<By my troth, hurry, child, or we'll lose her again...!>

<Hades' fires! Don't I know it?!! Hold her still!>

<Wretched fox will tear my hand out!>

She bit as hard as she could, digging young, razor-sharp teeth into the old man's callous hand as his grip tightened, crushing her lips and jaws in a vicious restraint. Hot blood started to trickle around the bites, searing crimson pearls rolling on the ancient skin, sliding down the enamel of her youthful fangs onto her squeezed tongue. The salty liquid sent jolts of dread and happiness through her body as it seeped into her bloodstream, and hunger and despair fought a demented battle in her mind.

She tried to move her arms but the old man's knotty hold had them pinned fiercely against her waist, making it hard to breathe. His whole weight was bearing down on her, pushing her knees deep into the hard ground. His age was nothing to his strength, and she could feel his iron-hard will looming over her like giant dark wings, pushing into her brain, trying to crush her soul into senseless submission.

'Nnnngnnnnhhhnnnn...!!!'

Her anguished cry crushed against the fleshy barrier in a muffled complaint. The tall woman did not relent. Her eyes had hers locked in a compelling basilisk stare, and she moved in with the proud and deadly assurance of a lionness. Her flowing hair, dishevelled by battle, hung onto her metal-clad shoulders and back like a mane, their blondness merging with the rich gold and silver patterns ornamenting her breastplate. Her hand still gripped the blood-soaked wooden staff of her regal spear, its flashing tip grazing the singed soil. Her long, ivory-smooth fingers stretched towards her bruised face, aiming at her brow. Instinct took over and her whole body tensed up, long, lean muscles straining desperately against their yoke.

<Hurry....>, the old man pleaded through gritted teeth. His head rested on the top of her skull, adding to the implacable pressure, yet she could see the high cheekbones, noble brow and slightly hooked nose bathed in sweat, the eagle eyes staring inwards as he delved deep inside for every last ounce of resolve, his snow-white hair crowning his eon-old face in a regal aura.

Ancient. Just like his language. And the woman before them. Like their language. Known yet unknown. Enduring. Like the passing of seasons.

Permanent.

'Easy, child...', she heard the woman say, her eyes and tone surprisingly soft and caring despite her unerring determination.

To quell.

To help.

To master.

To soothe.

To destroy.

Them.

Her.

'NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!'

One last time, the ground heaved and shook, the earth moaned with primal pain. The old man yelled as he was hurled away and sent rolling to the ground, his kingly armor carving ruts in the ground. The woman screamed in dismay and fright, her scorched fingers recoiling like hurt snakes before she too hit the ground.

She crawled forward under a light rain of dust and ruined vegetation, fighting for each inch, cursing and sobbing to herself, anger and fear overwhelming her mind, blinding her to everything but the pain.

Ache.

Sorrow.

Bitterness.

Anger.

The sky fell on her and she was crushed into the ground. Her battered plates curved under the shock, biting into her sore skin.

<Don't strike her!> she heard the woman yell in alarm. <She'll feed on it!>

More lightning struck the ground all around her, sending static shockwaves through her body, shattering her bones and befuddled brains.

<I won't need to strike her to take her down!>, the old man's voice boomed, and the world resonated with his Godly voice.

She wanted to cry. To plead. To curse. But her own voice was drowned into the maddening chaos. Howling winds lashed at her face and bare arms, tearing her clothes and armor away, lacerating her flesh, blinding her. She burnt.

The woman's shaft hit her square on the spine and she arched back, breathless. Another blow hit her in the face turned her over. Her enemy's besandalled foot came down, crushing her throat. She groped at the leather straps and naked calf with feeble fingers. Her vision dimmed.

The old man's face loomed over her, larger that the universe.

<Do it now>, his quiet voice commanded.

It was dark. She could not see. Could not speak. Yet she could feel. The world outside. Their presence. Their subdued, concerned talk. And they could hear her. Listen to her silent cry. Feel her pain. Her anguish. Her sorrow. She knew.

