09-09-2018, 07:51 PM
For the second time in her limited time in Moscow, Evelyn found herself drawn into the depths of its power. The man that tempted her to darkness beckoned and she followed, ignoring the stalagmite of fear risen against her heart.
She had to be brave, she told herself. Nikolai was a man swimming in a sea of ambushes waiting to devour him at the briefest flicker of vulnerability. Evelyn brought the light that frightened the circling wolves. She had to be brave for him, and more importantly, for the world that needed the beacon of her flame.
The flame of the world.
She smiled at that. She could do it. She wouldn’t fail.
Frustrated abandon tossed Nikolai’s blemished jacket to the floor. Evelyn scooped the jacket, folded it over the pale stem of her arm, and laid it neatly aside. Then she followed him to the same place they previously embraced, but carefully positioned herself so to not tempt too much invitation. She was a weakness for him, and his nerves were raw. Her heart protested, though, upon discovering the doleful draw of his expression. Her heart ached for him. This creature of symbolic strength whose shoulders now drooped. Vivid blue eyes normally lustrous as polished stone sank with melancholy shadows.
Her own crestfallen gaze fell to the flesh of his arm. She remembered trailing the puckered flesh of his skin with her own fingers, but never inquired about the history behind such scars. When on this exact same alter they sacrificed their souls in service to the other (or maybe sold to the devil), Nikolai stripped of his shirt, Evelyn nearly followed in like kind. The shadow of his jaw, the angle of a swimmer’s broad shoulders, flickering flames licking his back, the memories nearly overwhelmed her again.
Bravery and strength, she prayed inwardly. Nikolai had a way of disarming her that frightened her but for the fact that she hoped he’d do it again.
She slipped a hand around his. Atharim was not a word unknown to her, but only by his own admission to the masses did she owe the knowledge. They frightened her, truth be told. Like the inquisitors of the medieval era, she was the pagan they hunted. It burned anger within, such blind obsession to following twisted ideals. The drumbeat of her heart warned a far-distant cry to the enemies of the light. Evelyn the woman may not be able to defend her sisters and brothers with such an army, but Evelyn the luminary, Evelyn the Flame of Light, could hold the swarm.
“You’ve been through much more than I ever realized,” she began to speak with the gentility of handling a wounded dove. The hand she gripped moved to his cheek, caressing wounds invisible. Most of the biographies published about Nikolai Brandon began chapter one with the emergence of an oil surveyor in Siberia. Few traced the thread of his life deeper in time. His proclamation of American heritage shocked all but the most fervent of students. An interview with her old friend Trano unfurled the secret of his birth. She didn’t know his father committed suicide. Lead filled the sack of her heart. She wished she could sooth the sting of such pain.
Myths sprang to life in his words. Evelyn struggled to place ijiraq, Regus, Atharim and God’s power into the context of her faith. Faith that said she should accept the things she did not understand.
But Evelyn simply couldn’t do that. She couldn’t walk the darkness wielding torches of hopeful flame to a dying world without knowing what waited ahead.
“We will navigate this threat together, Nikolai.” She proclaimed, chin tilted high. “The Atharim want to kill all of us, then they are the enemy to us all in return. Ijiraq are their knife in the dark? Then we study the art of defense. I need to know all I can about these creatures and all their ilk, but more urgently, we need to learn all we can about the one you named Regus. He is a man as any other, and all men have weaknesses. If we want to defeat him, we need to know him.”
Her hands went folded in her lap, a figure of regal, serene patience. She could carry Nikolai’s weight, so long as she did, he could bear the burden of the world.
That was her purpose. Flame in the dark. Torch to the blind. The promise of spring.
She had to be brave, she told herself. Nikolai was a man swimming in a sea of ambushes waiting to devour him at the briefest flicker of vulnerability. Evelyn brought the light that frightened the circling wolves. She had to be brave for him, and more importantly, for the world that needed the beacon of her flame.
The flame of the world.
She smiled at that. She could do it. She wouldn’t fail.
Frustrated abandon tossed Nikolai’s blemished jacket to the floor. Evelyn scooped the jacket, folded it over the pale stem of her arm, and laid it neatly aside. Then she followed him to the same place they previously embraced, but carefully positioned herself so to not tempt too much invitation. She was a weakness for him, and his nerves were raw. Her heart protested, though, upon discovering the doleful draw of his expression. Her heart ached for him. This creature of symbolic strength whose shoulders now drooped. Vivid blue eyes normally lustrous as polished stone sank with melancholy shadows.
Her own crestfallen gaze fell to the flesh of his arm. She remembered trailing the puckered flesh of his skin with her own fingers, but never inquired about the history behind such scars. When on this exact same alter they sacrificed their souls in service to the other (or maybe sold to the devil), Nikolai stripped of his shirt, Evelyn nearly followed in like kind. The shadow of his jaw, the angle of a swimmer’s broad shoulders, flickering flames licking his back, the memories nearly overwhelmed her again.
Bravery and strength, she prayed inwardly. Nikolai had a way of disarming her that frightened her but for the fact that she hoped he’d do it again.
She slipped a hand around his. Atharim was not a word unknown to her, but only by his own admission to the masses did she owe the knowledge. They frightened her, truth be told. Like the inquisitors of the medieval era, she was the pagan they hunted. It burned anger within, such blind obsession to following twisted ideals. The drumbeat of her heart warned a far-distant cry to the enemies of the light. Evelyn the woman may not be able to defend her sisters and brothers with such an army, but Evelyn the luminary, Evelyn the Flame of Light, could hold the swarm.
“You’ve been through much more than I ever realized,” she began to speak with the gentility of handling a wounded dove. The hand she gripped moved to his cheek, caressing wounds invisible. Most of the biographies published about Nikolai Brandon began chapter one with the emergence of an oil surveyor in Siberia. Few traced the thread of his life deeper in time. His proclamation of American heritage shocked all but the most fervent of students. An interview with her old friend Trano unfurled the secret of his birth. She didn’t know his father committed suicide. Lead filled the sack of her heart. She wished she could sooth the sting of such pain.
Myths sprang to life in his words. Evelyn struggled to place ijiraq, Regus, Atharim and God’s power into the context of her faith. Faith that said she should accept the things she did not understand.
But Evelyn simply couldn’t do that. She couldn’t walk the darkness wielding torches of hopeful flame to a dying world without knowing what waited ahead.
“We will navigate this threat together, Nikolai.” She proclaimed, chin tilted high. “The Atharim want to kill all of us, then they are the enemy to us all in return. Ijiraq are their knife in the dark? Then we study the art of defense. I need to know all I can about these creatures and all their ilk, but more urgently, we need to learn all we can about the one you named Regus. He is a man as any other, and all men have weaknesses. If we want to defeat him, we need to know him.”
Her hands went folded in her lap, a figure of regal, serene patience. She could carry Nikolai’s weight, so long as she did, he could bear the burden of the world.
That was her purpose. Flame in the dark. Torch to the blind. The promise of spring.