Never Is a Promise

Miserere Mei Deus
Part Three:
Never is a Promise Jewel Faulkner
jfaulkne@brynmawr.edu

         Intro: Now, this title is strange and out of place, given the other two of the series. "Never is a Promise" is actually the second title this story has had. The first title was just as out of place: "Bacio." That was from Otello. This story was originally a "duet" of sorts; the other story this was originally paired with a story called "Credo."
         This story is done in a mix of first-person/third person. Christine's story is told in first person; the other story running in here is in third person. First person is very weird for me; I think I do better in third-person omniscient--it's got the whole "playing-God" thing going for it. But oh, well...one must expand, I suppose... And *despite* the fact that I was using a strange writing style for me, I think this is the strongest of the three stories; the other two I wrote over nine months ago; this was finished about, oh, 4 am of the day before I posted it, and written after I personally went through a *lot* of changes that I think have made me a better writer and a little more...gee, what's a tactful way to put it?...disillusioned about life, the universe, and everything, thanks to the last year or so of my life being the emotional rollercoaster from hell. Go a little nuts, become a better writer. I guess it's a pretty...decent...trade-off...
         Anyway, this, changed and darkened from the original as I wrote, and the new title came to me. "Never is a Promise." It's from a Fiona Apple song by the same title, and after listening to the song one day (over and over again at top volume and most certainly driving the girl next door *insane*), I realized how big time it fit this story, and a lot more than the original title (which meant 'Kiss") did. Heh--I guess I should stick to writing dark stuff, since it's the only time the Muse seems to ever grace me with her club upside my head.
         And this is the last of the "tortured-mind-of-Christine" stories. For now, at least. There is just *one* more where that's the focus (the story this was originally paired with and has undergone extensive revision and expansion), and that's not for a while...the rest of the stories after this, in the upcoming series (plug! Expect the first story of that one around the end of January), are about things actually *happening*. Whoa. Imagine that: a story where things *happen*. I realized I was going to have a lot of "Christine's messed-up head" stories in a row, and figured y'all needed a break, which was why I didn't post the first two of "Miserere" as soon as I had finished "þat euer was"--I had finished "Donde lieta usci" and "Good-bye, Love" *months* before "þat euer was" had been finished. Linear writing? What's that?
         Legal stuff: Christine and Hope are mine. Mark Adams is Scott Iskow's. Alexander Xantatos is Buena Vista's. 'Nuff said.
         And just remember: nothing's ever black or white, but all *sorts* of different shades of grey.
         ...teeheehee...

***

Your presence dominates the judgments made on you
But as the scenery grows, I see in different lights
The shades and shadows undulate in my perception
My feelings swell and stretch; I see from greater heights
I understand what I am still too proud to mention--to you
The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own
You'll never feel the heat of this soul
My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown--to you
-"Never is a Promise," Fiona Apple

***

         The doorbell rang. I looked up from my book and sighed. I didn't know who exactly it was; who it could be. Hope and I had installed ourselves here only a month ago, after...
I sighed again. Maybe I had made a mistake, I don't know. I've made so many of them in my life, I should be used to them.
         Hope looked up from the piano. I had begun to teach her to play, to take my mind off of everything. She had quite the ear for it, but that didn't surprise me. I was considering teaching Christian as well, since he loved to hear me play the piano. But I had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't need me to teach him provided I kept teaching Hope--he would learn because she was learning. There was something slightly worrisome in all of that, in how close they were, but I wasn't going to dwell on it. They were only children, after all.
         "Mommy, who is it?" Hope asked, stopping the scales she had been working on. She was impatient to learn; wanting to be an instant musical genius. She had skill, but it wasn't as instant as she wanted. If she would have stopped being so impatient, she would have realized that she was incredibly good.
         "I don't know, sweetheart. Keep practicing and I'll go see who it is."
         "'Kay." She turned around and went back to playing scales and arpeggios while I got up to head to the door. I really didn't feel like dealing with anyone. I knew I had been battling on and off with depression the entire month since...since I left. But then, that really wasn't much of a surprise, now, was it? My life had gone to hell. The happiness that had always seemed outside of my grasp most of my life I'd had for one brief moment, and then...it was gone. I still don't quite know how it happened. One minute, everything was fine...and the next, everything's gone. And what can I really say about it? How much of it was my fault? How much Alexander's? How much Mark's? No one gets out of it lily-white and pure; we're all dirty and stained in some way.
         I won't whitewash over my guilt; I cheated. I'm an adulteress. A bitch. OK. Fine. I'm not perfect. I never claimed to be. I had done it, and I'm sorrier for that than I am for a lot of things I've done in my life. But it wasn't all my fault. Forces I can't understand were at work in all of this. That's why I had to get away from all of it; all of my past, even Mark. Especially Mark.
         Maybe I'm just running away from my problems instead of facing them. I don't know. I only know that I did what I thought was for the best. What else can I do but that?
         "Mommy, are you going to answer the door?" Hope yelled over her bangings on the piano.
         "Yes, Hope." I said, waking out of my thoughts. I might as well get the door and send whoever it was away. People were just a bad idea just then. I threw on a cloak to cover my wings and headed over to the door.
         "Yes, who is...it..." I trailed off as I opened the door. My grip on the door tightened, and I could feel myself paling. I knew shaking was only a moment away, but there wasn't a damn thing I could do about *that*.
         "You know who I am."
         "O-of course I do...Mark." I said, staring straight into the Hunter's mask he wore.
         I was terrified out of my mind. Jesus, the memories that seeing him in that...that outfit brought back were immediate. What the hell had I been thinking, to let myself fall in love with a man like that? Like *this*? I had been right to leave. Just ignore the way you feel right now, you know better. This man will hurt you, and you know it!