She hated them for that.

She howled in the void. Something had been taken from her. Something close. Intimate. Something dear. They had taken it/ him/ her away from her.

She cursed them for that.

She strove. Squirmed. Struggled. Darkness clung at her. Enveloped her. Drowned her like the sticky, liquid milk of the night. Licked at her naked mind. Leeched her strength. Her identity. Her very soul.

She swore revenge on them for that.

The world receded. Then it was only the dark. The cold. The Loneliness

Forever.

She would destroy them for that.

*

'... what...?'

'... it again or we'll lose her...'

Shock and stinging heat.

Sparkling light.

Blurry faces.

'Not that strong, you idiot! You'll unscrew her head!'

'Sorry...'

Susan blinked and raised ginger fingers to her throbbing cheek. The faces above her slowly came into focus and she stared uncomprehendingly at her equally bemused colleagues. Her cheek stung like a swarm of mad bees where Tony had slapped her. She raised her head. The world swayed around her.

'Easy does it, Suze', a girl's voice cautioned. Jeany. She slipped her hand behind her neck and help her sit up. Susan blinked again. Everybody looked so tall...

'Okay, stand aside, people. Give the girl some room to breathe, will you?'

The staff moved back. Susan brought her stockinged feet under her and hugged her knees uncertainly. Tony was till staring at her. She felt her cheek grow red.

'Got caught under the rain without an umbrella once again, didn't you?', Jeanie chided gently as she noticed the moist smear left by her friend's stockings on the floor and the wet shoes discarded unde her desk.

'What happened...?', Susan asked, hanging on to Jeanie as she stood up on wobbly legs and sank into her office swivel chair.

'Well, good question, m'girl!', Jeanie chimed. 'One moment you were having a nice friendly chat with one of our oh-so-beloved callers and next you were thrashing and moaning on the floor like some whirling dervish gone amok. Talk about a fright...'

'Can't remember...', Susan muttered.

'Bet you can't, honey. That's what you get for daring death, if you want my opinion', she said, slapping her wet leg to better drive the point home.

Susan shuddered. She had felt so cold inside. And yet now she was burning. She looked up at her friend. Her mouth was moving but somehow the words were getting lost. She shuddered again. So cold. Yet so hot. Like fire. Burning deep inside. Creeping up.

'I need to go...', she stammered and stood up abruptly, nearly knocking Jeanie over as she rushed blindly towards the lavatories.

'Oh dear...', Jeanie sighed.

Susan sat huddled on the toilet seat, hugging her legs, sweaty brow pressed hard against her knees. Shivering. She was burning like hell yet that feeling of darkness and cold kept clinging at her, smearing every thought. She buried her face further into her knees and moaned softly. She had never felt like that before. Nor did she think one might. Unless you were a very ill person. Which she prayed she wasn't.

She gasped in shock. Her head came painfully upright, eyes staring blindly at the furnace devouring her from inside, welling up like lava in a wakening volcano. Her clothes felt like they were going to catch fire and she started to slip them off, awkwardly at first then with mounting frenzy until she was tearing at every single bit of cloth in a panic. She ripped buttons of her white blouse and dented her stockings beyond use as she struggled out of them. Her bra she broke open and flung aside. Her panties felt like they were peeling her skin away when she slid out of them. Finally she was naked on the toilet seat and still burning, her ruined clothes lying all around her on the blue tile floor. She hugged herself ever tighter, trying to squeeze the pain away, seeking shelter in the deep of herself, shutting herself to the world. The flight only made it worse. Suddenly shadow was surging and threatening to swallow her whole. She scrambled madly like a drowning woman beating at the rising water and desperately trying to stay afloat. She threw her head up, eyes wide open and blind, as the world around her burst into a conflagration, consuming her body and soul.

Then the pain was gone.

