...in the aftermath of a slaughter, there was nothing left
.
Cordelia sat in seiza - on her knees - the weight of her sleeveless gi heavy with the saturation of rain. There was only rain, and silence. The weathered tatami mats beneath her smelled damp, the subtle sweet scent of rush grass, and rice straw filled her nostrils.
The dojo - or its remnants - lay around her, still smoldering.
Beneath the darkness of the skies, and the rhythm of the rain, there was still silence, hiding like a terrible truth. Emptiness occupied sounds that were once children.
Cordelia furrowed her brow as phantom pain echoed in the place where her right eye had been. An expert cut scarred flesh
and
bone, leaving her not only blind in an eye, but absent of it. In its place, a large black pearl, a gift from her Senpai.
All at once, nothing - and
everything
.
Thunder rumbled distantly, echoing through black clouds. Steadily, the rain fell. Cordelia was
not
alone.
A brief glint of silver song cut through the air, severing droplets of rain into fine bits of mist. The brief hiss of wounded air shattered with an immediate, and violent ring of steel, on steel. Had her draw been a moment longer, she would have joined the rest of the dojo - and the village - into the void. Had her draw been a moment sooner, her attacker would have fallen before her, defeated.
Drawing the sword had never been her strength. Her Senpai had been Kensei of the modern age, but she was not her senpai, nor was she sensei, or shihan. In fact, as often as her mentors chose to advance her, she chose to stay behind. So long, the black of her Gi had turned coal gray, and worn.
While the others practiced with boken, she practiced with a staff. It seemed the more practical tool at the time. She would not survive fencing a swordsman again. She held her senpai's shirasaya nervously, studying her foe. Tradition held that honorable duels were fought on equal ground, in open space. There would only ever be one survivor, or none.
...but this was not Japan. She was
not
Japanese, and this assassin, this enemy, did not strike honorably. From shadows he came, and into shadows she would send him, were she lucky enough.
He pressed forward. Cordelia turned, spinning around the assassin with dancer's grace, but he was smoke, and shadow before she could strike. Her senpai had spoken before of the Oni - demons - who were deceptive, and devious - whose drives, and ambitions were beyond mortal understanding.
...again. This was not Japan. She was not Japanese. Cordelia did not believe in monsters, and demons. She believed in oak, and steel. The weight of her Gi was real. The scent of the assassin's intent was real. The cold in the rain was
real
.
Patience, peace, and balance. These were the tenants of her Senpai, the steps to understanding quickness, over speed, as the great fencer Musashi instructed so many centuries before.
Patience.
Cordelia knelt, sheathing her shirasaya. She descended back into Seiza, and closed her eyes. The pearl was heavy in her face. The sinister peace that had been before her attacker had returned. The underlying silence, beneath the fall of rain, and smell of the burned village. The assassin came, and left, successful in whatever the mission had been.
Patience. Peace. Balance.
Stifling a grimace, and burying the dark emotions begging her soul for release, she closed her eyes, and folded her hands in her lap; she bowed her head, and meditated on the memory of her masters who had fallen.
Cordelia was alone.
O O O
...
but
she was not in Japan. She was
not
Japanese
...
Cordelia groaned, feeling the echo of pain that had once been. She rubbed her face with both hands, taking special care to massage the right side of her face.
Doctors insisted that both her bone, and tissue healed normally. The pain, they said, was in her mind. Certainly, her face seemed to remember the pain. Her lack of an eye remembered the pain. If her imagination said it hurt, didn't it hurt?
"
Don't let it fool you, baby
." The melody of a woman's voice jingled from behind her. She felt Amnesia's touch gliding over her, beneath the rough, raw cotton sheets. Amnesia's slender hands, and long fingers raised gooseflesh as they trailed along Cordelia's shoulders, and over her arm.
"Ugh." Cordelia sneered, her face still resting in her hands, the pain still imagined in her face - in her bone - echoing as it sometimes did. Finally, shaking her head, she propped up on an arm, glancing over her shoulder with a blind eye - not an eye at all - a jet black pearl where an eye should have been. "This is what you get to see in the morning."
"I see it
every
morning we're together, baby." Amnesia sighed. "It's never bothered me."
