Earth spun so quickly, the remaining people of mankind barely noticed centuries pass. This life sustaining planet had fallen quiet as the years dissolved. All unnatural humming ceased, the cloudy billows of burning fuels dissipated, and the chatter of airwaves were silenced. Tiny patters of rain hit the eardrums of intelligent life and struck the chords of nature’s heartstrings, but rarely spoken were the words of a dead civilization. The growth and death of a being or creature was entirely calculated and fore-destined, no longer thought of as a serendipitous event or under the stern management of an omnipotent being.
The dust of war had settled over the land, and the bitter memories of the final days had been almost long forgotten by all persons remaining. The sun lovingly rose upon this Earth each day, and a stable ecosystem had flourished in its abundant warmth. Earth, in its emptiness, had finally attained peace and solace.
When words were needed, they were spoken shortly and only with purpose. If a human saw another and had nothing to share, the two beings would ignore each other or, if they were within an uncomfortably close range, a simple nod would suffice as a greeting. This was the way of the next generation, the next evolution of humanity. It was well intuited and preferred by all. Eradicated were the hierarchy of needs, of actualization, of esteem and belonging.
Between metal behemoths spilled the long ago paved roads of the previous civilization. Roads that had once cracked underneath the pressure of trucks and cars, now reclined in senescence, gathering potholes like age spots, never to be filled. Ravenous, yet beautiful weeds and wildflowers consumed rusty, abandoned vehicles. Brightly colored patches of overgrowth carried away the man-made inventions into the nearby sea’s coast. Each passing decade saw moss and vine wrap the past in an ever shifting embrace which pushed item deeper into the soil, burying new artifacts into the earth. Proof of humanity was swallowed by its home, its source of life.
Cool, clear, and silent was the last morning of Maeve’s peaceful existence. Her feet dangled above an empty metropolis, almost twenty-two stories above ground on the balcony of a spacious penthouse suite, unceremoniously abandoned years ago. On her walls hung salvaged jewelry that Maeve was not quite sure where else to place. When the sun rose in the morning, tiny specks of light reflected off the jewels and danced around the room. Each color gem meant a new memory, another place she had been when she found or received it.
She kicked her feet a bit, watching the stillness below. The serpents of thought twisted and tangled in her mind, laying eggs along her amygdala. At this height, the sound of wind made a sort of white noise to fill spaces in her head. It was a sound that haunted the empty cities, the barren hillsides, the still waters of seas and rivers. She looked down as she grasped an ornate emerald-encrusted comb. Between thinking of the word that plagued her fragile mind and the relentless wind that tunneled through the cityscape, the hair comb she had treasured for so many centuries slipped between her fingers and plummeted to the forest floor, which she faintly remembered calling Fifth Avenue.
At last, this high-rise wasteland was the ruin of the Devil’s hand, Maeve barely coherently babbled to her mind, pulling the phrase from the deepest recesses, as if she had memorized the line to remind herself in this present, her past’s future. All thoughts she kept to herself assembled into haunting poetry, as if a word’s meaning would be validated in the rhythm of a verse. She believed if she spoke to herself eloquently enough, the words would come to be truths, and her will would materialize. She had no proof to suspect this would happen, but it was a sentiment she treasured like the useless spoils on her home’s walls.
She looked down to see if she could spot a glimmer of emerald, but it was not visible within the moss-ridden ground. Instead of going after it, she set her chin on the rusted metal railing of the small patio. Thinking about this trivial event was far more satisfying than the alternative pressing issue. Maeve could feel these thoughts return, her heart felt as though it seized, and the quake of a panic attack was upon her. She grabbed her fur satchel, searching for her collected brimwood stalks to chew on, but the emptiness of her bag revealed to her that she had used the last bit. At last, at last, at last, she thought.
Now there were two impending reasons for her to leave her home. Despite the fact that she was burdened with worry, apathy still reigned supreme. Emeralds and brimwood, the only two things Maeve ever needed to cling to sanity, were in the gardens below the sky rise that she called home. She admitted to herself that she needed this comforting feeling of closeness that brimwood provided for her. It was a narcotic she could trust, a way to find her apathy once again and pass the time worry-free.