Susan looked at herself as if through the water of dreams. Her skin had become translucent and was alive with swift, tiny currents of sparkling energy. Patches of colours, some she would have been hard put to tag a name on, oozed up, spread then melt away into different shades all over her body in an erratic dance from which she still felt, rather than apprehended, some inner order. She pressed a cautious fingertip into her arm. Energy welled up, coiling itself around her finger, ephemereal colours staining the skin in a similar pattern as that covering her limb. She jolted free. The fiery stream clang on for a second, then let go and fell back to be swallowed by her skin. She looked at the palm of her hand. It seemed she could almost see a phantom reflexion of herself in it, no longer a human being, but a living maze of conflicting attractions, the essence of which was herself. Chaos and order, chasing one another, forced to cohabit in a paradoxical whole. Some small parody of Heaven and Earth, tugging ceaselessly at each other, drawing sense and purpose from each other's presence, yet forever opposed and separate.

'Suzie, you alright?'

Susan started. The vision disappeared, leaving the slightest of impression in her bemused mind. She let out a quivering breath.

'Susan...?'

'Yeah', she answered softly, afraid she might draw attention to herself. As if burning alive and setting the world on fire in a toilet cubicle was ever likely to disturb office life. 'I'm okay', she half-lied.

'Do you want me to fetch you something?', Jeany offered, obviously trying to elicit some information.

'No thanks. Just the end of the month, you know... Typical of me...'

'Oh...! That... well, yeah, sometimes I ache like bitch, too. Nothing to worryabout, though...' Relief flooded her voice.'Want me to get you a tampon or something, honey?'

'No thanks, Jeaney.' Susan smiled guiltily, ashamed at the lameness of her subterfuge. But then, what else could she say? Thanks, Jeaney. To be honest with you, I'm sitting butt-naked on the loo, feeling like my humanity is going down the drain and I'm turning into some kind of mutant freak or something but thanks for caring anyway.

'I think I'll take sick leave and go straight home', she said.

'Right, honey. You do that. I've brought you your shoes. And don't worry about Max, I'll see that with him.'

Susan smiled fondly. That kind of tone was notorious among the whole staff. The kind that said : "Don't mess with me right now. I've got more pressing matters on my mind."

'Thanks, Jeany. Don't know what I'd do without you'. Which indeed she did not.

'Nawww. You'd just forever sprawling on the floor, battling with invisible enemies and crying out insults in gibberish. Not the end of the world.'

'Thanks, Jean'. Her heart sank at the thought, despite her friend's good humour.

'No sweat, honey. Take care. You'll be back in no time'.

'Yeah, I will...', she whispered half to herself as the door to the lavatory closed shut. 'Just a good night's rest and...'

Somehow she could not even pretend she believed in her own words.

*

Susan lay the mug aside and licked off the fine smear of chocolate that had stained her upper lip. She sighed contentedly. A long, hot bath after one sultry hour in the underground and another walk under the rain had washed out the day's tension as well as every last remaining ounce of strength and she had just found enough will to don a light cotton camisole and panties before diving into bed with a hastily prepared mug of hot cocoa and a bunch of comics.

Kiddies' Comfort. How apt, she thought fondly, still tasting the slightly bitter flavour that coated her palate. The old gaudy covers were scattered all around her over the bed, each of them bringing up a memory of a not-so-distant, not-so-unhappy childhood.

Chocolate and comics. That had been Mrs Sorensen's magic receipe against kid's gloom. At least in her case. In fact, she could not remember the same combination being applied to any other kid at the orphanage suffering from teenage angst. Hot chocolate there had been, and plenty of it at that, but as for the old magazines.... There had been tiny dolls, sweets, stickers, balls, whatever the matronly woman could find in her seemingly depthless black bag. But she had never got any of them. Nor could she remember wanting any of the stuff the kids liked. Only the comics. She had shared them all right (Mrs Sorensen would have frowned on her disapprovingly otherwise), but none of her fellow-residents had ever displayed more than a passing interest in them. So she had been free to hoard them for herself like a sacred treasure, something intimate in a privacy-less environment.

