Page 11 of Prior Claim
They’d chosen long ago, in their remade life, to be neither man nor woman. Gender had defined them, first by what one party wanted, then by another. Chromosomes and genitalia had been battlegrounds for one side or the other to own. Blood tests and arguments. Sonograms and diagrams. And even when a modicum of freedom had been reached—no, earned—at the end of a gun, gender had been merely a face to wear, a guise with which to slip through the world as an unknown, merely a servant to a cause greater than themselves.
They’d survived. Just them. Not a blood relation or a lover remaining. In that emptiness there had been no reason to continue the battle of being a man or a woman. They were neither singularity. They were merely Ellisandre. Spinning in the center, claiming neither had felt like peace.
Now it felt like depriving Sevastyan of his worship, even as he reached for the terms they had taught him.
Ellisandre had practiced the knots. They had set aside provisions for his return with care. His name had already been in their security system. All that had been required were his biometrics to complete his profile. There were clothes in his size in their closet. A perfect double of his favorite handgun with matching ammo was laid down in their armory. There was a bulletproof vest in his measurements. A plurality of details considered and attended to. Details he didn’t know. Details he was not yet ready to comprehend.
In all that care and planning, they had not considered this.
They were both foundering. Was Sevastyan Bal? Was he Vast? Was Ellisandre Goddess? Were they God? Time unmade mortals and remade them. It was up to the mortals to find themselves, again and again. From incarnation to incarnation and mirror to mirror.
Ellisandre threaded their fingers through his hair. It was long now. Cared for. Not dry like it had once been. “You condition.”
His breath hitched, yet he did not speak.
Ellisandre knelt on one knee, dragging their fingers from Sevastyan’s pectorals to his abdomen. The muscles rippled under their touch.
“Tell me, Vast, if there is an oath that keeps my hand from going lower.”
“None.”
And yet there was something. Not an oath, then, but a layer of meaning not covered in that single syllable response.
They traced their fingers down to the V of his groin, dragged their fingernails across his belly, ran their thumb over the band of his boxer briefs. An American brand, to match his passport.
“I’m going to take your sight.” Ellisandre stood and retrieved a large bandana and another case of implements from the bedroom.
Sevastyan kept his eyes on the floor. He tilted his head this way and that, accepting the bandana over his eyes without protest.
There had been a time when he would have been asking questions or panting with desire by now. The only indication in the present that this was what he wanted, what he needed, was the way his body was slowly starting to sag.
How long had it been since he had had true rest?
Their lost boy was running on the raw edge of exhaustion.
Sevastyan
It was an illusion, this moment of peace. The ropes wrapped around Sevastyan’s ribs and crossed over his shoulders were comforting and familiar. Their clasp and hold destabilized time, making it shimmer and slip back on itself, folding in layers that erased years. Ellisandre’s touch, the smell of the hemp, the act of kneeling brought back the moments from ten and eleven years previous, making them more immediate than the events of linear time. His breath deepened as the blindfold settled, locking his vision to the images inside his mind.
He dropped his head toward his chest, sagging in the ropes just to feel them. If he truly wanted to escape the bonds, he could. It would take effort, but it was not impossible. What he would not be able to escape in this state was Ellisandre.
He didn’t want to.
And that was the madness of it all.
He’d knelt for them without question, offered up his wrists to be restrained, left his cell phones across the room.
All for indulgence? A memory?
He pressed his eyes closed behind the blindfold, pushing against the accusations coming from within.
“You wouldn’t touch me, if you knew what I’ve done,” he whispered.
Ellisandre’s fingers trailed over his skin, certain and steady. “I know what you’ve done.”
“Impossible.”
“You’ve ruined lives, Vast. You’ve crushed dreams. There are souls who wake screaming to the memory of your face. You’ve failed. Again and again.”