She grimaced at the quickened speed of the sun rising and setting. Days feel like hours. Eternity and forever are two weeks away. The end of time is scheduled for next month, she whispered to herself.
She also whispered his name. For the past two-hundred years, Maeve had not spoken. When it was an especially beautiful morning, when the wolves would howl and the creek would babble to no one, she might hum to herself, but it was the only movement her vocal chords had known for so long. His name delighted her with anticipation, a bitter reminder of something that had happened that she could not yet explain. His name was two sickly syllables that made her lips curl and tongue flip at its utterance. This word, this name, was her private obsession and she welcomed the thought of him to ruin her once stable and clear mind.
His face burned into her thoughts with the intrusiveness of a flash bulb, and if at any moment she did not preoccupy herself with other trivial memories, his face would appear. There was a possibility that his name was the only intelligible word she could utter. The name and memories equally thrilled and annoyed her, their affect changing with her mood.
She slipped between the bars of the penthouse balcony rails that were almost rusted to oblivion, and grabbed hold of the iron from behind her. Maeve willed the soft breeze away, preventing her heavily beaded dress from folding in the wind. She hung there for a few moments, praying she would not do anything foolish, but perhaps proving her own preservation was pointless. Her light grip on the rails loosened still, and she fell to the ground, stomach and face first. Every second passed was three floors gone into the sky. Maeve did not prefer the feeling of falling, whether it was out of trees or into love. It was not fear that kept her from such things. It is retrospective shame most likely, she told herself.
She woke from a temporary unconsciousness on the soft, organic carpet of earth, her body having healed itself of the damage while she was unconscious. Her bones had made quick work of repairing, the pieces of her skull forming together to become one, and her joints rejoined in their right place. She shakily raised her left hand, and summoned the missing comb she had come for with the telekinetic power she had always known. Gingerly, the girl picked herself up from the forest floor to inspect the skies. Between two high rises she walked softly, their foundations overrun with vegetation. Frothy moss and bubbling mushrooms had crept down the street after the course of years as if they were reaching some manmade destination. Animals had reclaimed this territory as their own since they were no longer disturbed by mortal means, unburdened by any destructive development.
Maeve collected a few stalks of brimwood from her tiny garden, placing most in her satchel, stopping only to chew on one. The release of concern drained her mind as the bitter taste hit her tongue. She closed her eyes, feeling a bit dizzy from the experience. His nagging, parasitic name was stuffed into the back pockets of her mind once again. She lay down in a moss bed she had fashioned for herself after creating the brimwood garden, which contoured her body and cradled her head. It was entirely necessary to relax after ingesting the strange root, even if only for a few moments. She knew her mind would easily be consumed by the curious effects, and often if she did not steady herself, her knees would buckle and bring her to the ground. In her sights were the tops of trees, steadily swaying and quivering with the rhythmic movement of the Earth.
Maeve was also careful to keep extra seeds of the plant in case some sort of forest beast would eat her entire crop. It was unlikely, but Maeve did her best to prepare for the worst. She knew that it would be more than possible to survive without brimwood, but the thought of the friendly habit absent from her existence unsettled her beyond words. It quelled the thoughts that seemed so out of place on earth. When she felt her heart seize, or everything was beautiful without purpose, or Atlas’s name rang loudly in her head, the brimwood calmed her completely. And with just a taste of the root, she felt apathetic once again.
The ignorance and the silence would end that day, just as Maeve laid her eyes to rest. She was still awake when she felt the buzzing of someone’s mind in the forest. Maeve did not look around to see who it was. So many years of flinching at every snap or pop in the forest, in hopes that she would see the man she had grown to know and care for had yielded nothing but disappointment. Now the sounds angered her, as if the forest’s signs of intrusion were working against her. It was almost as if the timbered grove was attempting to drive her mad, and the only way she knew to escape that was to maintain indifference.
Someone stirred in the forest, barely audible although it was not necessary to hear. Maeve could feel the presence of a woman approaching slowly. It was a non-threatening presence, a soft step that made the vines crawl slowly. Maeve’s ears twitched, and for a moment, she hoped that Atlas had returned to her. Perhaps the brimwood is to blame, she pondered briefly. Maeve was not particularly pleased to know that she had a visitor at all. It was likely that decades had gone by without her seeing a soul and Maeve did not mind this fact.
