AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an authorized, but unofficial sequel to Groade's story "The Chase". I strongly suggest that you read his story first. While the one before you now can be read on its own, you will profit from reading "The Chase" first.
All characters of legal age (18+).
*~*~*
The hotel room shuddered as a truck thundered by. Shadows danced to life, chased across the room by the headlights, but Lindsay did not stir. He only heaved a sigh once the squalid little room had quivered back into silence and darkness.
Weeks, even months of headless, precipitate flight had taken the fight out of him. It mattered little that in this short time span his savings had melted like snow in the summer sun. It mattered little that he was running out of ideas where to hide next. The truth was, Lindsay was tired. Too tired.
In the evenings, after waking up, the face of a stranger looked back at him from the mirror. Instead of the spunky, doe-eyed, well-groomed youth he was used to see, he was greeted by a scruffy, tired, ashy face with a distant, far-gone stare.
At night he kept passing back and forth between bleary-eyed waking moments and minutes of fitful, dream-filled sleep. From time to time, he would press his burning forehead against the cool window of whatever bus or train he found himself on. But soon, his neck would ache and he would slump back into that feverish languor.
During the days, he curled up on whatever cheap bed he could find, the door locked and bolted, the blinds shut. At times, he would start at the slightest sound, fearing that he had been caught up with. At other times, he would lay in a drowsy, indifferent stupor, staring into the darkness for hours without moving.
Outside, the bus arrived with a hiss and a squeak. This was the night-line bus Lindsay was supposed to be catching, but he sat still on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. The bus departed with a laboured roar -- but without Lindsay, for Lindsay was tired. Too tired.
For how long he sat there, he could not say. Only the smarting of his wrists told him that time was passing at all, but still he would not stir.
Nor did he stir when there was a tiny, metallic scrape at the door: The bolt slowly, carefully slid back on its own, as though unlocked by an unseen hand. Then, the key began to turn in the lock, and with a cold click the door was unlocked.
Lindsay didn't even need to look to know what was going on, nor did he care. He had seen it happen so often now...
The door swung open, and there she was. As Lindsay peered through between his fingers, he felt -- guiltily -- a twinge of relief that she had caught up, that there was nowhere for him to run: At least it meant an end to all the exertion. At least he wouldn't have to bother anymore.
Sifania, for her part, simply stood there. Something was different this time, and she could sense it. Lindsay wasn't trying to run, or to fend her off. Usually, he always had some new and useless trick up his sleeve, some resource, some little hope. Not this time. He just sat there, slumped over, resigned, tired
.
Although a Sidhe might neither reason nor feel quite in the strange and crooked ways of a human, Sifania definitely felt a sharp pang as she saw him like this: A pang of pity, of compassion, of sadness.
And so, she did something she had never done before with him. With a kick of her heel, she closed the door; and kicking off her shoes, she sauntered over to the bed, dropping her purse, and her jacket, and taking off the soft leather gloves on the way there. And then she simply sat down next to Lindsay, sliding one arm around him, her sleek, claw-tipped fingers digging into the soft side of his slim belly.
She smiled bitterly as he started at her touch, and his body grew taut with suspense, and fear. Still, he hid his face in his hands, and still he would not look at her.
"Lindsay," she murmured softly, leaning her head against his shoulder.
"I cannot do this anymore," he muttered into his hands.
Sifania lifted her head, staring at him through the silvery bangs that covered her eyes, but remained silent.
"I'm tired, so
tired.
I don't want to run anymore. I don't want any of this, I-", he trailed off.
The fae slowly tugged his hands from his face, squeezing his hands with her long, pale fingers. In Lindsay's eyes, there was neither defiance, nor anger, just a deep, hopeless resignation. Sifania stared back at him, the golden glow of her eyes shining through the wisps of hair that ended just above the tip of her nose.
"I am growing weary of this as well," she conceded with that ancient, melodic accent of hers. "For a while, the chase had its own merit, and your resourcefulness gave it zest. But no more."
"Then why do you keep doing this?" Lindsay whispered. "Just let me go home, just leave me be."
The Mahdron Sidhe crinkled her cute nose, and her perfect lips parted into a smile, revealing two rows of razor-sharp fangs.
"We've been over this, my sweet. I follow you, because you are my lover. My chosen male. My groom. I love you, and you will love me, eventually. It is our destiny."
At these words, a spark of willpower seemed to return to Lindsay. He shook his head and protested:
"No, no, no. That's nonsense! If you loved me, you would respect my wishes. If you loved me, you wouldn't hurt me each time we are together!"
Her smile vanished.
"It wouldn't hurt if you wouldn't resist me."
"I wouldn't resist if you wouldn't hurt me," Lindsay hissed. His weary eyes lit up with anger.
Again, Sifania's lips curled into that fangs-bared, unnerving leer.
