crimsonplum

The creature on the screen may once have been a person…but what the watcher sees before him is little more than a wraith. He is dumbfounded at how pale the skin, how long and dank the hair, how tattered the scarce rags that hang like a tent from the thin limbs.

He's frozen to the spot as it lifts its hands. Fingernails are bitten off raggedly, but not to the quick, and from somewhere that can only be the deepest of muscle memory, the creature pushes its hair back over a shoulder.

No beard. Female.

His shoulders slump in despair. He'd been told this Retribution was for the worst of offenders, and only the men – those who did the most evil of Evil to children, or to their mothers as they looked on. Those who refused to desist after Evaluations, after Reckonings. Those who were deemed Soulless and therefore worthy of utter dehumanization.

What could this apparition – this woman – have done to deserve this? There were other punishments for Soulless females, focused squarely on restoring their humanity at any cost. Or so he'd been told.

As if she can hear him – though she's heard nothing but dripping water for the gods knew how long – she turns her head slowly, slowly. As if hoping for a miracle – though all hope must have long ago been buried – she turns her face upward and opens her eyes.

And Peter screams in abject despair.

*****

Even as he calls her name, unheeding, Eden has already grasped his outstretched arm, cradling his hand gently between hers, lowering it slowly back to the bed. Her silken skin and soft, deep voice relax him, bring him into the world he knows.

"I'm here, darling," she says, and Peter feels her edge closer, kissing him lightly on the shoulder as she trails her fingers through his hair. "You were dreaming again. It wasn't me. I'm here, and I'm fine."

"My love," he sighs in relief. "I'm so sorry." He rolls to his side to look at her, to reassure himself. Thick, dark hair shines in the sunlight, frames her worried eyes and full lips. She runs a perfectly manicured hand over his cheek, smiles, shakes her head gently.

"It can't be helped," she says. "What you saw…"

Peter shakes his head violently, pulls Eden against him to bury his face in her hair. "I can't tell you. You have to be able to say truthfully that you don't know. You can't…"

"Shhh," she whispers. "It's OK, sweetheart. I know nothing at all about it. Only that it's tearing you to pieces."

"After all I did to you – this must be my Reckoning…"

"Peter, don't even say that. You did your job. You did what the Governance required, not only properly but well. They rewarded you. They didn't even punish me for perpetuating Falsehood."

The last word rings in his ears like an echo. He draws slowly back to look at his Eden's face, brushing her hair over her shoulder as the realization dawns on him. "Falsehood," he says aloud. "Eden, that's it. That's how I can get to the bottom of this…this Evil."

Impulsively – almost as if to cleanse them both – he pulls her close again, kissing her passionately, feeling her melt against him as she kisses him back. She protests gently when he pulls away, chanting apologies.

"Darling, don't go. Stay with me. We're safe here."

But even as the words hang in the air, they both know it's untrue. And he knows what he can do, what he must do. On the bedside table, he opens the top drawer, reaches to the back and pushes a button. A white electrocard with his Evaluator's code slides into his hand. He looks at it almost impassively before affixing it once more to his bare chest, over his heart.

When he turns back to Eden, she's sitting up, sheet pulled over her breasts in an uncharacteristic show of modesty. Anxiety has a way of turning his exuberant, bohemian wife into a prim schoolgirl, after all they'd been through. After all he'd seen.

She looks at the emblem on his chest, then looks him in the eyes. He knows what she's thinking, and smiles in a way he hopes is comforting. "It's only a job," he says quietly.

Eden smiles back, and as ever, he's dazzled. "No, my love, it's a calling."

"You are my calling."

She laughs lightly as he rounds the bed. "No time for sentiment, my dear. Go. Save the world. Save a life." She pulls him down to her, kisses him soundly once more. "And then come home to me."

"Always," he says, kissing her forehead as he rushes out the door.

*****

Mere minutes later, after all but breaking the Transport window in his rush to disembark, Peter alights on the steps of the Governance Hall. A tone sounds as the Eyes sense his emblem, not so much an alarm as a questioning.

He knows exactly where to go, though four years have passed since he's been here; stifles a cough as he passes his old chamber, where Eden had appeared for Evaluation, where they'd made love under Governance Eyes when he learned the truth. The spark that had come to life in the back of his mind that day is a full, roaring inferno now…and Peter breaks into a run.

"Evaluator 386," the Guidance Voice says above him. "State your purpose in appearing today."

"Emerging…Falsehood," he pants, rounding a sharp corner. "Questioning…Governance."

"Proceed with caution," the Voice responds.

"Go to the Hells," Peter replies, slamming his hand against a button. The Grand Chamber door slides open, revealing his Counselor Emma, seated below the thrones of three Governors whose names he was never allowed to know.

"Peter," the older woman says, but the sound dies on her lips as the bearded Governor glares at her.