         He brushed past me without a word. I just stood there, more or less in shock.
         The only thing that kept me from freaking out was when I heard Hope yell.
         "Mommy, who is it?"
         "N-no one, Hope. G-go back to playing!" I yelled, praying my voice would stay steady.
         I heard her begin to play again. That resolved me, and I whirled to face Ma...the Hunter. How could I think of him as anything else?
         "What the hell are you doing here? And in *that*?" I hissed. If Hope came out here and saw him...
         He held up his hand. I flinched. I immediately hated that I was so nervous and jumpy and...terrified. I knew I could kill him before he did anything to me, but...because I still loved him, I knew if I was able to raise a hand to defend myself that it would be a miracle. Rosenkrantz had trained me well, after all... And part of me, a part that scared me, had welcomed when he had hit me. I had been a...a bad girl, after all. I had deserved it.
         That was what had scared me. The feeling that I had deserved to be hit. I hadn't felt that way in...not since I was a child. Not since I was an experiment and nothing more. I'd been with men who had hit me before. I would let them hit me because I didn't really know another way to react, but I'd never felt I had deserved it, like I had when Mark had hit me. And *that* scared me. That was more frightening than any mask he could wear. That fear was why I was able to strike back and protect myself that once...but would I be able to ever do it again?
         The white eyes of the mask stared at me.
         I shut my eyes. "Mark, Hope is in the next room. Do you want her to come out and...and see you like this? Take off that mask!"
         "No." he said flatly. "I won't. I can't." I could tell he had frowned--I doubted that he had thought about Hope when he decided to burst over here. He was considering something, then nodded. "Alexander Xanatos is outside. Let Hope go stay with her father for a while. We need to talk, Christine, and I'm not leaving until this is settled. For good."
         "*Alex* is...oh, for God's sake!" I yelped, throwing my hands in the air. It was the Return of the Bad Break-Ups. Christ.
         I bit my lip and resettled my wings on my shoulder. It was a nervous habit, and I know that he noticed it. What was I supposed to do? I didn't quite know how to handle this; how to deal with the fact that I was suddenly a bundle of conflicting emotions, and conflicting about everything. I hadn't seen him or Alexander since...
         And I hadn't *wanted* to see either of them. I had wanted to get away from my past, and here it was, staring me in the face, wearing a Hunter's mask.
         "I'll go wait in another room while you take Hope out." he said, his voice letting me know that he wasn't going to leave, nor was he going to take no for an answer.
         "Wait in there." I said, pointing to the kitchen. As soon as he went in, I headed to where Hope was.
         "Hope, sweetheart, your father's here to see you."
         Her hands crashed down on the piano. "No!" she yelled angrily. "I don't wanna see him! Make him go away!"
         "Hope!"
         She jumped up and faced me, her tiny hands balled in a fist. "It's his fault Mark went away! His fault! I hate my father! I hate him!"
         I staggered back. She was serious. I could feel her hate radiating out of her in almost visible waves. This, this had to be stopped, right here and right now. I wasn't going to let my mistakes poison my grandchild against her father. "Hope...he's your father. And he loves you. It's not his fault all of this happened!"
         "Yes it is!" she screamed vehemently. "It's all his fault, and I won't go see him!"
         "Yes, you will!" I yelled back. "He is your father! Nothing will change that!" I said, picking her up forcefully. I stared her straight in the eyes, holding her angrily squirming body away from mine. We glared at each other for a long time, before she set her jaw.
         "I don't wanna!"
         "But you will!" I hissed back at her. Her eyes widened in shock and her jaw dropped. I usually indulged her, far more than I should have, but I was firm on this. I was not going to let my mistakes hurt her any more than they already had. I put her down and she started at me, a mixture of shock and anger on her face. She had never looked more like Fox than she did just then. I took her hand and we went outside.
         Alexander looked up. He paled slightly when he saw me, then he saw Hope. He started to get a very tenuous smile on his face, but the look of hatred on Hope's face killed it quickly. I walked over to him, all but dragging Hope behind me, and trying to ignore my pounding heart.
         "C-Christine, I think you need to t..."
         I glared at him and he stopped talking.
         "You and Hope need to talk." I said, all but pushing her at him. "You two need time together."
         Both of them stared at me, surprised over how short I was being. They both blinked, and I headed back into the house to face my fate.

***          Alexander Xanatos looked at his daughter. God, she looked like his mother. Aside from her curling hair and eyes. She had Erika Belinda's blue eyes, and that tore at him. But even more, they reminded him of *her*. Erika was gone, and forever. It was his fault. All that was left of her was this child. His child. Hope looked towards where Christine had gone, then turned to glare at him.
         He had never felt so nervous before. Never. What was he going to do? He'd hadn't even thought that he was going to be seeing Hope. "Hello, Hope."
         She glared at him. The glare was as glacial as any Erika Belinda had done, but unlike her mother, she didn't hide any of her emotions. "I don't like you." she said clearly.
         Alexander blinked in shock, his jaw dropping slightly. "Hope..." he began, dropping down to her level. She glared at him.
         "You made Mark go away." she said angrily. "And that's why I don't get to see him anymore and why Mommy cries when she doesn't think I'm listening. It's all your fault!" she yelled, then unceremoniously turned her back on him and began stalking down the street. ***          I had never felt so much dread in my life as I felt when I shut the door behind me. I knew Mark...the Hunter...was waiting for me. Why was he here? What was he going to do? Hell...what was I going to do?
         I went into the kitchen. He was there, standing and facing the window with his arms folded. I just looked at him.
         "Hope and Alexander seem to be having difficulties." he said flatly, never turning around. "In fact, she just stalked off down the street. He just headed off after her."
