Essence of Purity [boyxboy]

Chapter XXXVIII

~Sunday 20th June 2010~

Salem woke up jostled; something over his head obscuring his sight. Unlike before, the darkness was soothing. Salem didn't panic or worry, he embraced it. There was a storm in his mind, something dizzying and thunderous and agonising. The inky black shrouding his vision brought a strange comfort, almost warm against the ice Salem felt through his veins. He didn't struggle. Even with the bindings tying his wrists behind his back or the hands on his arms guiding him forward blindly, Salem followed. What point was there to fighting? Whoever had Salem, wherever he was being taken, it was inevitable.

Something caught on Salem's foot, sending him to his knees with a whining curse. The ground met him with a bruising kiss, breaking skin and leaving a sweet burn beneath. Salem sighed against the relief, shoulders sagging as the exhaustion of his ordeal caught up with him. His left arm was numb, and Salem should have cared. He should have worried, yet he didn't. There was a tightness around his bicep, pressure that he felt shift when he was dragged back to his feet. Someone had applied a tourniquet, perhaps something Salem should have been grateful for. In reality, Salem felt the opposite. Prolonging his life was torturous.

A soft whine passed over Salem's lips as his captors forced him forward, more steps that took him closer to whatever destination they had in mind. He considered the past behind him. Salem worried. Was Lior still at the docks? Had Oaklyn killed him too? Salem couldn't remember anything past the concrete, past lying in his own blood, fading away to an abyss that he tried so hard to elude. Thinking back hurt. It made Salem's very being ache with a sorrow he hadn't felt in centuries. And, yet, he couldn't stop. The images, the possibilities; they were endless.

Mourn's corpse taunted Salem. He would be dead now, there was little doubt to that. Even someone like him, so in control, so powerful, he couldn't withstand a bullet. Oaklyn had set Salem up. By now, she would have caught Mourn off guard, had one of her men shoot him the moment he stepped out of the car. Others would have died too. Thell, perhaps Chi or Pryor or Reed had they accompanied him too. Tears prickled at the corners of Salem's eyes, though he tried what he could to swallow down his misery.

No one needed to see him cry. Salem wouldn't give his captor the satisfaction. Whether Oaklyn was the one transporting him or another had taken her place, Salem refused to show weakness. Presenting himself physically, that was impossible. Salem didn't have the energy to straighten his shoulders or lift his head or walk of his own accord. However, he could save himself the embarrassment of pity. Salem could hide away that part of himself that was crumbling, brush aside the shattered fragments and shards of his very soul. Salem could feign his emotional strength, and he would do just that. For Mourn, Salem wouldn't let them see him bleed.

Abruptly, Salem was brought to a stop. The captors beside him let go, giving the fae little choice than to fall to his knees once more. The pain wasn't such a blessing the second time, although Salem strived to keep his mouth shut. He listened out, curious as to where he had been brought. At the docks, even away from the roadside, Salem could hear the cars. He could hear the echo of life. Around him now, whilst he knelt before an unseen threat, Salem heard nothing.

In a flurried motion, whatever had been over Salem's eyes was removed. He blinked against the light, squinting as he stared at the ground, allowing himself to adjust. No longer was there concrete beneath him, nor tarmac or any other manmade substance. It was dirt instead, dry and cracked and aching for water in the summer sun. Salem wondered if there was a gun to his head, if some marksman was standing nearby waiting for the word. Were others watching? People scorned by Mourn? Clients with morbid curiosity? Was Salem to be executed too?

"Lyari..." Salem's stomach lurched. The very atoms in his being froze, his heart skipped a beat, his breath cut short. That voice, that name; it was like a trigger. Submit, the little voice in Salem's mind no longer laid dormant, whispering from the sidelines, awakening the genetics that fae had tried so hard to repress. Obey, bitterness crept up Salem's throat, mind and body fighting against one another. He thought of Mourn then, of any memory he could possibly consider. Mourn had shown Salem another way, he had shown mercy and kindness and love. Mourn was the key to sanity and, even dead, he was the one thing Maeral couldn't take from that fae.