50. Julian
Julian
The perimeter was secured, the remaining hostiles neutralised or scattered into the surrounding city ruins, but the war raging inside my own head was out of control.
I should have stayed at the barracks annex. I should have been debriefing command or washing the crust of dried blood off my skin. Instead, I was going to see Sage.
Even with the smoke still hanging in the chilly air and the adrenaline of the slaughter still burning in my veins, she was undeniably all I could think about.
The phantom weight of her mouth against mine, the terrifyingly familiar burning in her eyes as she looked at me, the feel of her curves under my hands.
Since my first encounter with sage, sometimes, in the quiet, torturous hours of the night, I genuinely thought I had finally driven myself mad.
I wondered if the century of grief had finally broken me, and my fractured mind had simply hallucinated her out of the dust and the shadows just to give me a reason to keep going.
But the blood on my vest was real. And the lingering taste of her on my lips was real.
I pulled open the heavy iron-studded doors leading down into the subterranean vault beneath the plaza and stepped inside.
The overcrowded cellar had been transformed into a dim, sprawling triage centre.
The harsh emergency floodlights had been turned off, replaced by the soft, amber glow of lanterns resting against the ancient stone foundations.
Most of the civilians had finally succumbed to exhaustion and were asleep on makeshift beds spread across the concrete floor.
In the far corners, nurses and medics moved quietly between the cots of those still receiving treatment for their injuries, their hushed voices voices barely carrying over the sound of a hundred people breathing.
A few soldiers from my battalion were stationed at the stone archways, keeping a heavily armed watch.
“Jules?”
I stopped as a soldier stepped out from the shadow of a massive stone pillar. It was Jace, a kid from the second platoon. He lowered his rifle slightly, looking confused as he took in my blood-soaked tactical gear and the unwavering manic intensity I knew was radiating off me.
“What are you doing here, man?” Jace whispered, glancing at the roster clipped to his vest. “Command didn’t put you on vault guard rotation tonight. You’re supposed to be standing down.”
“I’m not here for guard duty,” I replied. I kept my face blank, though my heart was hammering an anxiety induced pulse. “I’m just here to see someone I know.”
Jace’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh. Right. Okay. Who are you looking for?”
“Her name is Sage.”
“Talk to Martha. The older lady with the grey bun over by the far crypt entrance. She’s keeping the list of the evacuees.”
I bypassed him without another word, my heavy boots making barely a scraping sound on the stone floor. I found the older woman precisely where he said she would be, organising a stack of blankets.
When I asked for Sage, Martha took one look at my appearance and gasped, but the desperate, human pleading in my eyes must have overridden her fear. She picked up a lantern and motioned for me to follow her.
I trailed behind her through the labyrinth of sleeping people, my chest tightening with every step. We wove through rows of cots and blankets spread directly on the cold floor, until we reached a secluded, quiet corner near the old foundations.
Martha stopped, gesturing with a soft nod towards the recess before turning and giving me some privacy.
I stammered.
She was tucked into the very corner of the stone walls, curled on her side on a thin mattress. She had pulled the scratchy wool blanket all the way up to her chin, her dark, heavy waves spilling in a chaotic halo across the makeshift pillow.
I slowly sank to my knees beside her, ignoring the unyielding ache in my soul and body.. Up close, the stress of the night was visible in the faint, exhausted bags under her eyes, but to me, she had never looked more beautiful.
I had spent decades crying over her grave, convinced I would never see her face again. And yet, here she was. Breathing. Living.
She looked exactly like an angel while she slept. She was so perfect. God I missed her so much.
My angel. Back from the dead, finally.
The stone floor was freezing, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Moving with a slow, deliberate caution that defied my massive frame, I lowered myself onto the narrow edge of the makeshift bed.
I didn’t dare slide under the blanket with her.
My tactical gear was still stiff with the dried blood of the men I had slaughtered, and I refused to let the physical evidence of my monstrous nature taint her.
Instead, I laid down on top of the covers, carefully shifting my weight until I was pressed flush against her back.
I held my breath, waiting for her to stir, waiting for her to wake up and scream. Would she freak out if she opened her eyes right now? If she woke up in a dim, crowded cellar to find the terrifying, blood-soaked soldier she barely knew wrapping his arms around her in the dark?