         "She...she just doesn't like him much."
         "I can't fault her taste."
         "Mark."
         "I'm bitter. I won't lie. He took my life." He turned around and faced me. "And I'm here to get it back."
         "And just how do you intend on doing that?" I could feel my heart speeding up. It was going a mile a minute, and I knew why. Totally irrational fear that he as just going to take me like he had when I was human. If he made a move towards me, I was going to bolt.
         "By talking to you." he said, looking at her. "Please, Christine, sit down. I'm not going to hurt you."
         "And why should I believe you?"
         "Because it's the truth."
         I just stared at him. He was serious. I knew he was serious; I could feel that he wouldn't hurt me. But I also could tell that he wasn't going to let me leave until this was settled. And if I did manage to get him to go away, he would come back.
        So what did I do? I did all I could do. I sat.
         There was no outward change, but I could sense the relief from him when I sat down. "I'm sitting. And I just have to say that..."
         I stopped short, staring at his costume. Before, there had been three parallel scars across his chest. Now there were four. Oh, god...that *dream*...
         "So it left you with a scar, did it?" I said softly. I could remember lashing out in complete desperation, and my talons raking across his chest. Part of me had checked it, so it wouldn't kill him like I was more than capable of doing. But I knew it had drawn blood. I hadn't known if it would scar or not.
         He touched his chest without intending to. I watched him, fighting my own internal battles. He sighed. "This is going to take a long time, Christine."
         I rubbed my temples. He wasn't going to leave, I knew. Well, maybe this was good. Maybe we did need this last talk. God only knows I had been having my own doubts--I didn't want to live with them. I've lived with enough regrets. It was time for me to reaffirm that I was doing the right thing. I was nervous as hell, having him there. Part of me wanted to kill him, part of me wanted to scream at him to get out of my life, part of me just wanted to pick up and run and not have to face him, and part of me...part of me still loved him. What could I do?
         He remained standing. "To answer your question," he began, touching his chest lightly, where the fourth line was, "Yes. It scarred. It's very faint, though, and it can barely be seen...but it's there."
         I was silent. Part of me wanted to apologize, but an angry voice in my head screamed that he deserved it. He had hit me, after all, and I had just been protecting myself.
         You shouldn't have, another voice said. It was wrong. You were wrong, he was right, and you know it!
         My spine straightened against that venomous voice. "I'm not sorry for that, Mark. I had to protect myself. I'm sorry it scarred, but...but if I had to, I'd do it again."
         That was a total lie. I knew full well I'd likely never be able to protect myself like that again against him.
         "You always were a bad liar, Christine." he said flatly, the white eyes of the Hunter's mask staring straight at me.
         I bowed my head.
         "Christine."
         I looked up. Straight into that mask. I felt anger growing in me. Why was he still here? Still forcing himself into my life? I wanted to make a clean break from it all, and I couldn't, not with him here. My life needed to move on; I couldn't be so held in the past! He was the past. My future was not in this man. How could it be with the *Hunter*?
         "I've never asked all that much from you, Christine." he said, his voice soft. "All I ask is honesty. Just tell me the truth."
         "What do you want from me?" I burst out with. I was hurt, confused, and angry. I wanted him to go away and stop making everything so damned difficult. I wanted him to go away so I could just curl up and cry. I didn't want to see him anymore, because seeing him only made everything hurt more. It tore open the barely healed wound that all of this was and made all of it start to hurt like no time at all had passed. I was just starting to rebuild, and now... "Just what the hell do you want from me?!!?"
         He never raised his voice, just stared at me with those Hunter's eyes. "The truth, Christine. Just that." ***          Alexander caught up with his daughter quickly. He grabbed her before she could get too far. "Hope!"
         She glared at him. Her eyes cut him. "Let me go!" she yelled.
         "Not in the middle of the street, I won't!" her father hissed back. He wondered what the neighbors were thinking just then... "I am not about to let you get hit by a car! We will discuss this somewhere that *isn't* the middle of the street!"
         Hope continued to glare at him, but obeyed him. Alexander sighed to himself. Jesus. He was a father. And he had to learn to deal with this. One minute, he's more or less alone, and the next, he has a child. And to top it off, a child that obviously hated him with a passion.
         "Now we can talk." he said, when they got back to the front yard of Christine's house.
         Hope looked at him. "I violently dislike you."
         She was a sarcastic little thing for an eight-year-old. She had been around Belinda too much... Alexander sighed. "I think we've established that. But why?"
         "Because you made Mark go away."
         That hurt. Alexander had to admit, that hurt. Both that this child had more or less hit the source of his guilt square in the bulls-eye or the fact that his own child loved another man more. Way to go, Adams, he thought to himself bitterly. You've got both of them. And what do I have? Nothing but the money that won't buy me the things I want the most in the world. What's the point?
         He swallowed his self-pity and bitterness. He had to do something, and now, if he was ever going to have a chance at gaining his child's love. "Why do you say that I made Mark go away? I didn't force him to...I didn't make Christine decide that she'd be happier without him."
         Hope's scowl deepened. "Mommy's not happy. She cries. A lot. She thinks I don't know, but I do. She's *not* happy."
         Alexander sighed. "All right. She's not happy. But why are you blaming..."
         "Because you put that bad spell on Mark!" the girl screamed, her face scrunching in anger. "Of course Mommy made us go away from Mark! It's all because of you!" ***          "You want the truth?" I shot out, staring up at him. He had continued to stand while I was sitting. Was he trying to make me feel small, to intimidate me? The mask alone was doing a good job of that. I was afraid and I was angry, and I vastly preferred the anger. "You want truth? I'm scared out of my fucking mind of you right now!" I screamed. "I'm scared you'll hurt me again! God damn it, why won't you just go?"
