Hope

After living for nearly an eternity Atticus had learned that hope could be as fickle as the men who prayed to her.

And still, as he leaned against the short stone wall surrounding his home in the dead of night, he found himself wishing for her to take his side this time. Consequences be damned.

He had heard footsteps approaching from behind, coming up the path from his house, but did not take his eyes off of the trees that hid him and those he loved from the rest of the world.

“The sun will be up, and I’ll find nothing more than a pile of dust if you stand here much longer, Atticus.” When he did not respond, Ballina pressed her back to the stone next to him. “Who are we waiting for?”

“Not we, but I.”

“So there is someone.”

Atticus turned enough to look down on his sister in law. His eyes caught on the torch in her hand, the mess of her hair, before taking in the orange hued sunken features of her face. She looked as tired as he felt.

“Come to burn me at the stake, dear sister?”

She pursed her lips. “Rev-

“Can shove it.”

“He thinks they have caught on once again, Atticus.” She had turned to face him now. “He’s worried about you.”

“Yes. That I will throw you and him, and everyone I love to the wolves.”

Ballina shoved a long narrow finger in his chest. “He is worried you will not come with us.”

His eyes lingered on hers. “I’m tired of running Lin, and I think you are too.”

The trees before them rustled. A branch snapping their conversation apart. Instantly their eyes were locked onto the woman standing between them and the evergreens. Her face blushed, the bag in her hands tightly clasped to her chest.

“We can talk later.” Ballina shoved the torch toward him. “Please, be careful, Atticus.”

She left, leaving him to watch after her.

When Ballina had gotten far enough away, he turned, stepping forward a single step. “Paloma.”

A small smile lit the woman’s face as she closed the distance between them. Excitement in her eyes.

“It worked.”

Her smile was contagious. “And you doubted me.”

“Can you blame me? To think your blood-

“What? Just because I have fangs I am so untrustworthy?”

“The others think so.”

“So I’ve heard.”

There was a change in the late night wind as they stood, the silence growing between them. Paloma’s dress swished in time to the grass that had grown long in the past month, and Atticus wondered if they would get a chance to cut it before his brother moved them once again.

“I need more.” Paloma whispered. “I know why you might not want to, but there are so many that are sick. I’ve tried everything else.”

Tried everything else because the people who could be saved by drinking even a small dose of his blood would rather die of the plague than take anything from the monsters in the woods. The worst part was he didn’t even know if he could blame them. If hope was a boat, then fear were the holes that grew over the years of unuse.

“How much do you need?” He asked in a soft voice.

“As much as you can give me.” She answered, ready.

Handing Paloma the torch Atticus led her to a small stone building that stood away from the watching eyes of his family home.

Round, and slanted with crumbling walls and windows of cracked and cloudy glass, Atticus had suspected the building to have been built long before anything else on the land. It had been his favourite place for a long while. The musty scent rushed to meet them at the door, and Atticus motioned for Paloma to sit while he lit the dozens of candles around the rounded room.

Paloma ignored him, instead running her fingers over the rough walls. “Every stone is different. As if someone hand picked each one to make this place.”

Atticus stilled. The first night they had met had been an accident, her not knowing what he was. It had felt nice not having a human hate him. It was later though, when she had figured out what he was, and still she did not leave, that had meant the world to him. The times later when she had visited, and they had talked for hours out in the dark of the woods. Any other night he would have loved to sit and talk of every stone on every wall if it made her happy, but the moon was getting heavy in the sky, and time was not on their side.

On a small table in the center of the room he uncovered a large bowl he had set out nights ago, unsure when or if she would return, before sitting in the chair next to it.

He started to unbutton his shirt. “Have you brought the fleam once again?”

Paloma turned, taking him in before placing her bag on the table. “Of course.”

She dug inside the bag a moment, and Atticus watched as her dark hair fell out of the low knot on her neck, curling around her ear. He had the sudden urge to put it right. Instead he shrugged his right arm out of his shirt and placed his arm on the table. Waiting.

“So, I am to be livestock once again.”

“Humans use them too, you know.” She smiled, placing what looked to be a small switchblade, and a wooden mallet on the table between them.

“Even worse.” He grinned back.

Paloma opened the tool, releasing three small triangular blades, all different sizes, and picked the middle. Leaning over she ran her finger over his arm looking for a vein. Atticus’ arm had always been pale, sickly looking, and in the candle light even more so. When he was younger it had bothered him, looking like a corpse. With his light long hair, pale skin, and colorless eyes, he looked as if he had been drained one day, but never refilled. Having people's eyes on him had always made him uncomfortable. Paloma’s gaze though, was kind, and he found himself not caring so much about how he looked, but wondering about the scent that surrounded her. Lavender, he thought.

Finding what she was looking for she placed the blade on his arm. “Ready?”

