Still Searching For a Life

She flinches. “No. No. You mustn’t—you’re alive, Sylas, but you – you—”

“My flesh is dead.”

Delilah’s guilt and panic break just long enough for her to shoot Sylas a sour look: you are being pedantic on purpose. It startles a laugh out Sylas; in turn, that chases a laugh out of her. And then they’re both laughing, here in the dusty dark.

Delilah’s face settles into a smile like it’s relieved to find itself home again. She sways close to Sylas; he takes her.

“Sylas,” she says.

“Delilah.”

“If you really hate it, I can stop. It’s for you. It’s all…”

It: a question Delilah had turned over and over and over in her mind before setting in front of him. Like Sylas wouldn’t be able to tell. Like he’d think that she thought of it suddenly, over (her) dinner, partway through cutting a steak:

Do you want to be alive again?

Oh, it. The vials of blood drawn precisely from the inside of his arm. The glass tanks hauled down by the dead into the tunnels, precisely sized to Sylas’ length and the span of his shoulders. The way Delilah stopped inviting Sylas to visit her in her workroom: I’m afraid, my love, that it might upset you.

This time, he’d insisted. He wanted to see the clones.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” he says. “To see if I hate them.”

“Oh, don’t hate them, it’s not their fault—”

“And if I hate them,” Sylas says, speaking over her, “you’ll stop.”

Delilah opens her mouth. Closes her mouth. Eventually, pulled out of her: “...yes.

“But you won’t hate them,” she says hastily. “They’re you. Well, not you. Alright, some of them...the proportions...hm. But usually most of the features come out, and that’s…”

Sylas can’t help the smile tugging at his mouth. “You aren’t selling me on them, Delilah.”

“You’ll like them.”

“Delilah.”

“Sylas.”

“I…” Sylas pulls in a breath, lets it out again. “I only…” He can’t find the words – oh, he’s so stupid, he’s always so stupid. He can never keep up with her, never explain it all to her; he can’t even explain it to himself. And yet: “I don’t think…”

Something scrapes and thuds over the ground. For a moment Sylas goes tense – his claws ache to unsheathe – and then he remembers they’re in Delilah’s lab, and it is nearly impossible for there to be a lurking creature that is not of his wife’s make. So he looks at her—

And she’s looking into the dark, and beaming.

“Oh, dear,” she says, voice soft and sweet and fond. “Did you break out again?”

Sylas watches himself lurch towards him.

The clone is a beast of a thing – ten and a half feet tall, nearly as wide. It walks hunched over. Something in its flesh has melted – congealed – so that its silhouette has collapsed into a heap; it’s nearly on all fours. Its hands twitch and spasm as they drag along the ground. A mop of hair covers the blurred mess of Sylas’ face. Behind the hair: the canny glint of red eyes.

Delilah steps out of Sylas’ embrace and goes to the clone. “Sweetheart,” she coos at it. “I told you to stay put!”

The clone makes a grumbling wheeze.

“I know, I know, it’s too small. But where else—”

She cradles its face in her hands.

“Delilah,” Sylas says.

Delilah jolts, looks back at him; her brows go up, her eyes go wide. She looks like she’s been caught doing something that she shouldn’t.

“Ah,” she says. “I should have warned you. This one...he’s inherited your tendency to—”

“Inherited—”

“I know the form isn’t right. I know. I’m working on it. The blood, the way it diluted—”

It seems that too much of her focus is on Sylas; the clone whines, butts its face into her hands to demand her attention. Absentmindedly, Delilah begins to stroke her thumbs along the mess of its cheekbones. It soothes, grumbles quietly to itself. Its whole disgusting body is tilted towards her like a magnet being pulled towards her heart.

“—I think I have it solved for the next batch.” (Her voice is high, thin, quick.) “The diamond, it has to do with the shape of the diamond and the conditions – the salt water – and what it is you ate, what, who you last ate, these are all—”

It’s nuzzling into the touch of her hands.

“—and it’s going to take quite a precise balance to account for the...discrepancies. I’ll keep trying altering the incantation, I think—”

When it meets Sylas’ eyes, he swears it looks smug. No, it doesn’t, it can’t look smug – its eyes are entirely empty. Like any other mirror, Sylas looks into it and sees nothing.

“—saw success with minor diae...re...sis...Sylas?”

Delilah tucks a lock of matted hair behind its ear.

“Sylas?”

It blinks sleepily, mumbles wordless affection. Without looking, Delilah rubs her knuckles over its cheek.

“Sylas,” she says again.