"Evaluator 386. We hope you have a good reason for disturbing the Peace of the Hall," he says.

"What…did she do."

The Panel feigns ignorance. "Counselor Emma has done nothing, of course. I don't know what you mean."

"No! What…did that woman…do."

The Governor squints in distaste. "It is…no longer a woman. It is of no consequence what it did."

"WHAT DID SHE DO?"

The Chamber echoes. Real fear appears on the Governors' faces. Emma weeps silently.

"She…refused Us."

Peter blinks, disbelieving. He knows what this means, but he repeats it dumbly.

"Refused?"

The gray-haired Governor rockets to his feet at this. "The Comfort must do as they're told! In all things! She refused Us!"

Emma's chair falls as she shoves it away from her, finger pointing in accusation. "She refused YOU! You lying bastard! She was still a child, and you gave her the punishment that was meant for YOU!"

"SHE DESERVED IT! THE SOULLESS DESERVE ONLY EVIL IN RETURN!"

"She was only a child," Emma whispered. "You groomed my baby for Comfort and destroyed her when she refused your Evil."

And the Voice...speaks.

As shackles fasten around One's ankles.

"Governor One. You have been deemed Guilty of Falsehood in the service of Greatest Evil. Governors Two. Three. Counselor 106. Evaluator 386. Leave the chamber immediately, or suffer Governor One's fate."

Two and Three are gone before the sound stops. Peter helps Emma to her feet and runs toward the Chamber door, pushing her through and tumbling to the ground after her just before it slams shut.

Just before the alarms begin.

He guides his mentor and friend out the door.

Just as everything goes quiet.

As Titles of all sorts run for the exits, and Peter jumps aboard Transport to rush to his wife's waiting arms.

Just as One begins to scream.

Fiction, slightly NSFW (f-bombs and sexual content). Curious how Shannon and Macrae ended up here? Check out Pleated if you have some extra time.


Early February light filtered through sheer purple curtains, falling over a quilt three generations old, shimmering off a long, shining waterfall of waves spread out across a pillow. Angus Macrae reached out to lift an errant corkscrew curl out of the tangle. It had been a long time, far too long, since he'd woken up this way, and he hadn't known how much he'd missed it until just now.

Almost reverently, he let the dark strand fall gently back into place. Her t-shirt had rucked up over her waist, baring a perfect expanse of hip above her sweatpants, but thank Christ he had a good memory; the last time he'd touched her skin there as she slept, nigh on ten years ago, she'd jolted awake swinging.

Macrae half-smiled and rolled his eyes at himself. She'd always said one of her favorite things about him was his elephantine memory...and every time she said it, he was guaranteed to remind her what else about him was elephantine. Jesus, he was an asshole. But fortunately, this bawdy, sensual, brilliant and kind Faire lass loved that about him, too.

Not just a Faire lass, he reminded himself. His lass, now. And at that, Macrae grinned ear to ear.
~~~~~
The light shifted, and long minutes passed, but Shannon slept on, oblivious. Macrae was grateful for the skills he'd developed in slipping out unnoticed, even though he wasn't going any further than the bathroom. Better than coffee, he thought as he stood under the warm shower spray, the whirlpool of random thoughts in his head slowly unspooling.

He was never sure when it had happened, when it was that the way he felt about Shannon had transformed. He'd known for a long time that she'd become a rennie mostly because of him - that for the years they were friends with benefits, it had started out heavy on the "benefits" part, but the friends part would always win out in the end.

All Macrae knew was that he'd been irritated when she took up with the games kid, and pissed off that he didn't know quite why. So he welcomed the attentions of a 25-year-old belly dancer, a lithe redhead who'd done two tours in Afghanistan and was as comfortable in a deer lease as she was in seven veils. Carrie was tough, talented, and unafraid of anything, including of what her parents would say when she married a guy almost 20 years older.

Age was far from the only problem. Only those who knew him best knew that Macrae had a code: he'd have all the fun he pleased when he was single, but if he committed, he wasn't fooling around. He'd thought Carrie would do the same. She'd told him she would.

She'd lied. He knew this because he'd flown home early from a gig in Houston last year, rushing to Hobby without changing clothes, and found her in their bed with some hipster brat. The little bastard had laughed when he realized Macrae was still kilted, with sporran, hose, and flashes to boot. Carrie, to her credit, had managed to look painfully embarrassed.

"Little early for Halloween, old man. Say -" and he gestured in the general direction of Macrae's crotch - "are the rumors true? 'Cause I hear that trrrrrue Scotsmen let it alllll hang out under the kilt. Is - is that your sack I see dragging the floor?"

In the time it took Carrie to yell "Macrae, don't!", he'd bloodied the kid's nose. "Nope," he said, perfectly calm. "Now both of you, get the fuck out."

But he was done thinking about it. It was what it was, and if he hadn't been there, he wouldn't be here right now. Macrae turned off the shower as if it would stop the stream of thoughts, feeling cleaner than he had in months.

She’d come looking for him. Sure, it was a show with the boys at a pub she knew, and a bit of a cast reunion, at least for her. But he was the real reason. Never mind that he was sneaking up on 50 – Macrae’s heart had knocked against his chest, hard, when he heard her voice above the crowd. And later, when she’d poured her heart out – well, his undivided attention was long overdue.

There were dozens of things he should have said as she danced reels on his stage, made love to him in tents and trailers and hotels, instead of all the ridiculous lines he’d pulled. But he’d finally started to say them. There were a few other things she still needed to hear from him, and she would. Today, and as long as she would put up with him.

His lass? Christ, no, not just his lass. His woman, his heart. His one and only. She'd spent the last 15 years loving him, and damn if it hadn't turned him soft.

Damn if he didn't like it that way.
~~~~~
Half an hour later, Blackmore's Night poured softly out of the radio, and a delicate-looking, cow-spotted cat supervised Macrae's work from the bookshelves. Pancakes were soon to join the bacon, eggs, and coffee. He was still congratulating himself on the relative quiet when Shannon, still disheveled and drowsy, emerged from the bedroom.