Atticus nodded. Placing the blade where she wanted it, she held it there while her other hand grabbed for the mallet. She took a single deep breath then brought the mallet down, and the effect was instantaneous.

Atticus watched as a line of blood formed on his arm. Paloma grabbed the bowl and placed it on his lap. Grabbing his hand she brought the wound to lay over top, making sure the stream was dripping into the dish before pulling out the other chair at the table. She sat down hard. “Tell me if you feel faint, and we can stop.”

Atticus adjusted in his seat. “How are you going to get them to take it?”

“Tell them it’s cow blood, maybe?” Paloma rested her chin on a fist.

“Ah, back to livestock am I?”

The smile Paloma flashed at him, fell as soon as it had risen. “So many have died, Atticus. There are bodies in the streets, blood in the rivers. Do you know how hard it is to ask people to stay away from one another?” Paloma sighed. The clock over one of the smaller windows ticked back and forth as she grew quiet for a moment. “Even if I have to make up a new lie for every person I come across, it would be worth it to save those willing to try.”

“And if they won’t? Are you willing to die for people that have never taken you as seriously as they should?”

Paloma shook her head. Not answering, but instead standing to take a cloth out of her bag. “Give me your arm.”

“Done already?” Atticus found himself wishing she did not want to go back.

“Yes.”

She pressed the cloth to his arm, applying pressure as she reached for the bandages on the table.

Atticus put his hand over hers. “No need. I will heal faster than you can apply the bandage.”

Paloma leaned back. “Of course.”

It was quiet as she filled her vials with his blood, the popping of their corks and the slight hiss of her syringe the only sounds to fill the tension in the air. Atticus watched her, and she avoided his gaze.

“Do you know they say we can’t eat garlic, or see ourselves in mirrors? That we hunt humans, to suck them dry and that children are the sweetest?” Atticus pulled the cloth back to reveal a faint scar. “None of it is true, yet all of it is believed.”

“To be fair I’ve never seen you eat garlic.” Paloma gave a sad smile.

“Come with us.” At the stilling of Paloma’s hands Atticus hurried on. “My brother is ready to leave, and I might not want to go, but I would rather be somewhere with him, and his wife than not. The people of this land are fools. They were born that way and will die that way. As much as I wish to be wrong for once in my long life, it is nothing more than just that. A wish.”

Standing suddenly, Paloma started packing her bag. Atticus stood with her. “Paloma.”

She held up a hand, backing up toward the door, and suddenly Atticus was more tired than ever.

“Please," she begged. “Not one more word, Atticus. I will not let you change my mind. I can't let you change my mind.”

They stood staring at each other. Both breathing hard.

“Goodbye, Atticus,” she whispered.

She was disappearing into what was left of the night, and all Atticus could do was fall back into his chair. Chest tight, and eyes heavy he laid his head on the table, and closed his eyes. He was out before the sun came up, sleeping for a long time. Healing had exhausted him so he had not heard the screams. Not those of his name or those called out of pain.

He had finally heard the crying, though. His face sore from the wood digging into his cheek and jaw. His eyes blurry, and head pounding as he took in the faint light of the sun filtering through the semi transparent windows. He had forgotten where he was for a moment, standing too quickly then having to steady himself as the stone walls spun around him.

He had to find out where the sound was coming from. Grabbing his shirt he shielded himself from the sun as he opened the door, and suddenly the noise was significantly louder. He started running.

Sprinting all the way to the front of his family home, where he fell to his knees at the sight before him.

The front door stood shut tight, his brother slumped against it. As if he had fought to keep that door closed. To keep someone out, and someone else inside. Holes lined his body, blood leaking from ones visible and others that were not. Bile stung the back of Atticus' throat, forcing him to turn away.

Ballina kneeled on the front steps, her skin peeling, blistering as she wept openly in the burning sun. Atticus rushed to her and threw his shirt over her shaking form.

Tears were running down his face, as his skin started to burn. “Lin.”

Moving below him, Ballina eased out her arm and pointed a bloody finger down the walk way. A shiver ran down his spine as Atticus turned. His heart stopping dead in his chest at the form he saw laying just within his sight.

Dark hair tangled within the long grass. Her dress ripped, and dirty. He was suddenly glad for his lack of vision during the daylight hours.

Atticus had thought he would die many times over his long years, but never had he felt so close to achieving the impossible as that day. His limbs numb, and his heart on the verge of bursting.

A sob broke his trance. Ballina.

Without thinking, Atticus lifted her into his arms. He walked away from his brother. A monster they had called him as well, though he never had been to him. Ballina fought him of course, nails raked down his shoulders, and his neck. Crying both of their names. She might never forgive him.

He fought himself as well, to not go back for the woman he had asked to stay.

She was dead. His brother was dead.

Hope had been fickle once again, and so she too was dead to him.