My mind was a racing, chaotic mess of anxiety and guilt. But the second my chest made contact with her back, the frantic noise in my head went dead silent, overridden by one impossible truth.
June is back. I am holding her, and she is alive.
I carefully slid my arm over her waist, resting my hand lightly against her stomach.
Her body was so small, so fragile compared to the immortal, deadly machine Cain had turned me into.
I buried my face in the heavy waves of her hair, inhaling the faint, intoxicating scent of her that I’ve missed so much.
Even if the universe was playing a cruel, twisted game with my sanity—even if some sick twist of fate tore her out of my arms again tomorrow—I would always have this. I would always have the memory of holding her in the dark, even if she never remembered it, because she was asleep.
The knot of torment that had lived in my chest for what felt like eternity slowly began to loosen.
As I lay there, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing, a profound stillness washed over me.
It was the most peace I had felt since the night she died all those years ago.
It was the most alive I had felt since I watched the light permanently leave her at the hands of my twin brother.
Cain.
Just the thought of his name was a spark hitting a powder keg. The dark, alchemical venom in my blood flared to life. The memory of the silver blade, the blood on the forest floor, and the cold lack of pity in Cain’s eyes and heart, triggered a feral protectiveness inside me.
Operating on instinct, my arm tightened around her waist. I pulled Sage back, dragging her firmly and securely against my chest until there wasn’t a millimetre of space between us. She let out a soft, sleepy sigh, her body unconsciously relaxing into my rigid frame.
I will never let him hurt you again, I vowed silently into the dark, pressing my lips to the crown of her head.
I will never let anyone hurt you again. For as long as her reincarnated soul would allow it, I would stay right by her side.
I would be her shadow, her shield, and her ruin, if she’d let me.
I hadn’t slept in days. In truth, I rarely slept at all anymore, and the nightmares when I did made it a luxury I couldn’t afford.
But here, anchored to the earth by the steady beat of her living heart, the adrenaline finally crashed.
The monumental weight of the night—and the last hundred years—finally hit me.
My eyes grew impossibly heavy. Listening to her small, even breaths, the freezing stone vault and the smell of war began to fade away. I slipped under the surface, falling into a deep, heavy sleep.
And for the first time since she left me, the darkness didn’t bring nightmares of blood. It pulled me backwards, down into a vivid, heartbreaking dream. A memory from a long, long time ago, back when the world was quiet and my hands were clean.
The freezing stone of the vault floor dissolved, melting away into the impossible, sun-soaked warmth of a late summer afternoon.
The heavy stench of smoke and gunpowder was instantly replaced by the intoxicating, sweet fragrance of blooming roses and freshly cut grass. I wasn’t wearing my bloody uniform anymore. My chest felt light, unburdened by the crushing weight of my life for the first time.
I was sitting on a wrought-iron bench in the sprawling, manicured gardens of the Manor, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of the ancient willow trees. And there she was, right in front of me.
June.
She was sitting in the grass just a few feet away, her back to me as she focused intently on the large canvas propped up on her easel.
She wore a simple, light-coloured dress that caught the summer breeze, her dark, heavy waves pinned up loosely at the nape of her neck, though a few stray curls had escaped to frame her face.
She was painting the rose bushes, but I wasn’t looking at the canvas. I hadn’t looked at the canvas once in the last hour.
“You’re staring again, Julian,” she said, her voice a bright, angelic sound that made my chest physically ache with how much I loved her.
“I’m admiring the view,” I replied, leaning back and resting my arm along the back of the bench.
“You are ignoring my masterpiece,” she teased, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her ocean-blue eyes were sparkling, bright and free of the shadows that haunted the modern world. There was a smudge of oil paint on her cheek, right along the delicate curve of her cheekbone.
“The roses pale in comparison to you, the real masterpiece,” I said, my voice dropping lower, thick with an adoration I only ever showed her.
June laughed—a soul snatching sound that I had spent years desperately trying not to forget. She set her palette down beside her and stood up, turning to face me fully. She held a thin paintbrush in her right hand, the bristles coated in a deep, forest green.