Postmortem part 6: The Last Inch

“He bound me.”

As the words left her, a great weight fell from Dahlia all at once.  Tears began to slip down her face, and she found that she did not even care what Phaedros might think of her.  The relief she felt now was so overwhelming that it was difficult to fathom why she had ever fought to keep the secret.  Her mouth twisted into a trembling smile at her own stubbornness, and then Dahlia could only cover her face with her hands as she began to weep in earnest.

Phaedros did not interrupt until the worst of it had passed.  When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle and careful as she could ever remember, absent of any traces of his previous anger.  “Would you please explain what you mean by ‘bound’?”

Dahlia nodded, wiping at her cheeks.  At first she was afraid that she would not have the composure to get through the tale.  But as she began to relate what she had learned of Gwylin’s magics, she found that the telling of it actually helped her regain control.  

This time, the whole story came out: the Binding that Gwylin had laid on Anya, the portion of his soul that had gone with her, the fact that she had been the one carrying his feelings of love during all those millennia.  After she finished, she finally lifted her head and saw that Phaedros was looking through her.  She could practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“This missing piece of him.  That is what causes his instability?  What causes him to lash out?” he asked.  

Dahlia twisted her hands together.  "To the best of my knowledge, yes."  She looked away.  "It...explains why he acted towards me in the way he did."

Phaedros gave her a level look.  "Oh, I'm certain it was a contributing factor.  When did you become aware of this state of affairs?"

"Only recently, at the Gardens.”

He tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully.  "It's clear enough how the transfer affects him.  What of yourself?  Do you have his memories?  Can you sense a tangible connection with him?"

Dahlia felt an ache of absence within her chest.  "Not any longer," she said hollowly.  

Phaedros’ eyebrows furrowed.  “But you did?  Why no longer?”

A shudder ran through her.  “Because I gave it back to him.”    

A light of understanding went on in his eyes.  "Ah."  He cast an appraising glance over her, and Dahlia wrapped her arms around herself, looking down at the table.  "Ah.  Well, then.  Doesn't that explain quite a bit."

"It changes nothing," Dahlia said quietly.

"It changes everything," Phaedros countered, leaning forward intently.  "You spent millennia trying to 'fix' him.  Against all odds, he truly needed to be fixed.  And you succeeded, correct?"

Dahlia closed her eyes.  "Yes."

"His binding is undone.  The feelings he laid on you are gone.  Are they not?"

Dahlia nodded, slowly.

"So.  For the first time in ten thousand years, you have the ability to break the cycle, to start down a different path.  You can leave him.”

She shook her head.  “No.  I cannot.”

Phaedros watched her for a stretch.  "You still believe you love him."

Dahlia gave him a dull glare.  “I do love him.”

The interrogator folded his arms across his chest.  “Really?  Because your statement earlier seemed to tell me that you no longer feel the same way about him as you did before.”

She stiffened.  “I think you are mistaken in your interpretation.”

He sat back in his chair, regarding her.  “I think that you have been forced to love him for so long that you can’t even entertain the idea of doing otherwise.”

Dahlia felt a twist in the pit of her stomach, but shook her head.  “No.  I’ve healed what was broken in him.  There is room for us to finally be happy together,” she said.

“Happy?” Phaedros exclaimed.  “The man spent thousands of years abusing you.  He tortured you physically.  He enslaved your very soul.  You should hate him for it.”

A flash of heat ran through her, and Dahlia dug her fingernails into her palms to maintain her composure.  “I…I could never,” she stammered.

Phaedros eyed her.  “Or perhaps you simply cannot accept that you already do.”

“There is nothing to accept,” Dahlia said, bristling.  But even as she did so, she knew that it was a lie.  She had tried to fight it.  She had tried to remember that he had been compelled by the same magic as her.  And still the anger had crept into her heart, filling the void that had been left behind when she tore away his soul.  Dahlia shuddered.  “I love him,” she whispered.

She only wished she didn’t feel like she was trying to convince herself.

Across the table, Phaedros folded his arms over his chest.  “Madam,” he said with a sigh, “I understand how difficult it is to let go of something one has believed in for so long.  But you do yourself a disservice with these delusions.”

Dahlia felt her chest tighten, and her cheeks warmed.  “I love him,” she repeated, her voice sharper than she intended.  She drew a deep breath, trying to settle herself before continuing.  “I will always love him.  I don’t care what you’ve forced me to feel in this room.  This ordeal is a blink of an eye compared to the totality of our lives.  Our love has overcome worse, and it will overcome this.”