She reached out for a cover and drew out issue n° 321. Out Of The Ashes. One of her favourites. Where the amazed world found that Britannicus had travelled to the Nether Realms of the Dead and survived. A hero reborn, back to save his city from impending destruction. The paper was crumpled and stained on the edge where her eager fingers had pressed as she turned each flimsy page over and back again, drinking in the daring colours and hyperbolic dialogues.

Susan's Comfort.

She remembered in every vivid details the day she had got her first issue. June 21, 1993. All the kids had been outside playing in the yard. There was excitement all over the place and the staff barely succeeded in channelling the excess of energy as the institution prepared for its annual Solstice Celebration. An occasion for all to welcome the coming Summer and look forward to something good. Light, warmth, theend of school, a trip to Blackpool, that kind of things. For all except herself. For some reason, the day was no cause for celebration.On the contrary, she would wake up tired and downcast, brooding the day away well apart from the other children who, sensing her uncanny (and unwelcome) mood, shied away from her until bedtime.

She had been ten then, and Mrs Sorensen had found her sitting on her own in the deserted refectory, looking absent-mindedly at the bright blue sky outside the open windows. Next she had found herself in the old lady's appartments, sitting at a kitchen table and nursing a hot mug of cocoa. Mrs Sorensen had barely spoken to her, nor even tried to offer a cuddle or anything the like. She had just left the room for a few minutes, during which Susan had heard strange rummaging sounds, before reappearing just the same and slipping the old magazine in front of her bemused eye.

Her first ever Britannicus issue.

THE first ever issue. Though she would discover that only years later, when spending her first salaries on completing her collection. The priceless cover now lay safely under glass and away from the light on a small wooden altar of its own between two full shelves of meticulously sorted out covers and under a framed, signed picture of herself and the author, Gerald S. Summervale, taken at the very last convention he had attended. The elderly man beamed benignly as he hugged a rosy-cheeked Susan. She would never forget the look of amazement in his eyes when spotting this young woman fighting her way among a crowd of forty-year-olds and slipping an original n°1 issue right under his nose for signing. Even more amazed at her ignorance of the price of the item she now held out to him. Definitely seduced by her ingenuous enthusiasm. Weeks later, she had received the picture with the great man's autograph, as well as a signed copy of issue 100, Return Of The King, the one she thought she'd never get hold of, with its gold and silver cover showing Britannicus brandishing the fabled Excalibur. How she had cried on that day! And how she had cried almost one year later to the day, when reading of Gerald's death at his London home, at the noble age of 90.

This was the present Mrs Sorensen had given the disturbed girl on that Summer day. Not just a short-lived consolation. Rather a shelter from rainy days and a teasure chest of happy memories. Something she kept close to her heart, together with her parents' blind memory, just as her prized n°1 issue now lay side by side with her birth token: a simple yet oh-so-precious Britannia coin. What was it Mrs Sorensenhad said to her as she opened the magazine with ginger hands..? Oh, yeah... 'You'll never walk alone.'
How apt. And insightful. But then, this was Mrs Sorensen.

And this was Liverpool...!

The City was far now as she tossed and turned in her bed, with the soaking wet sheets sticking to her feverish skin and equally wet underwear. It was dark and hot everywhere, yet at the same time she shivered with unholy cold. She could barely breathe, less for the lack of air than the sheer anxiety of confinement. And always this harrowing, tearing sensation of being still alive after your heart has been ripped out of your chest. She cried out relentlessly but no sound would come out to break the silence that entombed her and her mind reeled under the rippling echo of her own restless, captive thoughts. Like a vicious, unescapable, maddening laughter riling her for eternity.

She was running blindly, the ground sucking at her bare feet and threatening to engulf her should she stop for the tiniest of moments. Cold sweat covered her naked skin like a clammy, invisible coat. Then she bumped into something... Someone... A broad, armored chest. Winter grey eyes that have seen so much for so long yet defy rest. Dark curled locks framing a powerful, boldly painted face. She snuggled into the familiar red, white and blue embrace, seeking protection, strangled sobs of relief swelling her throat.