         Tears were starting, and I hated them. I had shed too many tears over the Hunter; I didn't want to cry anymore.
         The mask stared at me. "I won't go, Christine." His voice was soft, but firm. "I can't. I can't lose you. Please, just listen." he said, bowing his head slightly. He seemed to gather himself, unsure of how exactly to proceed. "I was talking to Belinda. She made me realize that we've kept too much from each other, and we'd more or less doomed ourselves then. It's time to stop running from the past. I ran, you ran. We can't keep running, Christine."
         Part of me felt compassion for him. Part of me hated him. Hated what he had been and what he had done to me. But what did I hate? The man, or the mask? Could I separate the two? Was it possible? No. They were the same, and always had been. I had been a fool to think otherwise, he had *proven* that, when he hit me. It didn't take much effort to bring it to mind. Mark was the Hunter, and always had been. He always would be. What kind of blind fool had I been to think otherwise, to manage to convince myself that...?
         Demona's words rang hollowly in my head. "He'll see you as little better than a whore...if he doesn't see you as that all ready." Was I nothing more than a whore to him? Likely, I was the same to him as I was to Alex--a childish dream that had to be possessed. The Hunter had wanted me since he was little more than a boy--and once he had gotten me to be the whore...
         I looked up at him. "I'm not running. I'm finally moving on, for the first time in my life. I'm trying to move on and let the past die."
         I looked at my hands, interlacing my fingers. I had to think of a way to proceed. I sighed. Well, I would start with the truth. He wanted the truth, so let's see if he could give the same to me. I closed my eyes, and resettled my wings. I could feel him staring at me, and I hated how frightened it made me. And confused. I could feel *Mark*--his emotions, everything--but there before me was the Hunter.
         "Why," I asked, my voice a whisper and my eyes still shut, "why won't you let me go?"
         "Because I can't." he said in an even softer whisper.
         "Why?"
         He began to pace. I heard the footsteps begin, but refused to open my eyes. Abruptly they stopped, and I heard his voice begin to speak. "When I was a little boy, my mother used to say, 'People plan. God laughs.' I never really understood the saying, not for a long time. Mom was full of little sayings--most of them sarcastic--like that. I loved my parents, even though I was going through the 'snotty' years, as Mom liked to call them. She used to say she couldn't wait until I got through them so I could rejoin the human race." he said with a faint smile. "I was a holy terror when I was little. But I think I was basically a good kid. But one day, everything changed. One night, rather. Something crashed through my window. A gargoyle...Demona."
         My eyes flew open. "Demona? You never told me that it was..."
         "Demona? Yeah. Maybe I should have, but it was a hard time to talk about." he said softly, not looking at me. Then he looked up at me. "But then, you never told me it was Demona who scarred your back."
         "It was hard for me to talk about." I said back, closing my eyes again, not able to look at the Hunter's mask staring down at me.
         He was silent for a while. Then he spoke again. "Yeah...but nothing's ever easy. We should have talked about this."
         "Are you blaming me?" I snapped.
         "No." he said quietly. "This is my fault. Our fault. We both screwed up. Now it's time to see if we can at least find closure, if nothing else."
         "It is closed." I said, opening my eyes and staring at him. "It's over, Mark. Good-bye."
         "No, Christine, it's not over." he said, the white eyes of that mask boring into my own eyes. "It just doesn't work that way.
         "Love's not a nice thing, Christine. Hell, it's got to be one of the most unforgiving emotions out there, more than hate, more than guilt, more than lust. Love's an evil thing, Christine, once it's got you. It never lets you go. It grabs you and makes you miserable. And it doesn't just go away when someone says 'it's over.' That just makes it burn worse, take you over even more. So don't try to sit here and tell me it's over, because we both know it's not. It'll *never* be over." *** *** *** ***          I looked at my hands. Safer that way. I felt like I was shaking on the inside, and it was taking all my willpower to not be shaking on the outside. I felt cold and wrapped my arms around my body and my wings around those.
         "You're still scared of me."
         I looked at him. "Yes. I am." What, was he thinking I wouldn't be? It was as if he had turned into my worst nightmare all over again. Yes, I was frightened. Very much so. It was as if he had regressed back to my worst nightmare. Only worse because there was a surreal, obsessional aspect to it all. He had, in his way, obsessed--if I told him, at the end of this, to leave and never come back, I didn't doubt that he would do it--but he was right; for him, it would never be over. And it was the same for me.
         He suddenly sat down, across from me. "Better?"
         "No."
         He shrugged. "This is all I concede."
         I bit back a sarcastic comment. Then I glared. "What do you want from me? One last lay?"
         He winced. He even flinched emotionally, and I wondered how close I had hit to at least some part of the truth--a part he would deny even to himself, I knew. But it simply didn't work to try and hide things from an empath--for better or worse, I could sense things from people that they didn't even want to know about themselves; the secret, hidden parts that they didn't want anyone to see.
         Including themselves. *** *** *** ***          "That was one hell of a low blow, Christine." Mark said, narrowing his eyes. Those white Hunter eyes.
         I stood my ground. "Deny it." I said flatly.
         "Need I remind you that *you* were the one who..." he began angrily.
         "I know full well what I did." I said, cutting him off. "Did I ever deny it? No. In fact, if *you* recall, I *told* you about it because I didn't want to live a lie. I couldn't spend my life lying to you and to myself. But you seem to be pretty good at it." His eyes widened. I'd hit another one, there. "So what do you really want from me, Mark? You said you wanted closure. I gave it to you. I take full responsibility for what I did, and I'm sorry for it, and wish it hadn't happened. What do you want now? Me to make your own self-hate go away? I can't do that. You want a final fuck, fine." I said, standing up and crossing my arms under my breasts. "You want me to make your guilt go away, you're on your own." ***          "All right, Hope." Alexander said. "Now, I want you to listen to me. Yes. I did something bad. I did something I should not have done. I was wrong. I...I lost sight of something very important." He stopped talking and looked at her. Erika's eyes stared back at him out of his mother's face. He closed his eyes and sighed, then sat down in the grass. She continued to stand, staring at him, her young face cold. "Do you know what I lost sight of?"