“And how will you do that?” Phaedros shot back.  “You will forget?  You cannot; some part of your soul will always carry the knowledge of what he has done to you.  You will rationalize away his behavior, blame this magic for it?  It does not erase the fact that he had it within him to do such horrific things to you.  To any person.  Not just once, not just in a fit of passion, but over and over again.  Viciously.  Creatively.”  Phaedros leaned forward, and Dahlia had to fight the impulse to shrink back in her own chair.  “Looking into his eyes, you will always know what he is capable of.  Every stroll down a moonlit beach will remind you of how he drowned you.  Whenever he picks up his dinner-knife, you will wonder if this is the time he means to slit your throat.  And you are never going to be able to rid yourself of that fear.  You will never be happy with him, because a part of you will always be waiting for the moment when he decides he would be happier with you dead.”

Dahlia wrapped her arms around herself.  “He won’t do that to us.  Not any more.”

Phaedros sighed.  “You, of all people, should realize by now that you can’t make something so by wishing hard enough.”

“I don’t have to,” Dahlia countered.  “It’s not like it was before.  He’s himself again.  He loved me once and he will love me again.”

Phaedros gave her a knowing look.  “Do you really think he will decide to come back to you?  After all the misery that has passed between you?”  

Once again, Dahlia could not meet his eyes.  She opened her mouth to answer, but found that she had none.  None that was not a lie.

When it became clear that no reply was forthcoming, Phaedros rested his elbows against the edge of the table, leaning in.  His voice was gentle but firm.  “Let him go.  You do yourself, your loved ones, this world no good by continuing down this path.  The magic is gone.  All that stands between you and peace is this one, last step.”  He paused, giving her a beseeching look.  “Leave him, and wipe the slate clean.  Set all this behind you.  It could not be simpler.”

“Simple does not mean easy,” Dahlia whispered.  There was a part of her that desperately wanted to do as he said, to let go of all the misery and grief.  No doubt if she did so, this trial would also end.  And she was so very, very tired.  

But if she did that, would she ever be able to look herself in the mirror again?  Knowing that she had borne ten thousand years’ worth of pain for him, and had thrown it all away because she could not stand to go on a little longer?  No.  She would not--could not--betray them both that way.  “I will find him again and make this right,” Dahlia finally declared.  She swiped the back of her hand quickly over her eyes.  “I have to.”

Silence stretched out.  Slowly, Phaedros drew himself up in his chair until he had resumed the formal, stiff posture he had begun with.  “There is nothing I can say to convince you that love cannot, should not, conquer all?” he asked quietly.  “Despite everything, you are still prepared to sacrifice all else in your pursuit of this man?”

Dahlia drew in a deep breath, sensing that the question had more meaning behind it than the mere words.  This time she was able to bring her gaze up to meet his, and she realized with a shock that there was true concern for her in his eyes.  

But in the end, it changed nothing.  “I am,” she answered, her voice strained.  She looked down at her hands, wringing them together in her lap. “I’m...sorry.”

Phaedros waited for a few moments, as if giving her a chance to change her mind.  When she gave no indication of doing so, he nodded solemnly.  “Then there is nothing more I can do for you.”  

Before Dahlia could reply to that, he reached behind his back and pulled something from his waistband.  Her eyes widened as she realized it was a knife, small but sharpened to a razor’s keenness.  Dahlia started to push herself away from him, but froze when Phaedros reached over and laid it carefully on the table in front of her.  He held her gaze for several seconds before withdrawing his hand.  “Anything else, you must do for yourself,” he said quietly.

Dahlia stared at the weapon, her thoughts tumbling after one another.  He could have easily attacked her.  But he hadn’t.  Did he expect her to try to fight her way to freedom?  Surely he hadn’t decided to take her side and help her escape this prison.  Or was he offering her the “mercy” of another kind of escape?  The room’s harsh light gleamed off the polished metal of the blade, and Dahlia shuddered.

Phaedros stood then, the scrape of his chair legs jarring in the closed space.  Her eyes never left the knife as he walked behind her, until his voice cut through the jumble of her thoughts.  “Ms. Oszcar-Ritter.”  She turned over her shoulder to see him standing in front of the open doorway.  He was looking back at her, something inscrutable in his eyes.  Finally he spoke.  “You deserve better.  Remember that.”

Before Dahlia could formulate a response, Phaedros had stepped through the door and was gone.  But the doorway remained open, a gaping blackness in the center of the wall.  She could see nothing at all beyond it--no corridor, no wall opposite.  Just a line marking the boundary between here and...whatever was on the other side.  

Then someone stepped across that boundary, and any ideas of escape vanished in an instant.  Dahlia rose to her feet without realizing she was doing so.  Her first thought was to rush forward, her second to put herself behind the table and what little protection it might offer.  But she could only stand there, frozen to the spot.

Nefin’s eyes widened.  He tried to back out of the room, but only struck solid wall as the door slid closed behind him.  He reached back blindly to feel for the doorway, his gaze locked on Dahlia the entire time.  Finally he seemed to realize it was gone, and a shudder ran through him.  He drew himself up, looking for all the world like a condemned man standing in front of the gallows.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, his voice quiet but thick with emotion.  Then bitterness twisted in his golden eyes.  “No.  I hoped you were.”