"Well it bothers me." Cordelia said, abruptly. This was common between them. Amnesia, who existed in her own world of fantasy, was by rights, and traditions (traditions Cordelia swore to reject, but still could
not
), little more than a courtesan. To Amnesia's position, Cordelia was considerably in higher standing. The world may have bid farewell to the concept of Samurai centuries ago, but for her life's devotions, it was one of the few traditions she chose to keep. Were she less of a coward, she would fall on her Senpai's sword, simply for being the very soul survivor of her old home.
"It doesn't have to be like this, you know." Amnesia traced small shapes over Cordelia's shoulders. Cordelia felt her nipples harden beneath the sheets.
"This is
exactly
how it has to be." Cordelia rose up, the sheets draping off of her, and falling into the simple bed. "I don't cut into your beliefs, you don't cut into mine. That was the deal."
"Not everything is about contracts."
"It is for me, now." Cordelia said.
Amnesia smiled, though Cordelia could not see it - not for the lack of an eye, but simply because she stood away, facing the window. Amnesia envied the morning sunlight that cast itself across her
sometime
lover's body, catching generous curves, and lending to shadow, taught, and tight muscle. Cordelia was the walking enigma, a walking classical work of art, and a modern reflection of fitness, and physique.
"
Stop it.
" Cordelia turned her head, glancing over her shoulder.
Amnesia watched the pupil dilate against a deep emerald green. Cordelia's eyes were slightly larger than average. Amnesia imagined that it must have been an act of splendor to fall under her sight when she had both eyes.
Still
, for Amnesia, one was enough.
"I said
stop it
."
Amnesia stifled a giggle. "Stop what?"
"Your inner monologues are almost audible. I can literally
feel
you thinking at me."
"There is so much about you worth worshiping."
"I told you not to love me, Amnesia."
"...and I told you that my heart does not beat to the whims of your decisions."
There was a thick silence. Cordelia turned, only slightly. Amnesia's eyes widened, only a moment.
Cordelia could not resist a smile. She heaved her breasts into her hands, breasts that were neither large, nor small. "You've seen them a thousand times. They're not spectacular."
"They're perfect."
"You're
such
an optimist. I have to go. I have things to do." Cordelia was already sliding into her skirt, and with a skill too well practiced, she was dressed before Amnesia could object.
Amnesia's face was serious. "I can love you if I want to."
"...and I can love you, too." Cordelia frowned. "Nothing can come from it, but sorrow."
"You're worth sorrow." Amnesia sat up, pulling the sheets close to her chest. Cordelia made a face, only for a moment. Amnesia was not shy about her body. Not even a little.
"I'll see you soon." Cordelia said. She glanced back, blindly over her right shoulder. She couldn't see Amnesia, and she was glad. Had she, there would have been no leaving. Cordelia hurried to the door. After a series of deadbolts, chains, and locks, the door was open, and closed. In those few moments, she was gone.
Amnesia tossed the sheets haphazardly off of her body. Alabaster skin, the color of white marble welcomed the sunlight differently than Cordelia's had. Small shadows appeared over hairline scars, raised only slightly, art like henna from her neck, to her feet. Early on, she added a new design every time she
knew
Cordelia. It began with the neck, and gradually crept down her back, chest, shoulders, arms, and eventually, her entire body, except for her face. Cordelia made her promise to stop at her face.
Though the designs were nearly invisible, in just the right lighting, she was a living statue, and a work of art in her own right.
Amnesia wandered to her door, and began locking, chaining, and bolting her door back into place. She was only safe with Cordelia. Alone, she was just that.
Alone.
O O O
Cordelia waited in the hallway until she heard the last bolt lock into place. She nodded a single nod, and continued down the main hall.
For all of the locks, and bolts, and chains, such "security" (if you could call it that) was as much to keep Amnesia locked in, as it was to keep potential bad guys locked out.
Steel door frame, steel door.
Cordelia, on many occasions, explained the danger of that kind of security.
The hallway was a tattered mess, the Berber carpet was dirty, and dusty.
It smelled like an old attic. No. An old attic smelled like dry, musky dust, and grime. This was worse. This was moist, damp mold, and rotting wood. It was termites, and roaches.
Peeling paint, and splintering apartment doors lined the hallway as she continued out. She could hear barely muffled arguments, crying, a television as she passed one door, and breaking glass as she passed another. It was any given day. Every given day.
The building barely passed inspection - barely - each time. It should have been condemned... but then what would Amnesia do? Agoraphobia wasn't something you just stamped out like a small flame.
Amnesia
. Not just a stage name for a common street hooker, or moderately priced call girl. Amnesia was the real deal. She was
the
