The Tragedy of Cordelia Martin, Part IV

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. Master, please, yes.

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."

The Tragedy of Cordelia Martin, Part III

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.

… 

Cordelia waited in the hallway until she heard the last bolt lock in place, 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, 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 no guarantee getting your rocks off.

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.

Unarmed, but not helpless. She waited for the silver song of polished steel. It never came.

Cordelia closed her eyes, 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 pass, Cordelia began her way home.

The Tragedy of Cordelia Martin, Part II

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 her lover's voice jingled 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 right shoulder. "This is what you get to see in the morning.

"I see it all the time." Amnesia sighed. "It's never bothered me."

"Well it bothers me."

This was common. Amnesia existed in her own world of fantasy, and was by rights, and old 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 Bushido centuries ago, but for her life's devotions, it was one of very few traditions she chose to keep. 

Were she less of a coward, she would fall on her Master'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." Cordelia said.

Amnesia smiled, though Cordelia could not 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 muscles. Cordelia was the walking enigma, a classical work of art, and a modern reflection of fitness, and physique... and a warrior all at once.

"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. She imagined that it must have been an act of splendor to fall under her sight when Cordelia still had both eyes.

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."

Thick silence. In it, Cordelia turned only slightly and Amnesia's eyes widened, only a moment. She could not resist a smile, and heaved her breasts into her hands at Amnesia. "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."

"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 never shy about her body. 

Not even a little.

            "I'll see you soon." Cordelia said. She glanced over her right shoulder. She couldn't see Amnesia, and she was glad. Had she, there would be 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.

The Tragedy of Cordelia Martin, Part I

In the aftermath of slaughter, there was nothing left.

            Cordelia opened her eyes to white hot light, the sound of destruction a distant echo ringing in her ears. The blaring pain in her eyes faded into a dull thrum she could feel in her pulse. It wasn’t long at all before she realized something was wrong – something beyond the smell of smoldering ruin.

           

            Cordelia felt it, but could not see it when she raised her hand over her blind right eye – not an eye at all – but a large black pearl in its place. The distinct marks of scarring were an ugly braille beneath her fingertips, and slowly memory returned.

            It was cold. Wet. Beyond the sound of wind, and rain, there was nothing. Silence filled the place of the sounds in her village she took for granted. Sounds here she would never hear again. Cordelia shifted in her gi. It was heavy, heavier than most, and worse in the downpour. Her gi – a gift from her lover – now sleeveless, and in stringy tatters where sleeves once were. The black faded long ago, leaving a thick charcoal canvas of broken traditions.

Cordelia rose, the weathered tatami mats beneath her feet saturated, wafting the scent of rush grass, and rice straw into the storm winds. She furrowed her brow as phantom pains echoed in place of her eye.

She remembered now.

An expert cut scarred flesh and bone, leaving not only blindness, but absence. The pearl in its place, a gift – and a reminder – from her old master.

All at once, nothing - and everything.

Thunder rumbled distantly, echoing through black clouds. Steadily, the rain fell, and 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 village into the void. Had her draw been a moment sooner, her attacker would have fallen dead, defeated.

Iado – the art of drawing – had never been her strength.

Her master was a sword-saint – a Kensei – of the modern age. Cordelia was not her master, nor anything like her master’s masters. In fact, as often her mentors chose to advance her, she chose to stay behind. Her classmates advanced around her, and her gi faded from its deep black to the now rough, raw charcoal gray. If she had anything, it was time. In the modern world, there was no room for Bushido.

While others practiced with boken, she practiced with staff.

It seemed the more practical tool at the time. She would not survive fencing this swordsman again. Cordelia held her master’s sword – a shirasaya – nervously, studying her foe.

In old Japan, tradition held that honorable duels fought on equal ground, in open space. There would only ever be one survivor, or none. 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 master spoke once of the Oni - demons - who were deceptive and devious - whose drives and ambitions were beyond mortal understanding.

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, the tenants of her masters, and the steps to understanding quickness over speed as the great fencer Musashi instructed so many centuries before.

Patience.

Cordelia knelt, sheathing her shirasaya. She into a kneeling seat – seiza – and closed her eyes. The pearl was heavy in her face. The sinister peace returned. She, alone and the burned village. The assassin came and left, unsuccessful 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.