"Mmmmacrae," she groaned quietly, "what the fuck is this?"

"This, my most delicate flower," he replied cheerfully, pouring batter into a pan, "this is your fuckin' breakfast."

Shannon blinked twice, slowly, raking her hair back from her eyes. Then she grinned widely. "Fuckin' A."

"Now that's more like it. Coffee?"

"Need you ask?"

He thrust her favorite cup at her, already filled with the best roast she had and a generous splash of Bailey's. Shannon sipped it and closed her eyes in ecstasy, then smiled wickedly.

"Maybe I should save this expression for later," she said pointedly, looking up at him through long black lashes.

Macrae feigned nonchalance, flipping two pancakes in quick succession. "Suit yourself, darlin'. But the bacon probably won't be that good."

She snorted in spite of herself. "Damn it, Macrae."

"Shannon, love, how many times do I have to tell you: the first name is Angus."

"Yes," she drawled, "and you've also told me the lasses like to drop the G."

"Oh, sweetheart, there's somethin' else they like to drop when I turn my eyes on them." He turned off the burner, slid the pancakes onto a plate. They would keep.

"Can't imagine what that would be," she said, languidly flipping that long dark hair as she leaned against the wall. "Their common sense?"

And in a heartbeat, he was in front of her, big hands cupping her generous hips. "Let's find out," he growled softly, and they grinned at each other as he pulled her close, teasing her mouth gently before he kissed her deeply.

A minute later, she pulled back, starry-eyed. "Good news," she breathed. "Turns out I was right."

"Common sense?"

"Right out the window."

"That is good news," Macrae agreed, and before he could kiss her again, she led him by the hand straight back to the bedroom.

"Don't you dare put me off this time, Macrae."

"Wouldn't dream of it, mo chridh." He brushed her hair over her shoulder, rubbed his unshaven chin against her neck and watched her shudder.

She nipped his earlobe in response. "I am not some delicate fuckin' flower."

Macrae slowly kissed a line across her collarbone and down her cleavage. "Clearly, ya foul-mouthed wench."

But suddenly, her long, delicate fingers - tipped in a shiny purple about the same color as the curtains - were resting gently at his chin again. Macrae looked up into her eyes, still dark and stormy, but now just a little unsure.

"Angus," she whispered. "Am I imagining this? Is this just another tumble? Or did you really mean what you said?"

His beloved. It was still going to take time, sometimes. He swallowed his anger at the jackass that had made this brash, breezy woman distrust herself, doubt his word when he would spend every day of the rest of his life making sure she'd never have to.

"Á Seanáin," he said, cupping his rough, thick hand around hers, "I meant every damn word." He turned his face into her palm, planted a kiss there, then locked his gaze with hers. "And I mean these too. I love you."

He watched her eyes flood with tears. "Macrae...I..." She swallowed hard. "You'd better not be bullshitting me, Macrae. I will hunt you down and..." The words were lost as he kissed her again, eliciting a gasp as he grazed her full lower lip with his teeth.

"Shag me senseless?"

The tears spilled over as a big, joyful laugh fell from her lips. "Too late for that," she smirked. "And besides, you should be so lucky." Then she paused, pretending to consider. "Why don't I shag some sense back into you instead?"

"I could deal with that."

"Good," she said, tumbling him down to the bed with her. "Because surely no true Scotsman could refuse an offer like that."

Macrae looked down at Shannon, hair splayed around her, cheeks bright red, eyes shining. His beloved looking at her beloved. They smiled at each other, wicked and wise and crazy in love.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. This one never will."