Tragedy Of Cordelia Martin Ch 00

...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

courtesan. Business had been slow - nonexistent - since Cordelia's arrival though.

Amnesia chose that life. It's not like she

had

to stay in that shitty apartment. The type of revenue she earned before Cordelia ever appeared was unreal. Men, and women alike, flocked to her. They begged for her time, and offered her the world, and she accepted payment in every form. Gems, expensive jewelry, real estate, and cars. Cash, of course. No credit, no refunds, and you weren't even guaranteed to get your rocks off.

...and most people didn't care. There was a preternatural presence to the pale angel, and her marble complexion.

It was in her liquid movements, her unnatural grace, yet, she was just some person, like any person.

Talented yes, but still, just another person.

As Cordelia came out of the hallway, through the gated door, and broke into daylight, the warmth of the sun greeted her with a pleasant comfort that was not present with the atmosphere of the neighborhood around her.

Trash littered streets, rife with condemned buildings, empty lots, and plenty of skeletal cars, and trucks. Tall, dry weeds had grown, and died between cracked pavement, and concrete that had fallen into disrepair.

The noise pollution for every individual blasting their music created a greasy hum of base that was continual, rather than individual broken beats. Malt liquor, notes of vomit, and methamphetamine lingered in the air. The neighborhood stank of despair... and

something else

.

It was faint, at first, and then stronger, wafting in on the breeze like sea air. Instead of sand, and salt, she smelled the subtle sweet scents of fresh rain, rush grass, and rice straw.

The world fell into sudden silence, like a forest full of cicadas in the presence of a predator.

Cordelia was still.

The taint of pollution tinted the skies with a brown haze, but the day was clear of rain, and inclement weather.

She was unarmed, but it did not mean she was helpless. She waited for the silver song of polished steel. It never came.

Cordelia closed her eyes, and breathed deep, and exhaled. She opened her eyes. Across from her, the same shadow figure from before - from long before. How long ago had she come home to find a village of corpses burned to the ground?

The shadow figure stood silently, as still as she.

He - or she - wore the smallest shadows like the thickest, largest cloak. Face, obstructed, an androgynous presence threatening under the veil of mystery.

Like before, the figure disappeared, melting into the environment as though it were made of smoke, or water.

Then, sound returned. Cordelia felt the weight of eyes on her. Amnesia was watching from her window, she knew, without even turning to look behind.

Cordelia felt gooseflesh trail down the center of her back. Just the memory of Amnesia's hot breathe was enough to reduce her to a fit of pleasant shivers. Her bra, and clothes felt suddenly heavy to her. Like they ought to be in small messy piles on her lover's bedroom floor.

Better not to get lost in the fantasy.

When she felt the threat was passed, Cordelia began her way home.

O O O

Cordelia writhed, her fingers combing through dark locks of thick, coarse, straight black hair, as she pressed his face between her legs.

Golden grass, soft beneath her body, swayed around her, as she lingered on the precipice of climax. The brook nearby babbled, its song a sensual treasure of paradolia that cried out to her.

"

Yes

," She exhaled, her voice a husky whisper. "

Yes

.

Senpai

onigaishimasu."

(...

this was not Japan

.

She

was not Japanese.)

Cold crept up her thighs, icy numbness replacing slick warmth. The instant contrast sent Cordelia to the edge.

Her body begged for release, and built on the waves of cold that filled her now, but release did not come.

Cordelia forced herself away from the cold, over dry, dead, sharp blades of yellow grass. The brook no longer sang, it's muddy banks, and bed silent, except for the brief flop of an eel drowning on air.

The scent of rush grass, and rice straw overpowered her.

The cold stared at her through diamond eyes, white gems without pigment. It did not move. It did not speak. It only stared.

Long fingers, belonging to slender pretty hands slid over her bare shoulders as she stared into the assassin's empty diamond eyes.

"

Don't let it fool you, baby.

" Amnesia whispered into her ear, flicking the lobe with the tip of her tongue. Cordelia edged away, slowly, from the shadowy assassin, pushing herself backward, into Amnesia's arms. She could feel her lover's breasts pressing into her back, warm, full, and

safe

.

"Cordelia," Amnesia whispered. "

Cordelia

.