“Reveal yourself,” Maeve spoke clearly, hiding all passion or annoyance that was in her mind.
From beyond the clearing in the forest came a woman with whom Maeve was familiar. Nadine, the only being to frequent Maeve’s garden on a semi-regular basis, appeared alone. Her face was painted with beauty and elegance, a visage of some far away land. She slowly walked across the moss floor in bare feet to Maeve’s side. Nadine’s voice had the languid poise of royalty, much like her human counterparts.
“Maeve,” Nadine said, not daring to come any closer to the girl, “be unalarmed by my approach. There is a matter I must discuss with you.”
“Come forth,” Maeve spoke lazily. Hiding her enthusiasm for any sort of news was difficult. Brimwood made her eye lids droop, her words slow, and her mind soften. Without hesitation, Nadine began with a rather urgent sounding question that immediately filled Maeve with worry.
“Have you sensed anything odd in the past few days?”
Maeve opened her mouth to speak but was cut off abruptly by the feeling of a metaphorical worm that searched her thoughts. When a psychic force invaded the brain, it felt as though a slug crept into it, scouring tissue for information. Maeve knew the feeling, as Atlas had honed his skills on her. Deceiving Nadine would be nearly impossible now that she had quickly scanned Maeve’s initial reaction to the statement.
“The days pass so quickly. I know not what to think of them.”
“Do not ignore the question. I know exactly what you feel and of whom you think. The others, myself included, have known a long time that you and Atlas spent the better part of a century together. All I want to know is what you have felt since then and if you feel anything now,” Nadine accused. Nadine’s eyes were also drooped with apathy, much like Maeve’s, but it was much more contained and dispassionate. She did not really know what to tell Nadine, or if anything at all needed to be said.
“I feel things that cannot be described. It hangs on my head like a great weight. If there was something I could describe, it would be dread.”
“Dread?” Nadine murmured, recognizing the unfamiliar word but unable to recall what it meant. Maeve sat up and lifted herself in the air. Maeve came within inches of Nadine, as if to speak in private where the forest may not hear her.
“I do not understand what transpired all that time ago, but I feel as though everyone may think it was wrong. I do not know where Atlas went, but I can only assume he felt the same way,” Maeve whispered audibly. “Perhaps his disappearance was a result of our… happenstance.”
“His disappearance is no longer an issue. We know where he went and he requests your audience,” Nadine stated, ignoring Maeve’s long withheld confession. Maeve’s eyes narrowed.
“After all this time? It has been so long. Why would he want to speak with me?”
Maeve’s composed façade was quickly dissolving under the stress of such news. She believed that this odd occurrence of emotion involved her in some cosmic damnation. Her existence had been nothing but pleasant. Not overly pleasant or peaceful, but just enough to keep her desiring life. When she and Atlas met on some nameless, dusty road, she knew that the previous days of contentment would soon be over, making way for overt euphoria. Naturally, once life had become too beautiful, it would cease to be relished with change, Maeve thought.
“The timing and the nature of this conversation you will have with Atlas is irrelevant. This issue must be addressed immediately,” Nadine said, a crack in her poised voice lingering in the air with readable significance. A sign of weakness, Maeve noted. Nadine’s expression showed no signs of faltering, but there was an infinite darkness in the pupils of her eyes that Maeve thought stretched beyond their appearance.
Maeve swallowed painfully and her brimwood composure began to dissolve. Her eyes darted away from Nadine, moving from tree to tree, moss to stone, high-rise to sky.
“How do you know of this?” Maeve asked.
“It does not matter at this moment. It is important you go to him. Atlas resides in the mountain-top structure on the western shore in Albion. When you go, you will see the wrong that has happened. I do not possess the words that could accurately describe the scene.”
“Would you have me go alone? What sort of wrong has been done?” Maeve begged impatiently, no longer hiding her agitation.
Nadine turned her back and began to walk away, the pelt of a crimson fox staring at Maeve from upon Nadine’s back. It was a garment that most people used to identify Nadine, as she was just as astute as the creature she wore.
“I am regretful that I cannot explain things further,” Nadine spoke and stood as loftily as an apparition. Maeve’s heart fell within her chest and confusion befuddled her.
