Episode III : The Gift

The feeling of pure rage still lingered, as I wrapped my right hand in a surgically sterile thick white bandage, the limb a victim of my own selfless agression in a vain attempt to vent my frustration. Skin torn, knuckles split wide as if smiling back at my grave situation, sinew exposed, damn it hurt. Where was she right now? An image came, a feeble attempt to prevent it subdued. An Amarrian's smile... a laugh, a voice familiar. "Lie down wench. You matari filth." ...A scream, Shiva's scream. A dull thud, the image of her curled in a protective ball against a cold, heavily rusted steel hangar wall the only physical memory I could retrieve. My eyes opened, maybe it was instinct to prevent me from seeing more, a reflex perhaps. The room still silent, haunted in my subconscious with echoes of laughter, of times gone. A playful scream, the bark of a young hound, her voice.. "What are you doing home so early..." A smile so unique, so perfect I could never forget. Then dark, cold. Reality flooded back as I taped the end of the bandage around my wrist, tossing the discarded packaging carelessly across the floor, silence as it bounced across the deep piled rug, then what felt like the impact of a Thor torpedo inside my ears as it hit the smooth polished granite floor, breaking the silence that consumed my home, OUR home, until it came to a stop several meters away. A cold shiver ran down my spine, the air was stale, emotionless, but the silence was broken... Soft footsteps across the brushed steel floor outside the entrance to the apartment. Had they come back? A split second of fear, followed by Federal Navy instinct ensued as I reached for the 10.5mm caliber Caldari Navy Infantry issue automatic pistol in an ankleholster that had become almost a brother to me, holding it at a lowered angle while padding silently to the inner side of the door, so as to contain a possible accidental discharge of the weapon. A knock, then the sound of the security intercom as it buzzed into life. Several barely audible bleeps heard from the opposite side of the door. What the hell? Paranoia took over as I reached for the intercom button with my disabled hand, only realising it's tenderness as i pushed the button in. The pressure surging pain deep into the depths of my shoulder and chest as it shot through my arm like a lightening strike. "Ahh... F***, damn it." The barrel of the pistol sufficed as it struck the button, my voice as calm as I could possibly be, concerntration working overtime. "Who the hell is it? What do you want?" A familiar voice, Miss Gariushi. I remember relief, but still suspicion. Trust, but still reluctance to open the door. She spoke with hesitation, regret almost. "Ishukone Transport Ethan, I uh... I have a package, it's uh... addressed to... Shiva..." I remember it hit me hard. And fast. I tapped the button and the deep electromechanical click of the doorlocks, Avena appearing through it, a small brown package adorning her hands. My back against the wall, I slumped to my knees, the feeling of helpelessness returned. "I'll just leave it here Eth... I'll take care of the paperwork, I can see you're still not too good." Her voice was calm, soothing almost as it flowed through the emptiness that had filled my mind. I reached out with my good hand, retrieving the package tenderly as I placed it in my lap, back still against the wall supporting my weight. Reluctance to open it ensued, but still I tore at the packaging, knowing full well the contents would disturb me more than anything else since her dissapearence. Rising from my place at the door, and padding softly towards the sancutary of the leather sofa, I heard the doorlocks click shut, Avena was gone. The outer box fell away to the floor as I sat back on the sofa, it's soft padding giving some comfort at a time of intense need. Silence still echoed as the lid of the small padded box snapped open revealing it's contents, and the Pistol dropped to the surface of the leather sofa with a soft thud. It was beautiful, a magnificently hand-crafted ring, adorned with small symbols that implied a Thukker origin. Its smooth metal band black at the bottom, blending to a highly polished silver as it curved to the top, where a fingernail-sized red ruby, carved into the shape of the cross that had become sybolic of Veto's fight sat upon a smoothly polished plate of bright white stone. There was no hesitation, the wedding ring adorned my finger before I'd even finished examining it's form. Anything to feel close, any connection made me feel more hope as I examined the box, a single sheet of paper, folded in two slipping from inside to come to rest on my thigh. A note, printed on a delicate expensive paper, in Shiva's handwriting. A message that tore me apart to read, given the circumstances... Two Lovers My only cure, its only remedy; My only question's answer ever sung to me, In the form of weeping wishes, dazzling dishes, Served up for the eye and swept aside, As a table cloth is pulled away -- The vase of roses only thing that shall ever stay. Set the table for two to walk away from, Into one another's arms, there can't be any harm, To die forever after, ever more, For just a moment into which our spirit can ever soar. Standing side by side, the only two lovers in solace, That never in the world of graces ever asked nor needed any single thing from the other. To stare, then, like that, a moment, a day, a life, Into one another's eyes... To hear then like that, an instant, a night, a life, The profound depth and pounding heart of the other's cries. And be that as it may, to seal the deal, A gentle kiss upon the lips, To smile into the face of the demon. -Now our promise is complete. Siren Shiva. The paper now lay safely inside the box and rested peacefully on the surface of the glass topped table, a belated gift from my missing companion. Pistol in holster, the feeling of rage stronger than ever, the sheer beauty of my gift burning into very flesh of my ring finger, the tears from my eyes cutting into the skin of my face as I walked, making my way to the door. As I left our now dark, stangnant and cold home, a childhood image returned, the image of my father sprawled out across the lounge floor of our family home on Duripant III, bloodied, beaten and dying. His voice echoed out in my mind, repeatedly, without remorse. "You bastards, You'll all pay." - V