Effortfully, Sylas says: “Delilah.”

“Do you…” Her voice shrinks, dwindles. “Do you really...I know the shape isn’t right. That’s why – I told you, I said they weren’t ready—”

“I hate it,” Sylas says. “Kill it.”

Delilah flinches. The motion carries into the clone; it startles along with her, stares with equal wide-eyed astonishment at Sylas. Some machinery clicks in its hollow skull – it identifies Sylas as the thing that upset her – it bares its teeth and growls at him. Its stubby human fingernails dig into the stone floor.

“Kill it,” Sylas says. “Delilah—”

“No,” she cries. “No. You hate him, that’s – that’s alright, you don’t have to look at – I told you I’d stop. I’ll stop. If you really – I’ll stop. I won’t make more, I swear, I swear it. But I—”

“You love it,” Sylas says. His voice is strangled in his throat. A little tighter and he wouldn’t be able to speak, only growl – whine—

“Of course I love him,” Delilah says, soft and wounded. “How could I...Sylas—”

No. No. She can’t say it, she can’t. She won’t. She loves him. She won’t—

“—it’s you.”

For the thinnest red instant, Sylas yearns to rip her apart.

Then he finds himself again; his hands ball into fists, his talons rip holes into the skin of his palms. Delilah makes an aborted noise, finally (finally) drops the thing’s face and steps towards him – her palm outstretched – and Sylas takes a step backwards, and she flinches when he does that – it hurts her, she hates to see him leaving her – and the clone makes a questioning sound and then it remembers him, and hates him, and scuttles towards him on its disgusting misshapen legs and its red tongue is lolling out of its mouth and its eyes are empty and it has his eyes and his arms and a lock of hair tucked carefully behind its ear and Sylas feels a pure, perfect nothing; he draws Craven Edge and brings it down.

Delilah screams.

The clone’s head hits the floor with a wet thud; its body crumples afterwards. The carcass is so heavy that it shakes the ground when it falls. Sylas banishes Craven Edge before it can try to say anything clever; carefully, precisely, he unclenches each finger from his palm. He watches the marks of violence smooth themselves over and vanish, until his hands are his own again.

“It’s not,” he says into the silence.

Delilah falls to her knees; she grabs the thing’s head, cradles it in her arms. Her eyes are so wide that Sylas can see the whites all the way around.

“Oh, no,” she says. “No no no.”

“It’s not me,” Sylas says again.

Tears in her eyes: “I know I know. But it looks – it looked like. Sylas. Oh, my Sylas.” She pets its hair frantically. “I told you, he – he wandered. Too big for the vessel. He watched me work. He looked so…”

“Did you call it by my name?”

She flinches.

“Did you…” Delilah has never minded that Sylas doesn’t understand her work; she is always so happy to explain it to him, to share it with him. A thousand evenings spent leaning over her shoulder while she prattles happily on, turning every now and then to see if he’s still there – beaming to see him – and oh that smile tilted down to the ground, where the creature dragged itself across the floor like a dog—

“You loved it,” Sylas says again. He’s going to be sick; he pulls out his pocket square, begins meticulously cleaning the blood from his hands. Only looking at his hands, he walks past Delilah and goes deeper into the lab.

“Of course I did,” Delilah says again. “Why is that wrong?” When he doesn’t answer: “Sylas?”

He draws Craven Edge again. Its tip scrapes and snarls against the floor of Delilah’s laboratory. Not enough, it says. That wasn’t enough. Cut them all down. Feed us.

I’ll feed you, Sylas says.

“Sylas.” A hand on his arm, bloody claws dug in. “Sylas. Please don’t. None of the others are awake, I swear it—”

“I’m going to kill them. And you aren’t going to make any more.”

Delilah makes an injured sound. “Why?”

Sylas’ hands spasm – his claws – the sword slips from his grip, clatters to the ground. He turns. Delilah: his Delilah: afraid. (But she wasn’t frightened of the clone at all.)

“You don’t understand?” Sylas says.

She mutely shakes her head.

“How can you not understand? My Delilah. My only love. You always understand.”

Her mouth works helplessly. “I,” she says. “You can’t be jealous.”

“Of course I’m jealous,” Sylas snaps. “That’s not…” His hands twitch. “Delilah, if you say they’re you again, I – I—”

“They’re not you,” Delilah says. “I know. I didn’t get it right, I know, I know, and – I know they aren’t you, I know what it – your corpse—” and her voice fails her; for a moment she just stands there, hoarsely panting for breath. Heaving for it.