         "Of what's right and what's wrong." she said flatly. "Mommy taught us that we can hurt people with magic and if we do that, it's wrong."
         "I did lose sight of that. But...that wasn't what I was talking about. I thought...I thought I was helping Christine. I managed to make myself think that I was, because I wanted to. But that's not what I lost sight of, Hope." He looked up at her. "I lost sight of something far more important, Hope. More important than not hurting people. I lost...I lost sight of myself. I never lost sight of right and wrong. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I thought it was for the best in the long run. I thought...I thought that the ends justified the means. I was wrong." He sighed. "Hope...magic does things to you. If gives you responsibilities most people don't have. Like everything else in the world, it can be used for good or for bad. When you open it up for bad...you hurt yourself more than anyone else, even if you don't see it. When I did what I did...I hurt everyone I care about. Christine. You. And me. I can't forgive myself for what I did, Hope. Because it *was* wrong. And because I lied to myself because I wanted to think I was doing what was best, even though I knew it was wrong.
         "Hope...never do anything that part of you says is wrong. Never. Trust yourself more than anyone else. If you think it's wrong, even for a second, stop then and stop there. Because otherwise...you just hurt yourself. You just hurt yourself." *** *** *** ***          "Kill *my* guilt?" Mark yelled.
         "Your guilt. That's what you were using me for all this time." I said, staring him down. "And you know it. You may deny it, but you know it." I laughed. "You...you wanted me to forgive you, but you can't even forgive yourself."
         "We're not talking about what I did to you years ago. Stop changing the subj..."
         "I'm not changing the subject, because, face it, that's what this is about. You came in here with that costume and that mask *and* that baggage. You don't tell me that's not what this is *really* about.
         "Yes. I cheated. I won't deny it. I'm sorry for it and I wish I'd had a little better sense. It wasn't *totally* programming, and I'm not going to lie to you or myself and say it was. In all honesty, I don't quite know *what* happened. But I know it did and I know it was totally unlike me and I know I'm never going to do anything like that again because I can't deal with it. Lying to yourself is a terrible thing--I should know, I've done it enough. Well, no more of it. I can't take anymore. I'm sorry for what I did. It hurt you. And I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. All I can offer over that is words. I could have not told you about what I had done. But I didn't because I was tired of lies. I didn't want to live like that. I *can't* live like that. I told you it was over between Alex and I. It is. Completely finished. And I told you it was also finished between us because...because I can't do it anymore. I can't keep killing your guilt and wondering if that's really all I'm there for. I can't. I just can't." I had been pacing, moving with jerking movements, my head shaking as I was talking, sorting as I walked. I stopped and turned to him. "So let's just stop this farce."
         "The only farce is *this* one." he shot back, narrowing his eyes.
         My eyes widened. Shades and shadows of the last dream of the Hecate's spell were coming back at me.
         "You're doing a grand job of lying to yourself again, Christine," he said dryly. "Because you're acting as if you've managed to dump all of your emotional baggage as well. And that's the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard coming out of your mouth. The only scary thing is that you actually believe it." *** *** *** ***          "Cow dookey."
         Alexander blinked. Hope had just said, quite clearly, the eight-year-old's version of "bullshit." And the look on her face...
         She just stood there, one eyebrow raised, hands on her hips, head tilted down, her mouth pursed. Her entire body was saying, as clearly as she had, one thing: 'bullshit.'
         He had no idea what to say. He just stared at her, his jaw hanging. This kid was *eight*? Unwittingly, he found himself fighting back a snort of laughter. Yeah, this girl was *definitely* Erika's daughter.
         And this kid was *definitely* his. *** *** *** ***          "Ex-*cuse* me?"
         "You heard me, Christine." Mark said flatly.
         I never wanted to hit him as badly as I did just then. I really wanted to hit him. But I didn't. But *God*, did I ever want to.
         "All right, let's hear you explain this one." I said, crossing my arms and clinching my fists to avoid pounding one of them into his face.
         "Well, for one thing, let's look at the fact that right now, you're tense as hell and you look like you're about to hit me."
         I felt my eyes widening in shock. How on earth did he...?
         He smiled faintly. "I may not be an empath, but I am *observant*. That's all you need sometimes. Now, why were you *so* instantly upset, unless I hit the nail on the head?"
         He was being so fucking smug that *not* hitting him was getting harder. "I was *upset* because you blew off what I said! You act like you're so fucking superior and...!"
         "Hypocrisy has never become you, Christine." he said flatly. My jaw *did* drop then, and I started at him, feeling more outraged than I had in a long time.
         "You...you...you...!" I managed somehow to sputter out.
         "Now, when can you stop being hypocritical, get off your high horse, and the two of us *talk*?" *** *** *** ***          "All right. I'll stop making sermons and just talk to you."
         "Thank you." Hope said flatly. "I'm not stupid. I'm may be a kid, but I'm not stupid."
         "So I see." Alexander said, sighing. "I'm new at this, you know. I'm trying to make as few mistakes as I can, but..."
         "But so far, you're sucking dirty pond water."
         "Thank you for pointing that out." he said dryly.
         "No prob." she said, tilting her head. *** *** *** ***          "So what do you want to tell me, hmmm?" I said, quietly seething inside.
