VidArth FF - The Dream Seller and His Keep - Part 3 on Page 2 - 10/03 - Page 2

He doesn't remember breaking the door open, nor does he remember Kadambari Devi screaming in the background and her menservants trying to hold him back. All he remembers is this blind urge to get through that door, to see her, to get to her.

There's chaos and calamity all around him and he's sure that to everyone around, he appears to be coming undone. His mask cracking open and the sleeping volcano he carries oh so carefully inside waking up, erupting, spurting and raining blazing molten lava and leaving destruction in its wake. They couldn't be more wrong.

He's as calm as he has ever been. Still and frozen over on the inside, all his thoughts, his words, his emotions locked away until he's completely barren and vacant. His mind a dead hum with only her name echoing around like a harsh cold blizzard, the only thing alive and moving in a dead man's land. An acute icy coldness spreads all through his body but he doesn't remember shivering. His primal instincts override everything and while most people would panic, fumble and lash out, he revels in it, wears it around him like a warm fur coat and concentrates all his energy, all his attention, everything he has to get what he wants, to get to her. If he were to unlock his mind, he'd wonder why he's reverted to his base self, the one he keeps locked away, the one he hasn't faced for a long time, the one he rarely unleashes, why his panic mode is pushed on, why getting to her feels akin to survival, why it even matters. But he's silenced his mind to quieten those very thoughts, no room for distractions, thinking, logic.

The splinters from the wooden door when it finally falls open dig into his shoulder but he's too far gone, too deep inside, too locked away to feel, notice or care. As soon as his eyes land on her struggling form, he feels the wind knocked out of him. His blood freezes in his veins at the sight before him even as his white tailored shirt continues to turn red.

There are fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her tight, holding her in place even as she strives to free her hand, scratching and clawing like a wild cat, more alive than he has ever seen her. So hell bent on freeing herself, she doesn't even look up to see who enters, trying to take advantage of the distraction instead.

He's across the room even before he realises he's moved, convinced he couldn't even if he was threatened, never taking his eyes off her. Her clothes are ripped in places and she looks disheveled like she's been fighting, like she was hit, like she had hurt, or tried to. He drinks her in, more ruined, more damaged and more alive than he has ever seen her. She doesn't even notice him and he can't seem to see anything but her. Not even face of the man holding her in place.

He sees the exact moment she sees his face though. Recognition takes over her wild eyes replacing fear. It lingers for a moment and is quickly chased away by shock. Her eyes seem to dim instantly and he feels the impact of it pierce through his armour. Her dead eyes shatter the silence, break his refuge, drag him out from his frozen depth and awaken his mind. They plunges him head first into the eye of the storm.

When he comes to, his mind is screaming and his blood's roaring in his ears. He's free falling and drowning and there's too much air and not enough. He's soaring and he's sinking and it's all too much and all too little. His skin feels too tight, too loose, too jagged, too raw, like sandpaper and gunpowder and sparks and spikes. He looks up at her with fire in his eyes and chaos in his heart and sees that she's gone dead quiet now, completely still. It's barely a few seconds, some stolen moments but it feels like ages pass between them as he changes and then she does. And once it's over, once its done, he's her and she's him. He's burning alive and she's the walking dead.

The moment passes and all it takes to bring the world spiraling back, to break the spell is the shadow of pain that passes across her face and the furtive way her eyes look down. Dislodging from his, breaking their hold on him, the transformation complete.

He chases her gaze down and watches as the hand continues to tighten around her wrist - it's going to leave marks, intends to - and just like that reality crashes into him. One moment the entire room is still with shocked astonishment and the very next it explodes into a bedlam of blood and screams.

Yet again, he feels all sensations leaving his body. He doesn't feel anything. Not the three pairs of arms trying to hold him back, not the hands desperately trying to claw his away, nor the gold locket around the throat he holds in the palm of his hand. He sees everything though. Sees the man levitated against the wall, sees his fingers tightening, sees him turning blue and short of breathe even as his eyes begin to close. He flexes his fingers and his eyes jerk open. He wants him to look into his eyes. See the empty pools of darkness, devoid of any humanity, of anything. See the thing he has turned him into. He wants him to see the face of his own death, see the end of his life unravel before him.

Much to his own surprise though, while he is a lot of things, most of which he shouldn't logically, rationally, morally be; he is not a violent person. In fact, he abhors violence. Never understood the basic pleasure men got out of punching and fighting. He finds it degrading and dirty. An outlet for the dumb, the helpless, the disadvantaged. There were better, more painful ways to hurt someone, to harm them, to destroy them. Physical wounds healed and people learnt to live with missing limbs and missing family. But suffering, true suffering was to be continue to live wishing you were dead. True suffering was never physically inflicted, it was wrecked mentally and emotionally. A slow methodical break down of who they were, their life, their world - piece by piece. Stripping them of all that they held dear, all that made them human. A calculated, painful dissolution of their very existence. No, he wasn't a violent person because violence was lazy and quick, a coward man's game. He was better than that. He preferred to take his time, plan and execute on his own terms with no room for failure, no room for recovery, no room for redemption. And if that made him twisted, vicious, savage, fierce, cruel or just plain unhinged - so be it. They may call him names but they were whispered, in shadows and secret, with fear and reverence, and at the end of the day, that's all that matter.

