It had been days since the news of Cris? death came to him at the bar. The words of his death hadn?t even been meant for him to hear, but came from a conversation where a woman named Serah had heat in her voice. Shortly after the revelation he?d been lead in the women?s bathroom while Roach and Kate did their little deal, their banter batting back and forth with colorful and dirty metaphors. At times Roach showed the potency of her duplicitous nature, going from offers of filatio for information (but no, not really!) to moments where he felt her eyes unroll and examine him while she exclaimed to Kate that Robert as a sexual option was ?Gross.? He knew the difference between a Broadway show and heartfelt letter, so he didn?t need Roach to give him any clarity. Still, he would occasionally give them a thin smile so that they would know he saw the humor in them.
Over Eleven years ago a Nephilim had stabbed him, straight through his body, pinning him to the side of the dumpster. That was after everyone inside the Black Ram was dead? though. He had looked at the Nephilim, Timothy, not knowing he would spend a decade trying to find him. That it would take a Nephilim named Cris to end that chapter of his life.
They stood at the pyre of two bodies together that night. Timothy had been more of a monster than a Nephilim by the time he had found him. Burning flesh was always acrid, but the worst of it was when the hair lit up and crackled. Ten years and it was a Nephilim that helped close the wound.
Now the Nephilim was dead and it felt significant to him than that. Why was that?
Mahis had doubted that Cris would help him, he had said it would take violence and threats to love ones. He had said that Robert would likely die for what he pursued, that a Nephilim would not help a demon. There were so many decades of blood and misinformation between the divide. How many would have doubted that the two of them could have had a common goal and honored it? Cris certainly didn?t need him anymore once they had worked together and Timothy was dead. There had been, for one short moment, the hope that two difference sides of a divide could be, instead, two different sides of an equation. That they both meant something, meant something to each other, and that meaning gave their existence context. On one side of the equation there was two plus two. On the other side, 2a. They meant something to each other, they had since they existed.
They could know more because of each other and not in spite of it.
It was dead now.
Robert constructed a small fire on the patio outside the Otherworld museum and watched the sticks gathered on the five acre property burn. The flames were hardly impressive, the diameter of the site about a foot and a half wide. Robert watched the flames and waited. He watched fire turn sticks into coal and smoke. He watched the flame reach its full foot and a half height before coughing and turning into handfuls of simmering coals.
He was there for fire hours, staring from the two-seater metal chair and table set with one cigarette after another hanging from his hand or lips. Then the flame was gone, as Cris was gone.
?Goodbye, friend.? He stood up and put his foot down over the last sparks, repeating the motion until only black and grey spiraling from the burn spot remained.
Over Eleven years ago a Nephilim had stabbed him, straight through his body, pinning him to the side of the dumpster. That was after everyone inside the Black Ram was dead? though. He had looked at the Nephilim, Timothy, not knowing he would spend a decade trying to find him. That it would take a Nephilim named Cris to end that chapter of his life.
They stood at the pyre of two bodies together that night. Timothy had been more of a monster than a Nephilim by the time he had found him. Burning flesh was always acrid, but the worst of it was when the hair lit up and crackled. Ten years and it was a Nephilim that helped close the wound.
Now the Nephilim was dead and it felt significant to him than that. Why was that?
Mahis had doubted that Cris would help him, he had said it would take violence and threats to love ones. He had said that Robert would likely die for what he pursued, that a Nephilim would not help a demon. There were so many decades of blood and misinformation between the divide. How many would have doubted that the two of them could have had a common goal and honored it? Cris certainly didn?t need him anymore once they had worked together and Timothy was dead. There had been, for one short moment, the hope that two difference sides of a divide could be, instead, two different sides of an equation. That they both meant something, meant something to each other, and that meaning gave their existence context. On one side of the equation there was two plus two. On the other side, 2a. They meant something to each other, they had since they existed.
They could know more because of each other and not in spite of it.
It was dead now.
Robert constructed a small fire on the patio outside the Otherworld museum and watched the sticks gathered on the five acre property burn. The flames were hardly impressive, the diameter of the site about a foot and a half wide. Robert watched the flames and waited. He watched fire turn sticks into coal and smoke. He watched the flame reach its full foot and a half height before coughing and turning into handfuls of simmering coals.
He was there for fire hours, staring from the two-seater metal chair and table set with one cigarette after another hanging from his hand or lips. Then the flame was gone, as Cris was gone.
?Goodbye, friend.? He stood up and put his foot down over the last sparks, repeating the motion until only black and grey spiraling from the burn spot remained.