         "Much as I hate to admit it, I think you got us on the right track before you got up on that high horse. I know because my stomach started clinching up. So let's explore." He stood up again, and I immediately felt nervous again. Well, nervous and angry.
         He walked over to me, grabbed me by the upper arms, turned, and pushed me down into the chair he had just gotten out of.
         "Sit."
         I glared at him. "Yes, massa."
         He glared back. "Christine."
         "If you can't take the heat..." I snarled. "Oh, and if you *ever* lay a hand on me again, and I will..."
         "Don't bother, Christine." he said, raising his hand. "I more than know what you are capable of. And I also know what you are capable of doing to *me*." He touched his chest inadvertently. And he closed his eyes. But just for a minute.
         "Then don't make me *have* to tell you." I hissed.
         "Fair enough." he said. "This isn't about what you did. I thought it was, when I came. But you're right. It's not. We both know that you're sorry for that. And that you weren't *completely* acting of your own volition. And that what I did afterwards...when you told me...would naturally make you scared shitless of me and make it seem justified for you to never see me again. But...Christine, Alexander put a spell on me. I didn't get to tell you before--you wouldn't let me. But it's true. Ask Belinda. I don't know what it did, but it was what made me go crazy like that. It wasn't me. It wasn't. And because I *know* that was why you left...because I...god, I still can't believe that I, even though I know it wasn't me..."
         I stared at him. He was telling the truth. That was why he had felt so weird; everything snapped into place. I felt as if the world had abruptly been yanked out from under me. I guess it had been, in a way. My strongest reason for leaving him--to protect myself--was gone.
         What was I supposed to tell myself *now*? What was I supposed to do?
         He started pacing. I watched him pace from the chair, getting strange flashbacks to all those years ago.
         He's doing this on purpose. I realized it suddenly. He did know what this was really about, maybe better than I did myself. He needed this more than I did. So be it. I owed him this, if nothing else. But he should have known by then to be careful what he asked for. No holds barred, this time. He wanted me to piece together his nicely-ordered little world, make him see what was right and what was wrong--what he really felt.
         "You say you've been...killing my guilt. How?" he said flatly, staring down at me.
         "By my even being with you. Makes you think everything's all hunky-dory and just fine, and that you're all forgiven. After all, how can I be with you unless I've forgiven you? I make the little voices in your head telling you everything you've done wrong just...shut up for a while. Well, I've had it." I said softly. He said nothing. "You're wearing that mask because *you* can't see beyond it. You can't see beyond everything you've done. You...you almost *want* to be punished for what you did...you...you *wanted* me to do something like this." I said, my eyes unfocusing slightly. It was very rare that I let myself blank out and actually probe people's emotions--it was a dangerous thing to do because it was far too easy--far too easy to let myself get sucked into other people's emotions and not be able to separate myself.
         In a nutshell--I rarely ever did it because it was dangerous. If I did it for too long--or to the wrong person--it was impossible for me to separate out. I had never done it because I was careful--I had always known that it was a possibility, inherently, without being told. That had always kept me from pushing myself. I had only pushed like this once before--with him. I had done that because I knew it was the only way to get myself free.
         Funny how I was doing the same thing now...
         It should have sent off warnings in my head. Hell, it did. I ignored them. What else could I do? Ignore the eerie flashbacks to when he had captured me, and to that dream. Why the hell not? What did I have to lose? Everything was already a mess, and a pretty fucking painful one at that. And I was still in two minds about everything. About him. Now more than ever.
         He stared at me. I was aware of it, but only vaguely. I was more aware of *him*. Of the emotions so buried that he didn't even know about. Things only barely felt, on a subconscious level, that effected everything, and all actions. I was in deep, now. Very deep. And I knew it. Barely. I couldn't see; everything was a blur. I was vaguely aware that I was rocking back and forth slightly. I was only aware of what I was sensing, what I was feeling from him.
         "You haven't forgiven yourself. You haven't. Part of you...much as you want this to be, as much as you want everything to work out and be all right...you don't think you deserve it. You don't want to be forgiven. Because you don't think you can be forgiven. And you don't believe that I could have completely forgiven you. That's why you're here. You want to try to get me to forgive you. You think that's why I left. Not because you need closure. You want this Purgatory. You think it's redeeming you. You want me to be your redemption.
         "You're right, I haven't completely forgiven you. Part of me still hates you and always will... What you did was unforgivable, and we *both* know it. I've come as close as is humanly possible. Besides, how can I forgive you, when I can feel from you that you haven't even forgiven *yourself*?"
         I felt tears. Vaguely. Outside of me. I knew they were on my face, but just barely. There were things that you could sense when you were this far in. I was only barely aware of myself--of being an individual. "I hurt you...I hurt you *so* much. And you...you're afraid. Afraid I really will walk out of your life. Because...because if I do, you know that you failed. You know that you can never be redeemed for what you did. Not just to me, but any of it. And afraid because you really *do* love me. And you've never felt anything like it before. I was the only person--besides yourself--to ever *really* make you question your own motives. The only one to throw your nice, ordered, *focused* world into a tailspin, and things could never go back after that, because you started to question everything. You started to wonder who was a monster and what it meant to be evil. Because you realized I was a living, breathing, *frightened*, creature--no different than any other woman would be in the same situation. You came so close...closer than I think even you realized....and that...that frightened you. Made you frightened of *yourself*. And worse, it made you *question* yourself."
         The words poured out of me. I felt so separate from myself. The words...I spoke, just spoke, barely managing to put into words what I was feeling...what he was feeling, had felt. It was as if...I felt it all as if it was my own emotion, and all the pain in the emotions was my own, felt as strongly as any I had ever felt in my own life. Vaguely, briefly, I wondered if it ran both ways. I suspected that it was...but was it me? Was it him thinking it? I couldn't tell. Everything was so muddled...
