his head on the way down. Not once did the stained knife leave his iron grip, and he slashed innocent sod as he rolled to a quiet halt.
It was the only chance she’d get. She didn’t need Brava to tell her that much.
It left him on his back, disoriented and reeling from the collision. As much as she lamented his harsh landing, it was just as much of a blessing in turn. Where Eleanor had crafted weighted crystal, she now turned to creeping frost. Her piercing song that cut clear through the still evening was in stark contrast to her soft ice. In terms of speed, it was a deceptive melody. The delicate whites of newborn snow that burst to life upon the ground moved rapidly. She avoided his skin, at least, claiming his wrists with the most chilling of shackles. So, too, did his ankles follow along, and his torso in turn.
Vincent was tethered to the world below by sorrowful cold, unyielding even as he struggled weakly. Where he fought with futile motions, Eleanor left her song shimmering harder. So, too, did her icy bindings grow thicker. They were heavy in their own way, undoubtedly, his extremities encased in the smallest of glaciers. She didn’t dare let up. Holding him down was far, far preferable to beating upon him.
And when she was satisfied, by which he could do little more than writhe in the slightest, she feared for the remainder of his salvation. She’d had to do it before. It was muscle memory, at this point, and she had no qualms about the action. She simply feared what would follow in its wake, by which he would be left to face what tragedies were left behind. At least now, he was numb. They were two different kinds of curses entirely.
Eleanor inhaled deeply, adjusting her fingers once more as she braced against the earth. If absolutely nothing else, Viola needed a father. That was enough.
Even if her lungs were strong, it was still always the worst part. The flickering snowflakes that kissed the air with each rapid note were in stark contrast to a different flicker blazing beyond. It left each one aglow in an unsettlingly splendid display. Wrathful frost dyed in brilliant aquamarines swirled viciously above, and she nurtured it with sorrow. She loaded her song with every ounce of love and desperation she could muster, resplendent blues painting her steady blizzard as it roared to life.
Crystal aloft was as deceiving as it was delicate, the temperature dipping rapidly as she played. The biting chill stinging her face meant so, so little. Vincent alone took priority. Solid as she knew her ice to be, she had no fear for his escape. Even now, as she blessed the world with scattering snowflake after snowflake, he was powerless to do more than struggle. She still wanted this over with as quickly as possible.
She lacked a steady opening. It left her counting every ragged breath as he flailed, his strength no longer blunted by what had been a fierce blow. That, too, was simultaneously a gift and a curse--she prayed he’d have no lasting damage. Some breaths were deeper than others. It took effort to steal one, fast as she was forced to be in the wake of his wordless resistance. It paid off in the worst way. Her spiraling snowstorm rushed forth without mercy, more than targeted and more than true in its flight.
Where words failed him, he was blighted by ice--choking, suffocating, and all-consuming as the coldest of blizzards filled his throat. Every last drop of Silver Brevada’s frozen tempest surged deep into his body, pooling in his soul and challenging agony unseen. If he was weeping from distress alone, Eleanor couldn’t see from here. It was probably for the best. She’d always disliked this part, regardless. It didn’t matter if his pain would be forgotten--she didn’t like the idea of seeing Vincent’s face as he lost his breath.
Eleanor tensed every muscle that was necessary, rationing her breath as she cried out into the flute. A storm once fluid and malleable erupted into a glistening glacier, sparkling under the chill of every note. From her end, it stretched to him, rapidly solidifying as each twisting snowflake burst into something far more sturdy. Tangled and encased, every last shred of dancing frost was left to glimmer all the way into the depths of Vincent’s soul.
The surge of frosted air that blasted her in full was in stark contrast to her burning blood. Resplendent aquamarine sparkled yet more under the weight of her frosted harmony, crackling and hardening. His writhing was stifled, and still his distress was palpable. His angle was more than dangerous. He surely had less breath than usual. Flat on his back, she counted the seconds. She’d never taken longer than fifteen. Granted, it had been some time. She couldn’t remember how well Vincent could hold his breath.
Every note was a prayer, and the ache in her muscles was a distraction. It was her lungs alone that held on, and her hands struggled to keep up. It hurt in two ways. The physical blight meant nothing--her frail body would survive the night. The pain in her soul meant everything. The song was a reflex, and she was perfect. Eleanor screamed, she sparkled, and she froze in every way as she captured violet in the deepest recesses of his body.
As to what she was supposed to do the moment light touched his eyes once more, she couldn’t imagine. As to what Hell he’d unleashed tonight--let alone upon whom--she couldn’t entertain the mental image. As to what she was supposed to tell Viola, she couldn’t begin to fathom. Her sorrow flooded her pure melody. Brava felt it, surely. He said nothing. She offered her silent gratitude, by which she grieved for one she fought to save.
And when it ruptured, it did so viciously. Her heart came along with it, maybe. The shining glacier that besieged his soul shattered with astounding force, spearing shards bursting freely into a night made cold by a song and suffering alike. With gleaming blue came poisonous violet, salvaged in the grasp of a bursting blizzard. Ice once iron brought with it infinite agony as it gave way, erupting from Vincent’s throat with such force that his head bashed against the ground once more.