He releases his hold on the man and watches him slump down, passed out. A part of him wishes he was still awake, wishes he had more time with him, can think of a number of things he'd like to do to him. But he shoves those thoughts away. This wasn't the time nor the place for it. He'd have plenty of time for that later. He flexes his fingers still stretched and rigid from their recent show of strength. That will have to do for now. He can hear the dead silence in the room, can feel their horrified gazes burning into his skin. The hair on the back of his neck is standing even as he bends down in a smooth fluid motion. Face to face for the first time with the man that reduced him to any other. He'll never forget that and he'll make sure he never forgets it either. He wipes his hands on his shirt, ridding himself of their contact, cleansing himself. Then, very casually, he fixes his collar and moves his face so all his features are in full view. When he puts his hand inside his jacket pocket, he hears them inhale but no one dares to come forward, to stop him. He could, quite literally, get away with murder right now and no one would stop him, no one could stop him. He smirks at the thought.

That would be too easy, he think, and oh so devoid of fun. He can feel the moment they see the phone in his hand, instead of the dagger he's rumoured to carry around. It's true, he does carry one but it's special and not just for anyone. Certainly not for the man in front of him. For him he has better plans, much better ones. He leans closer and takes a picture of the man's face up close. For later reference, for research, for later repercussions. Once done, he puts his phone away and patting his face, gets up as if the events of the last hour had never happened.

He stares at the man for a moment longer, imprinting his image in his mind and then turns his back on him. His focus now turned to the cause of the commotion.

As if jolted out of the shock, the manservants quickly rush forward to carry the man out of the room. Relieved that it was over. He watches them leave and shakes his head at their naivety.

Feeling safer now, Kadambari Devi rushes towards him, explanations and apologies rehearsed and heavy on her tongue. But he doesn't have time for them. He doesn't have time for her. He has more pressing matters. His eyes focused on her. And as if sensing the underlying current, Kadambari Devi casts one last look at his hard rigid form and her fallen one and leaves without a word.

He wonders if she knows that they are alone, can feel his eyes burning on her skin or is she so lost within herself she isn't even in the same room with him. Wonders if she knows what happened to the man, saw him do the things he'd just done or had she hidden herself as soon as she could. He's not much for unanswered question and there was only one way to find out. He silently closes the distance between them so as to not startle her.

She's cowering in a corner clutching the sheet she's wrapped around herself like a cocoon. Her face hidden in her knees, and her body heaving, wrecked with silent sobs. Emotions that beg for an outlet, ones she won't let go of. It could be pain, desperation, desolation or relief. He doesn't know when it comes to her and it disturbs him that he wants to. Her silence forces him to break his own.

As he stands before her, he wonders if she's hurt. His blood roars at that the thought and he clutches his fists. Then crouching down before her, he reaches out. When he finally, finally touches her, she shrinks back from him. He stumbles like he's been shot, like a bullet has pierced through him as she breaks down before his eyes and begins to howl. Her screams echoing through the room as she tries to push herself further away from him, crawling against the wall, trying to meld into it.

He can't stand her like this. But more than that, he can't stand how she's making him feel. Like he's the one responsible, like he's to blame. Like he didn't just break a door and strangle a man for her. He's not the guilty one here and he won't stand there and let her make him feel otherwise.

In one swift movement, he's scooped her up in his arms and over his shoulder and she's gone quiet as immediately as she had started screaming. Once the shock resides, she starts to struggle, trying to kick the sheets off her feet, trying to kick him off through them. Trying everything she can to free herself. The wild cat he had seen when he had entered the room had returned, only he wasn't that man and her actions accused him of just that.

She barely has a moment to balance herself against the tiles before the splash of cold water hits her. Immediately she moves herself away from the stream of water and reaches out to close the taps. He holds her hand firmly and pulls her back under the shower.

Stay', he tells her as he removes the sheet from around her. His eyes taking in her ripped clothes, searching for bruises and scars. She moves to take off her clothes and he holds her hands still.

No, don't.' He tells her and walks out, leaving her drenching in the water. The last thing she sees through the cascading water is his bloodied back walking out.

When she steps out fifteen minutes later, she's shivering and chattering. Her skin rubbed raw but still stinging from where he caressed her, held her, touched her. The feel of his phantom touch still leaving her feeling dirty and used.

He watches her step out in her torn clothes as he stands by the broken door.

Get dressed.' He tells her and motions his head towards the bed where a set of fresh clothes are laid out. Then he turns his back on her.

When all sounds stop and the silence hangs heavy in the room, he turns around to find her dressed, standing in the middle of the room, motionless and attentive.

He walks up to her and clutching her wrist in his hand drags her out of the room. She's smart enough to not say anything and follows him, trying to keep up with his long strides, her eyes trained on the hand around her wrist. Anything to avoid the sight of blood.

She sees Kadambari Devi standing in the foyer and keeps waiting for him to come to a halt, to be flung across the room, to be stopped. It doesn't happen until she is out of the house and standing next to a black Jaguar. Without a word, he opens the door, pushes her inside and closes the door behind him.

They have been driving for fifteen minutes in absolute silence. His shoulder's starting to hurt more, the adrenaline rush must be wearing off. He flexes his arm a little and feels fresh sparks of pain shoot up his body. He must have torn a muscle banging against the door.

From the corner of his eye, he can see her hands tied together in her lap as she worries her lower lip. Once he's driven enough distance and put that place behind them, he turns to her and she instantly straightens up.

I'm taking you home, pet' he tells her, his body rigid and his eyes returning back to the road. Just a little longer, almost there, almost.

- fin -