         I was talking, talking, but I wasn't aware of the words. Of *thinking* the words, rather. I was aware of physically speaking. And of what I was sensing. But everything was becoming all blurry. Not physically, though. It was something else. I don't know if I can describe it; I don't know if I can even *try*.
         "I was the only woman you ever loved...you couldn't let anyone in. You were... afraid to. Afraid that you'd lose them if you did. You never would admit it to yourself; you always just refused to think about it. You wrote off emotions as being weaknesses--as taking you away from your goals. And because you didn't think you deserved to have anyone, because you would fail them and because you were still covered in...in *sin* for everything you had done.. But more than *anything*, you were afraid. It was so easy for you to just isolate yourself. Because you were afraid of the risks that feeling left you open to. That scared you more than anything else--to maybe feel pain like you felt when you had to watch your parents killed. You wanted so badly to avoid it that you had wrapped yourself up in that need for revenge. And then, in your need for redemption for that revenge. It was as much of a shield as your revenge had been. I had managed to slip through all your isolation, despite *both* of us. Through that incredible determination of yours that was *so* set on keeping you isolated. When I had that thing with Alex, that hurt because you hadn't seen it coming--even though part of you *expected* it, expected to mess up somehow and lose me. You were waiting for something to go wrong, praying it wouldn't, but knowing, just knowing, that somehow, this wouldn't last. And when I left...when I did what I did, that hurt you more than anything had in longer than you could remember. Because you *had* started to feel again, this after you had stopped and wouldn't let yourself connect with anyone else. It had been so long for you and you knew your were leaving yourself open for more pain, and it was so hard for you, to get through all of that baggage and all thsoe fears of being alone again. You were watching your life just slip out and you were helpless to stop it, no matter how hard you tried. You were desperate. When I walked out..."
         I couldn't express it. I could feel it, but it was so hard to put it into words. I gave up. "But with me, you saw a chance of *this* time, getting back what you lost. You won't let me slip through your fingers like you watched your parents. You won't let the life you finally started to get--the life you wouldn't let yourself have--slip away from you. You can't go back to before. You know it now, and that was part of why you were always alone before--you were afraid of having something like this before, because you were afraid you would lose it and what it would do to you. You're afraid of what it will do to you if you really *do* lose me for good. Because...because...I--you wonder what the point of everything you did is. It's all pointless now, it was all for nothing. I--you need you-me...because otherwise it...otherwise...all just a...what the hell has been the point of everything I tried to do if I lose the one thing that made it all clear and showed me that it had all had a point?!!? The one thing--you--who had redemed me?!!? What the hell was the goddamned *point*?"
         The warning bells were going off and been going off for longre than they ever had before. They were telling me that if I didn't yank myself out--and fast--I was never going to get out. But how could I break out now? I had to make him believe me. I had to make me...him...
         "Christine, get out!" he yelled suddenly. I felt something in him slam and I literally went flying back, falling out of the chair, slamming back into myself.
         He came over, helping me up. He was shaking slightly. I felt so disoriented. It was as if everything was out of focus. My head was pounding like crazy and everything felt so incredibly *hollow*...
         "Jesus *Christ*, Christine." he said harshly. "I felt that...it was as if...I couldn't tell where you ended and I started. I can't even imagine what you...are you all right?"
         "I...I..." It was as if I had been hit on the head. I was that disoriented. Vaguely, I was aware that I *had* pushed myself into that dangerous area, the point where I wouldn't have been able to separate. He'd *pushed* me out. That probably saved me. Not just from never being able to separate, but from all the other dangers that happened with psionic powers like mine and Belinda's. All sorts of things--god, it was so easy to go insane, so many different ways...so easy to drive someone *else* insane by accident...
         Strange what the mind can do. It was why everything felt so hollow. I was suddenly just with my *own* emotions, beyond the mild empathy I had with everyone. My mind felt so...hollow. Going from feeling two sets of emotions as my own to simply one... I knew I was going to be shaken for a while. And I knew I could never let myself go that far in again. It was...I was so...god...it all frightened me and I felt so disoriented and...and *empty*.
         "Christine, are you all right? For God's sake, *say* something!"
         I stood up on unsteady feet. I stood in front of him, and took his face in my hands, taking off the mask. I looked into those eyes, the ones that I had both hated and loved. I kissed him, then put the mask in his hands.
         "Good-bye, Mark." I whispered, closing my eyes and turning my back.
         He left without a word. ***          "Hope...I made mistakes. Big ones. I won't deny it." Alex said flatly. "And I let myself break one of the cardinal rules of magic. One of the cardinal rules of life itself. I messed up because I let myself do something I knew was wrong. I *did* place that spell on Mark. And it was wrong. And I'll regret it for a long time."
         "So what are you going to do about it?" Hope said flatly.
         Alexander shook his head. "I don't know." he said, watching silently as Mark left the house. "I...I just don't know." ***          I spent the next few days in a haze, trying to figure things out. The voices in my head had been questioning me since I had left Mark in the first place, and they were now questioning me with more virulence than before. And everything was *so* confused... *Everything* was confused now. And I felt even worse than I had before. I hated this. I had made a decision...why wasn't this over? *Why*?
         So he's your past, is he? one of the little voices in my head finally asked.
         Yes.
         Is he now?
         Yes! He is! I have to get away from all of it! All of it!
         So you're going to make yourself miserable, and him, all because you think you need a new start?
         If I have to.
         Never mind he could be the new start you need so much.
         He's my past!
         Only because you make him be. He's not the...
         I *know* that! I was in his head, after all! I damn near couldn't get out!
         He needs you.
         And...? What about what I need, for once?