Wake up

."

O O O

With the short whisper of a gasp, Cordelia opened her eyes. Whatever the doctors said, her face hurt - burned even. She rubbed it until the soreness subsided.

Her pillow was wet, and she could feel the faint itch of salt stains on her cheeks. Her sheets were soaked through with sweat, and... well. It had been a long time since she had a wet dream. This was a little extreme, though.

She could

feel

him - the assassin - in her room, with her. As usual, by now, she waited for the sound of polished steel, but it did not come. The usual scents that defined the presence of the assassin were in abundance, and she wondered just how much of her nightmare had actually only been a nightmare. She could not see the assassin, nor could she hear it breathing.

No

, but she was certain - absolutely certain - that it was there with her.

"What do you want?" She whispered, searching beneath her pillow for the familiar weight of her Senpai's shirasaya. The katana, absent of its tsuba, was sleek, the black wooden hilt, and scabbard cool to the touch.

Something like intention filled the silence of the room, the intense pressure of the emotion burning in Cordelia's ears with a bass tone as though she had been yawning too long. Then, the familiar scents of her old home, and the pressure, and the intention were gone. It was as though they had never been.

It can get into my home,

she thought.

Ugh

.

Like a child fearful of the creatures beneath their bed, Cordelia waited, her sheets pulled to her chest, her wool blankets bunched at the end of her bed. She was uncertain how to feel about her nightmare, and whether or not some of it had actually happened.

Her reality, and her fantasy were beginning to overlap. She wondered if this was how Amnesia felt. She wondered if she could ever understand her, or think

like

her.

Or. Maybe she should not let it fool her, as her lover suggested. Maybe

some

element of this was real. Maybe

some

element of this was fantasy, or just a guilty, but more than overactive imagination.

Cordelia shrugged off her sheets, and rose out of bed. The carpet - her carpet - was plush, and soft. Wool. She

loved

wool. Her nightshirt stuck to her, still saturated in sweat. She disrobed, and tossed the soaking shirt into the wicker hamper just outside her closet.

Cordelia turned the light on, and instantly, all shadows fled. Her room was hers again... except that it smelled like sex - sweet sex - but sex all the same. Sex she wasn't getting.

She'd have to change the sheets...

and

take a shower. All things considered, the fact that she was still breathing.

That

was room enough to celebrate.

A penance shower sounded good.

(

pen·ance/ˈpenəns/

Noun:

Voluntary self-punishment inflicted as an outward expression of repentance for having done wrong.)

Lights on. Hot water. Pull the pin. Hot rain. Steam. No cold water.

Cordelia winced. The water was hot enough to hurt, but not hot enough to raise blisters. Just to pink the skin - to remind her that she had failed her people. This was a daily routine. Sometimes thrice daily. Whenever the guilt weighed on her heavily.

The water only burned a little while though. As it cooled to warm, and then lukewarm, Cordelia drew the shower head from the wall. Sitting on the corner ledge of the tub, she held the jet stream of water between her legs. Just right. Her mind swam with the muffled gurgle of whitewater, and her thoughts raced to a place of soft golden grass, a singing brook, and Amnesia's slender hands, and long fingers caressing her thighs, engaged in a kiss that would bring her back from the brink of darkness.

O O O

"You always leave." Amnesia said. Night had fallen some time ago. Silver light flooded open windows - windows that Amnesia only opened in the presence of her lover. Amnesia looked spectacular against the full moon. The only hair Amnesia had was her mane of platinum hair, which leant to her a spectral quality in the night's pale glow.

Cordelia stared into Amnesia's eyes, ice water blue, and she was uncertain of what to say.

Even a woman of her position - even if the position was self perceived - knew that it was as important to respect her courtesan, as it was to put distance between them.

There was no doubt about love between them, but for lack of a better word, they were from different castes, unspoken - unheard of - in their modern America.

Amnesia's hairline scars were beautiful swirls of vine, and flower, birds of paradise, and fluid lines that accented, and underscored her femininity from her perfect neck, to her perfect feet. There were no tell-tale lines defining age, or wear on her body - no stretchmarks, or even blemishes.

It was, after all, part of her preternatural charms.