Nadine, a being who would normally guide Maeve’s troubled mind, was unusually cold and blunt. Maeve trusted her still, but this request was so abrupt and painfully strange. She knew of Maeve’s problem, even though she and Atlas had done their best to keep their emotions a secret. Perhaps Nadine and her faceless clan had spied upon Atlas and Maeve’s century-long union, and found it to be most unusual. Maeve hoped that Nadine would reveal this information after she spoke with Atlas, although the urgency of this meeting made Maeve think that perhaps Nadine would not know the details of the event. She did not waste energy resisting the pull of Nadine’s persuasion.
Maeve set herself into the moss patch within her brimwood garden and clutched her emerald comb tightly. She set it in her hair and closed her eyes. Her hands clutched the soft ground, as if she truly did not wish to go, but within moments, her settings changed from a sunny briar patch to the chill of limestone and sea wind around her. She had visited this place in Albion once, and its memory was the only thing that could transport her body to its rocky coast.
Maeve had heard tales of the ruins of this nameless castle on the western shore but the walls were intact, the gardens were kept, though the roads were in shambles. Perhaps this was the work of Atlas after several centuries of rebuilding and renewing, she wondered. Maeve stood shakily, taking in the breathtaking mountainside of Albion. The barren countryside rolled with the waves of the sea. Water crashed, seagulls screeched at each other, and the dead leaves rustled all around her ankles as the natural universe warned her to go back to where she had come from.
She pushed open the heavy oak door, leading into the open air center of the fortress. Each piece of decrepit furnishing was black, like the dull luster of coal. The shale chandelier bobbed with the change in air pressure from Maeve’s intrusion. She noticed ornate but empty chairs pressed against the walls. Black paintings in blacker frames hung crookedly on the grey walls, and Maeve wondered if perhaps these paintings were only dark because of the poor lighting in the fortress. She approached one slowly and saw that there was an image within the dark painting, but it was impossible to discern in the gloom.
Perhaps Atlas did not keep company here. After forging such a bond with him, it often shocked her how little she desired to kindle a bond with someone else. Perhaps he felt the same way. And there was the possibility that other humans wanted nothing to do with either of them. Maeve did not consider herself or Atlas an outcast, as most everyone kept to themselves, but they were aware of how oddly placed they felt amongst the others.
Maeve’s mind raced as she paced slowly through the structure. After two hundred years apart, the sheer shock of this situation might disable me, she thought. Time had made certainty of his personage dissolve in her mind. She could remember an insatiable happiness, the softness of his skin, the ache in her chest from being without him. Now he was nothing more than an icy specter in the arctic tundra of her mind.
She passed windows that revealed crumbling verandas and she walked into a dark corridor, decorated by odd objects on the walls, similar to Maeve’s conjured jewels. Dusty and besmirched with filth hung the remnants of a civilization passed, artifacts of animal trophies and carefully articulated cartography. These relics meant nothing to her and she pressed on.
The floors, however, were untouched by filth or dust, yet the air was stagnant and moist. No one knew the origin of the fortress of Albion, but rumor had pervaded its mystery. It was still deteriorating, but the process was much slower than the disintegration of other structures that still stood thousands of years after they were built. Whether it was a livable space or a monument was another mystery. No one really cared to know the nameless castle’s origin. Not a single human cared to know anything about the structures of the past. Importance itself was deteriorating just as the ruins were.
Maeve could feel Atlas nearing with each step forward. She felt a certain amount of pain when she thought of him. Maeve weaved in and out of odd corridors, navigating only using her extra-perceptive senses. It was not his heartbeat that throbbed in her mind, but something about the rhythm of him was drawing her closer. The beacon beguiled her, until Atlas’s voice echoed, bouncing from stone to stone wall. Maeve was startled but just as she noticed these sounds, they were gone. Her mind told her to follow her feet, but his voice came from the opposite direction. She felt surrounded. It may have be a trick of the fortress’s acoustics, she reasoned. Perhaps it was built in a sinister way to carry sound from here to there.
Again she heard his sad, untrained voice. Maeve could not tell if he was singing words or nonsense, a low hummed tune or moaning. It was an unholy sound that puzzled Maeve.
