samβ
for the longest time, he hadnβt quite the sense of what it meant, exactly, to be cursed.
at first, it felt like some strange, isolated extension of his military service; his superiors were more distant and he had no brothers-in-arms by his side, but the general idea was the same. fight, retrieve, destroy. judge, jury, executioner. when heβd left the service, heβd felt a sense of relief, of finally being free of the violence and blind obedience that had been placed on his shoulders under the guise of heroism and patriotism.Β
he should be so lucky.
caspian had done nothing but trade one mantle for another: he no longer bore the stars and stripes on his shoulder, nor a uniform of any kind, in fact. he still wore heavy-soled boots ( he felt too light without them ) and carried the entirety of his worldly possessions in the same C. BARDOT emblazoned bag heβd shouldered for nearly a decade of his life (Β a suitcase felt like an extravagance when he didnβt own enough to fill it up ), but none of it was mandatory anymore. the only thing keeping him in line was a seven-digit number, punched into one of the tags dangling around his neck. he could recite it from memory, as he was sure most of them could.Β
zero-zero-five-two-seven-six-six. hero. medium danger level. classification upon classification, shuffled from one room to the next.Β
itβs been a long time since youβve been here. alive. whatβs the difference, really? between here and alive? i suppose thatβs a question i can ask myself in the mirror. iβm here, but some days i donβt feel like iβm alive. like iβve swapped places with your ghost.
it was favor, or so heβd been told. though kratos named it a curse, the other gods spoke of his courage, of the dashing way he charged into battle on their behalf, returning triumphant and radiant with the divine glory of a god-bestowed blessing. he was not like them β no, others had been struck down for such hubris, the towering sort of pride that scraped the stars β but he had been deemed worthy.Β
there was a cost, though. there was always a cost.Β
i could blame it on fate. if it hadnβt been me, it wouldβve been someone else. would it be better, though? no matter what had happened, iβd have been powerless: i would have succumbed to my curse eventually, or watched helplessly as someone else carried out your fate. you were always fated to die, after all. as am i. living like this is a little bit like hell, isnβt it? almost romantic. maybe iβll see you there and weβll make it so.
he had never resisted, before sam. cas had carried out his quests with an almost robotic sort of efficiency, a walking weapon formed at the hands of the united states marine corps, handed off like a baton for a divine purpose. typical of the gods to spare themselves the effort of doing anything on their own; even their heroes were co-opted, trained elsewhere or forced to defend themselves until they were strong enough to be used. he felt like a plaything, a toy soldier of some sort; once, upon his return to deliver an item to a certain god, theyβd looked surprised to see him. i didnβt think youβd survive, they told him, rather blandly. as if his own life was something to idly toss away β and to them, he supposed, it was. cas was only mortal, and heroes were a dime a dozen.
you thought you were doing me a favor, keeping it hidden. that i had no need of knowing you were fated to die β as if i, myself, hadnβt been handed the same end. i know you thought itβd spare me the agony of waiting for your eventual end, of not knowing when youβd be gone. but it was so much worse, sam. i had to find out at the same time as knowing it would be by my own hand.Β
no good deed goes unpunished, and cas was no exception.
running did him no good; all it brought was blinding, white-hot pain; it took him days to crawl home, sobbing into a concerned samβs chest until heβd calmed down enough to tell him what was going on.
iβll never forgive you, you know. i spent the evening in your arms; you spent the evening comforting your would-be killer. is this what love does to us, sam? i feel like iβm sick with it, some days. itβs curdled inside of me, long gone sour ever since that day. we tear ourselves to pieces for the chance to be noticed, hold out our beating hearts as offerance for the so-called privilege of being loved, and for what? to instead offer our throats to each other like wolves showing submission? we do so love to proclaim the elitism of the human species, but iβve grown to doubt it. weβre no better than the wolves. at least they show mercy.
he doesnβt remember the act itself. heβs blacked it out by now, heβs sure, though heβs managed to cling to a few flashes: samβs hands on his, warm and steady and strong, the square nails and calloused knuckles heβd spent so many hours kissing. samβs eyes gazing into his own, shining with tears. samβs mouth, forming his last words like some sort of sick slow-motion capture of his final moments: i love you. itβs okay.
thereβs a picture of you that iβve kept with me, every time iβve moved. youβre in the kitchen making breakfast, dish towel slung over your shoulder, your face half-turned toward me. your features are a little blurred, but youβre smiling, halfway through a question: are you gonna sit around, lazy ass, or get up and put the coffee on?Β
we had breakfast in bed, and you got mad at me when i spilled jam on the sheets. the sunlight was coming through the windows, dappled across your beautiful face, and i couldnβt help but smile as you scolded me for the stain. your tirade didnβt last long β you demanded to know what the hell i was smiling at, and i just said you.
iβll come home soon, sam. my time will come, just as yours did. and just like you, i wonβt fight it. not when i have you waiting for me on the other side.
i love you.
β c
