#title from hunters' moon by yves olade

[canarhys]

blood has too long a memory

me, rereading ‘bloodsport’ by yves olade and still thinking about ‘the old guard’: well time to go bonkers

tw: gore, blood, graphic descriptions of violence

“doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

even as the wound heals, the pain still lingers. leo gives nico an expectant gaze as he cradles his left eye in his hand, the scarlet blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto his denim jeans. drip, drip. redder than any mortal, trickling down his wrists to the inner side of his jacket and eventually making its way to his elbow. wounds as harsh as these ones — a shattered skull, a snapped neck, a pierced eye — took longer to heal. he could feel his retina stitching itself back together. it was only from the experience of it happening thousands of times before that he can hold back anguished screams.

nico turns to him. he got them out of the scuffle before things would escalate beyond repair, before they would be torn to shreds by those monsters and left as reforming mush. despite that, he still looks like shit. there are scabs along his face and arms, some as deep as a papercut, others that must have reached down to the bone. his right ear was missing, leaving him in suffering in one ear while it repairs itself. it’s a torturous task — but leo’s not that surprised that the most that nico can allow him to see is a grimace.

“living forever,” leo explains when nico gives him a confused look. “the pain, the loneliness, the whole package. doesn’t it drive you mad?”

nico is quiet for a moment. thinking. leo can practically hear the cogs turning in his head.

living for thousands of years, spending eternity in a body too young for his mind, killed over and over again beyond what the mortal mind could process. when leo was a child, he had been told stories of the gods. of how golden ichor flowed through their veins, how their beings were enshrouded in pure light, how their words were wise and their judgement was absolute. he remembers the stories of kronos eating his children, of the curses they placed on medusa and arachne, of the cheating and murdering and constant betrayal. he wonders if those immortals were felt it. he wonders if, like him, they had slowly begun to lose their minds.

they had to. leo wanted them to. it was sick, but he needed to know that the gods were just as exhausted as he was. that nico was as exhausted as he was. forced to endure death over and over again, the reaper clawing at his skin and begging for his soul to be released from its cage. yet his body is defiant, yet it insists on staying alive, for nothing but selfish reasons. it wants leo to keep living, and so leo is forced to endure. when they fight, leo doesn’t endure — to endure is to live despite death, and to leo death is a forgotten memory that comes every now and then.

finally, nico answers. “yeah.”

simple, a single word, yet it fills leo’s aching heart with a sort of relief. the knowledge that he’s not alone, that nico too feels the grief of lost loved ones who left far too soon, the wrath at the gods for causing them to endure the torture of monsters in the dark, the desperation to keep surviving yet the desperation for final sleep. to be immortal is to endure, but do you even endure if it is against your will?

suddenly, a cool hand wraps around his free hand, freckled and stained with blood yet more real than the mortals that pass them everyday or the gods that sit up there in the heavens. soft, gentle, kindly yet calloused. a hand that has held a sword with the grip of pure steel, yet a hand that has leo melting beneath its touch.

leo intertwines their fingers together. on habit, nico scoots closer to him. his scent — blood mixed with old spices and winter’s touch — overshadows the musk of the train car, the manure forgotten beyond their quiet space. leo shifts so that his head rests against nico’s, ignoring the torturous pain of his left eye as it reaches the final stages of repair. he feels the blood begin to fill in the gaps of where it had been split, like the knife lodged into it previously slowly and agonizingly pulling out. he doubts nico is having a more pleasant experience.

still, through the pain, he can forget it and focus on nico’s breathing. soft, as quiet as the footsteps of ghosts, falling to a calm in the empty train car. leo fixates on it — in, out, in, out — and momentarily forgets the outside world for a second. all he does is listen to nico’s heartbeat, flowing steadily, the rage and sadness and horror falling to a dull whimper behind the peace.

immortality is a punishment. it is hard to even comprehend after so many centuries running and hiding. yet maybe leo can fight against it. maybe by enduring, enduring by living, he may be able to combat missing death.

at least with nico by his side, he can endure. with nico, he can live. because madness alone is unbearable — having one to go mad with was enough to steady his aching soul.

leo squeezes their fingers. nico squeezes back. simple, yet powerful. defiant.

“we should rest,” nico announces quietly, barely a sound leaving his lips. leo wants to drown against them forever.

instead, leo nods. “we should.”

neither of them sleep that night.