Screeching pain incarnate was ripped from his soul, exploding towards the starry sky above. It was disgustingly abundant, billowing smoke that did injustice to the tranquil night. It was still yet another contrast to smoke yet more natural that burned so far away. Clouded violet tore its way through the still air, chilled as it was, fleeing the cursed man for far too long. There came a point when concern led her to count. It was well over ninety seconds, continuously. Each passing moment left her heart breaking ever further. She gave up on stemming her tears. Where agony rose, her own flavor of agony fell.
He coughed heavily, choking and gagging on the grotesque fog that escaped his body. When only ambling wisps of trailing indigo were left to rise, he gasped for oxygen. Tears of distress leaked and spilled down his cheeks, perfectly clear as they graced his skin. A stilled song freed him of his icy bindings, and flakes of fallen frost rained feebly from his clothes. Not once, even now, had his fingers unfurled from the knife. The hilt in his hands was a fixture. Eleanor wondered when he’d notice. She feared, above all else, the moment it would hit.
Their eyes met. Two different types of tears mingled from afar, glistening under the glow of the scalding inferno beyond. He propped himself up on his elbows, still hunting for his breath in full. Her distress was more than visible, surely, for how his tone echoed the same.
“Mother?” Vincent murmured.
His voice was every bit as beautiful as she’d remembered it to be that morning. It was a trigger for yet more tears, and she swallowed what sobs she could. “Vincent,” Eleanor returned simply.
Rising to his feet was a trial, by which he staggered and stumbled all the way there. It didn’t occur to her to aid him, rooted in place forever by crushing grief. He still hadn’t let go of the weapon. “What’s…going on?” he asked, his voice shaking in the slightest.
She had no answer for him. There was no answer to give, really. It was all she could do to meet his gaze and offer her silent tears.
“Are you alright?” Vincent tried.
Keeping her composure was a nightmare. She’d already been through one tonight.
“Mother, please. I don’t understand. Where…are we?”
Eleanor's eyes drifted to the knife. It was involuntary. It fit so neatly in his hand, the hilt perched so skillfully between his fingers. She wasn’t aware he knew how to wield one, frankly. He’d always found ways to amaze her, incredible as he was. She wondered where he’d gotten it from in the first place.
Vincent followed her gaze. It still took him a moment, his eyes crawling over every last splash of scarlet and every stain of the same tinting his fingers. Some had made it to his wrists, peppering blues once crisp and pristine. He stared. He stared, and stared, and stared, a hand closed around a bloodied weapon trembling violently. The anguish that fell over his face was unbearable to simply witness. Even as he unfurled his fingers at last, it did little to alleviate his immense distress.
The blade dropped to the frost-speckled grass below with a weak thud. Once more was he staggering, although not from physical suffering alone. His shoulders heaved and his breaths grew labored yet again. When his gaze met Eleanor’s a second time over, it burned in a way that incinerated her soul.
“Vincent--”
Her broken words never made it far. He, too, was just as broken, the shadow of sin splashed across his face in the worst way. Eyes once glassy now pooled with utter horror. Fingers once wrapped so confidently around the hilt of a dirtied blade now tangled desperately into night-black locks she so loved. Vincent’s shattered gaze snapped to the glowing flames that rose to meet the sky even now. He, too, was ablaze in another way entirely. Where she wished with every ounce of her being to hold him close, he eluded her yet again.
He took no violet with him, stealing onto deep gasps of panic and despair as he turned sharply on his heel. Discarded frost found its way underfoot, and he nearly stumbled in the process of sprinting. The knife was her sole souvenir, abandoned and staining the green upon which it rested. He fled with pounding footsteps into the darkness. Where he sought to run was beyond her. To give chase was useless.
Viola was still asleep, maybe. She doubted he’d return home, his hands covered in the blood of the innocent as they were. Eleanor’s eyes fell to the sparkling weapon before darting to his afterimage. Her tears were eternal, and the urge to fall to her knees was overwhelming. It was sheer exhaustion alone that kept her still, weeping silently as her sorrow dripped onto the silver instrument in her palms.
Will you pursue him?
“There’s no point,” Eleanor whispered hoarsely. “There’s already blood on his hands. He will face whatever is to come. I don’t…know what he’s done. In that way, I can’t protect him.”
You have spared his life.
It was of no comfort. She couldn’t even be grateful for Brava’s attempts at easing her pain, direct as he often was instead. Tearing her eyes from the isolated weapon was impossible. Devoid of Dissonant hands, it was harmless. It was a sickening thought that did little good now.
Even now, she wondered whether or not she’d done him a favor. To face the consequences of his actions was perhaps worse than succumbing to agony. If it left Viola somewhere in the middle, she couldn’t stand to imagine the suffering in his heart. Where the most horrid violets had led Vincent down the path of the most ruthless red, it was in lucidity that he found true agony. In that way, alive or not, Eleanor was left to mourn until her soul fell to pieces.