Britannicus lay her on the simple couch, his hands soft and confident on her trembling body, his lips soft as ever on her lips, his breath warm and spicy from the crude wine of travels. She crossed and clasped her hands above her head, arching up, giving herself up to his knowing caresses as so often before, welcoming him in with a girlish moan. His hands around her wrists then clasping her fingers as she slid languidly into sensual oblivion, his breath in her ear.

'You'll never walk alone'.

Silence.

Then the pain again. The tearing out. Leathery snakes coiling around her wrists and arms in a vicious grip, slithering down her spine and belly, clutching her thin waist in a suffocating embrace. The blonde woman looked down at her with lusty contempt, drinking in her naked bewilderment. The blonde strands brushed against her face as she struggled, mocking her, and her mouth filled with her enemy's violating tongue while determined fingers invaded her. She tossed on waves of pleasure and repulsion as the woman played with the tides of her body, her breath in her ear.

Who do you trust?

One single cry. Of unadulterated sorrow.

Weariness.

Anger.

Susan woke up in a sweat, chest heaving frantically, her skin burning like fire from hell. She did not notice the crumpled sheets and the collapsed bed as once again she struggled madly out of her underwear, tearing at the fragile cloth with blind desperation. She fell on her side ina flurry of kicks and jabs, clutching her ruined panties in an iron grip before she threw them away. Then she scrambled out of the chaos of her bed and towards the nearest corner of the room like a panicked beetle on slippery ground and sat there, hugging her knees, eyes tightly shut, softly chanting the burning and fear away.

Dawn was just breaking when she raised her tear-streaked face again. Exhaustion had finally burnt out every other sensation and she gazed around with numbed detachment, taking in the mess of her bedding, the scattered comics, the red and orange light slowly streaming out of the corner of the half-open window.

Madness.

And yet she knew who she was - or did she...? But she was till Susan, the cute yet hopelessly shy and awkward office girl, and something was happening to her that she knew was no illness or figment of a girlish imagination. This she felt. This she knew.

Once more she looked down at her body, the naked skin pale, almost translucent in some places against the receding shadows of the night. No effect of light, that. She focused on a spot of her arm where the skin colour seemed to be shifting in a liquid haze. Observed infascination. Willed it to stop and come back to normal. Which it did with a tiny tingling sensation. She breathed deeply and focused again. The spot shifted again and spread around under her commanding gaze, acquiring a milky shade. She shuddered and concentrated. The fleshy tones came back. Soft pink. Then redder as under an impulse she pushed the limits. Then red, going crimson red. Half her arm was coated in red now and she watched in childish delight as the patch wobbled under her eyes, shrinking here, spreading there to her desire.

Fiery light was pouring out of the window and bathing her feet and legs. The spreading warmth filled her with unalloyed joy and she revelled in the dawning day that turned dark cold into crisp morning air. She shivered deliciously and stirred, holding her arms and hands in front of her, listening to then singing the song of her body. Red, white and blue streamed across her limbs in harmonious combinations, they danced their way through and all over her, covering her in a soft, new skin. The colour patterns slowly shifted into place and for the first time in her life she felt whole.

Safe.

Strong.

Britannica.

Susan stood up silently and padded to the window, which she opened wide. The street below was still deserted. Cool wind teased her prickling skin which rippled in sympathy with under-currents of light energy. She breathed the world in, let out a sigh that was both relief and apprehension. But the pain was gone.

Outside, the sky was steadily bleeding the night and she could sense azur just a breath away. That was all it would take. No more than a blind wish, and total surrender. A leap of faith then you're no longer part of this world that saw you born once already. And still you've never felt closer to it. Fitted so well in it.

Wind in your hair, cold does not affect you anymore..

The sky 'has' no limit...

****

© Nathan Dayspring/ Tish Summers, 2004/05
© Tish Summers, 2004/05