        You don't think you need him, too? Please. You do, but you won't admit it to yourself. Scary as it is, you *do* need him. You know he'll keep you sane. You do. Because of that focus of his. He understands you and helped you get your perspectives straight better than anyone, even your sister, has ever been able to. And you know that if you had talked to him before, when the whole mess with Alex had started, he probably would have been able to help you figure this out a hell of a lot sooner. He did have access to those files. You saying something might have jogged his memory. Especially if you'd mentioned the headaches--you had those before, remember?
         Oh, please. Shut up with the hypotheticals. That's all crap.
         No, it's not. Stop being a child, not listening when she doesn't want to hear!
         I'm not a child!
         Yes.   You are a child. A pathetic little child throwing out all her toys because she wants new ones.
         Leave me alone. Shut up.
         No.
         Go away!
         No. You're being silly. A spoiled child!
         No, I'm not! I'm finally being an adult!
         No, you're not.
         Go away!
         You love him.
         Yeah. I do.
         But you're throwing him away.
         I'm not!
         Bull.
         I--I have to. To save myself, I have to. And I still hate him. Part of me still does and always will. I can't live with all that! Love, hate...I just can't do it.
         Christine, for God's sake! You *do* love him, he loves you, and...
         I *have* to. I don't...I don't want to. But I have to. For God's sake, I'm doing this for both of us! We *both* need to...
         Oh, bull*shit*. You make your own hardships, Christine.
         What?
         You destroy yourself. You make yourself miserable because you let everything slip through your fingers. You watch it go, but do nothing. Remember *Erika*? And now Mark. All because you're too fucking wrapped up in *yourself* to ever see that...
         "Shut up!" I finally screamed.
         There was silence.

*** *** *** ***

New York City three nights later

         "Why is it," I began, "that I always end up saving your sorry ass?" That I said as I took down the Quarryman about to land a shot on Mark's back with one of the glorified hammers they *still* loved to play around with after all these years. Ahh, rooftop battles. Nothing like 'em, really.
         Yeah, I know I'd made a decision before. The wrong one. I told you, I have a tendancy to make bad ones. But, well, for once, I had the chance to correct it. So I had gone off after Mark, and found he wasn't in the apartment--"spartan" he would call it; "appalingly sterile" would be my personal word-choice--he had moved into. He was nowhere. So I'd gone--no god-awful pun intended--hunting for him.
         Mark whirled around when he saw me, his entire face changing and lighting up for an instant, before he realized now was not the time for a grand reunion. After there was no longer the threat of a violent and messy death at the hands of these black-sheeted fools would probably be a better idea.
         "Oh, c'mon, boys!" I yelled at them. "What's the fun of going after a human, when you can get a *freak*?" I spread my wings suddenly, and bared my not-so-insignificant gargoyle fangs. That was enough; they left Mark and attacked me. I was much more interesting fare, after all.
         It had been a long time since I had fought, but it was like riding a bike--you never forget. And these idiots had no idea they were literally fighting a living weapon. There was a strange, frightening sort of peace about fighting, in giving into the programming within. I didn't dwell on it. Fighting was all fluid and grace, and there were times, like now, when I could hear music in my mind, and I felt as though I was dancing to it. It ended quickly, far quicker than I had expected, almost too quickly. They only had numbers, not skill, on their side, and numbers were nothing once you saw the weakness in your enemies. I knew I could have killed them, and part of me wanted to, both because they had threatened Mark and because I could have. But I held myself in check.
         When I finished and gathered my breath, I looked at Mark. "Every time I come after you...every *time*, you're surrounded by Quarrymen trying to beat the crap out of you. How do you manage to just piss *everyone* off?"
         "It's a skill." he said, then abruptly grabbed me, hugging me so tightly I could barely breathe. I hugged him back, suddenly shaking. He murmured my name a few times, and I felt overwhelmed with everything.
         So here I was. I took his face in my hands and kissed him.
         Maybe I *am* making a mistake. I don't know. I don't really know how I feel, it's all too complex. Everything is confused, extreme emotions are all interwoven and muddled. I love him and I hate him. Sometimes I don't know which is stronger.
         Hell. I've never taken the easy way out of things, and I can scarcely start now.
         I don't know where the future is going. But I do know my future is spread far in front of me, and I know that Mark will one day pass out of the immortality that spreads out before me like a nightmare. So I guess I might as well be here, with him while he's here--emotions are extreme, complex, frightening things. Because he was right. Trying to say they're over just makes it burn worse, take you over even more. The past never dies and emotions linger on, metamorphosize, stay around, infect other emotions, transmute them, make everything muddled and uncertain. There is no black and there is no white; there are only greys that bleed and fade into each other, and that we have to make sense of things that can't be rationalized or explained, only felt, only experienced, only agonized over. Hate and love can become muddled and inseparable. Love and guilt can become inextricable from each other. There can be pain in wanting someone close and still not wanting that person around; in wanting to separate but being unable to because something inside you simply will not let you and will make you hurt even more if you do get away. There can be pain in loving someone and *hating* the fact that you love them; in *wishing* that you could completely hate them, but knowing that you never will.
         *That* is what love is. It can be nice, it can be pretty, it can be pure. It can be horrible, it can be a trap, it can be a motherfucking *nightmare*. People like to see the one side of the coin, but forget that the other is there--the *not* nice, the *not* pretty, the *not* pure--the hatred, the obsession, the desire. No one wants to see the flip side of the coin; the dark.
         But isn't it the dark that makes the light seem brighter?
         Love's not a nice thing, And it doesn't just go away when someone says 'it's over.'
         Hate's the same way.
         It'll never be over.

***

But never is a promise
And you can't afford to lie
-"Never is a Promise"

***
Fin