She catches her breath, holds onto it. “I know,” she says. “I know when you’re not there, I know. I know. When you’re not there.”

“I’m here.”

“I know!” she wails. “I know! I loved your corpse! I kept it clean! I wanted it to be – when you came back – I love your hands. Sylas.” Horribly, her lower lip starts wobbling; tears bead at the edges of her eyes. “I don’t know what I did wrong—” —her voice is frantic, wavering— “—I don’t know. Just tell me. I’m sorry that I loved them. Kill them. I won’t make more. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Tell me. I’m sorry. I love you. Please. I’m sorry—”

He loves her too; he catches her, he pulls her close. She fists her red hands into the lapels of his coat. She shudders wordlessly in his embrace.

“I’m here,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you. I love you. What did I – I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Sylas says. He rests his chin on her head, rocks them both back and forth. “It’s alright. I frightened you, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Delilah…” He doesn’t know how to explain it to her. He doesn’t know the words. He’s stupid, he doesn’t know the words. The words are that he’s stupid. He doesn’t know.

“I thought,” Delilah says. “I thought…”

“I know.”

“You didn’t…”

“No, I didn’t.”

Back and forth, back and forth. “If I don’t know how I hurt you,” Delilah says, “how can I...I don’t want to hurt you. Sylas. That’s what I want least of all. Oh, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Back and forth. “You took care of my corpse?” Sylas says.

“Of course I did,” Delilah says. “I love you.”

“You took care of me while I was sick.”

“Why would I not? Why would I...”

“I…” Sylas says. “You…” The words, the words. A way to explain to her: I wasn’t there.

“You wouldn’t let me into your workroom,” Sylas says, haltingly. “But the clone was there. And you loved it. And it watched you work, like I watch you. And you loved it. Delilah.”

“I couldn’t help it,” she whispers. Sniffles. “I can’t help it, I never can. Not with you.”

They’re not me. I wasn’t there.

He’s found the question. The words for it. He knows how to ask it, how to form his mouth around the shape: the body in the sickbed, the body in the coffin, the body in the crystal vessel. And Sylas. And Delilah, who loves them all.

Delilah: shaking and shivering with some hot fever of emotion, clinging to Sylas the way she always does – like he’s the only piece of land in an endless dark sea, like he’s the only food left in a drought. Like he’s all there is.

She won’t understand it. He’ll have to explain it to her. It’ll be painful, but he can do it – then she’ll be able to map the exact shape of his hurt, and she’ll devote herself to fixing it. She always does.

Instead, he says: “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Delilah says, the way she would say the sky is above us and the ground is below – puzzled why she’d need to say something so obvious, but yearning to please him.

“I’m going to go and kill them now,” he says. “You don’t need to watch.”

Delilah shudders. Sylas loosens his grip on her; she whimpers, clings tighter.

“Delilah,” Sylas says. “Delilah. I love you. You should go.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“I lied,” Delilah says. “I lied when I said they weren’t awake. Some of them are awake. They—”

“Delilah,” Sylas says lightly, “I’ve promised their blood to Craven Edge. And you know how it fusses.”

“Ahh,” Delilah says. “Ah. Ah.” Then, after a few choked breaths: “Yes. Yes. I’ll go.”

“I’ll be right behind you. We’ll go to the de Rolo mausoleum, hm? Find you something new to play with.”

Bit by bit, Delilah unclenches her fists from Sylas’ lapels. The clone’s blood has dried on her hands, glued her to him; it cracks and flakes away as she lets him go.

“I’m sorry,” she says miserably. Her makeup is smeared; she looks so terribly sad; Sylas loves her. He takes her hand in his and kisses the blood on her glove.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he says. “You didn’t hurt me. You took the pain away from me, remember? This whole life, no pain.”

“I didn’t do it right,” Delilah says. “I can—”

“You were perfect,” Sylas says. “You are perfect. My love. Go now. Go to the graves. I’ll meet you there.”

She wobbles a step away, another step away. Then: “Sylas.”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” Sylas says softly. “I know. I love you too. There’s never been an instant where I haven’t loved you, my darling.”

She straightens, swallows. “If you’re late,” she says, “I’m taking every de Rolo in the damned place. I’ll fill our bed with them.”

Sylas can’t help but smile (she exhales relief). “Then I won’t be late.”

“Good,” Delilah says. She opens her mouth – closes it – takes a step away, another step, another step, and she’s walking, and she’s gone. Out of the laboratory. Wandering in a daze towards the tombs.