Behind his rueful voice came the sound of crawling, either by insect, creature, or spirit. Maeve shied away from the walls of the damp structure. She was not afraid, but yet she felt disgust intensely. Behind Atlas’s voice was a faint smell that amplified as Maeve continued. Although it was a putrid, vile stench, Maeve pressed on, the walls and shadows crawling with her.
Beneath double doors twice Maeve’s height, and laden with gold leaf in the design of unimaginable craft that was reminiscent of some romantic era of the past, came the flickering of lights. Maeve set her hand on the frame, preparing herself for the unknown reception she would receive. She entered the room without any shred of courage, forcing her feet to move beneath her.
The room was once a dance hall, most likely 18th century in origin, and it was only decorated with the sound of Atlas’s voice. Two-story windows lined half of the ballroom, revealing the entirety of Albion’s western shore. A few windows were broken, and a sea draft entered in a whisper. Crimson decorative paper peeled away from the walls and glittered with gold embellishments as it slowly spiraled to the floor; over the harsh years it struggled to remain as it was. Maeve now heard Atlas’s words, but they were indecipherable garble. The smell of the room was unbearable and it drew her eyes to the floor.
A multitude of rotting, naked corpses littered the floor, terrified looks plastered on their faces, limbs tangled like a human rat’s nest. Maeve choked, holding her mouth, unable to look away. An opening in each torso was visible, a bloody mar that Maeve could not help but stare at. Near a window, lounging on a velvet couch was Atlas. He did not look at her but stopped singing when he felt her near. He lazily waved a single hand in the air, as if to continue conducting in his head the tune he had been humming. His gaze was fixated on the wall nearest him, falling away from the reality around him.
“Atlas,” Maeve choked, horrified by this sight. Atlas’s ears twitched. “What have you done?”
“Maeve, my dear.” he turned to her without standing. “I have missed you.” Dark circles ringed the perimeter of his eyes, his voice more pathetic than necessary, almost purposefully so. Maeve teleported to avoid passing the bodies by foot and she knelt at his side.
“What happened here?” She begged for an answer, releasing the calm demeanor she had prepared. “You must tell me!”
Atlas’s eyes narrowed and he wetted his lips.
“Burning love and fiery torment scorched the dry plains of my mind. This desolate place turned into an ashen valley, separating two kindred entities. At the crux of the hill of the valley sits Jupiter and speckled emerald chrysalises. Everything is bleeding into my eyes, which will soon be wrung out so you can see the hue of this disaster.” Atlas spoke with the nonsense of a neurotic breath. Bemused by the frightened look on Maeve’s face, he gestured for her to lean closer.
“There is no cause to be concerned. I have not seen you in so long,” he slurred lustfully. “Come here.” His arms extended to her, ever ready for her to fall into them.
“First explain to me the sight my eyes behold,” Maeve demanded. Atlas sat up only very slightly and grabbed her hand. She resisted the touch at first, but he persisted and she failed to repel his second attempt.
“You pull from me now but I recall our last interaction was spent with me trying to pry you off,” Atlas quietly laughed. That sound, Maeve froze, terrified of that jovial chortle she remembered so clearly. Her eyes were glossy and wide, studying Atlas face, as if to take it with her upon death. Atlas saw her near-tears expression and sobered his smile.
“I will explain, darling. This must be quite the gruesome scene for a girl, but… I promise this is the beginning of a new story, the creation of a world from the ashes of old. After this round of collection, there are a handful of surviving humans left on earth. We have all spread out so far from each other; it is difficult to know if there are more survivors. But rest assured, I will find them and absorb them.”
“Why, Atlas? Why have you done this?” she wept silently. His fingers moved to her neck, his eyes dreamily falling upon her.
“We all possess power that others cannot attain, a specialized skill set. We have been alive longer than anyone can remember. Some of them were pleased with the idea...”
“The idea?” she searched the bodies for some clearer answer that could not even begin to be found amongst the carcasses.
“Of death,” Atlas smiled. Maeve did not like being inches from him but she was intrigued.
“Death? Like an animal?”
“Yes, my darling.” Atlas held her hand softly then, instead of using the vice grip he had previously. “We are all capable of passing into nothingness. They tell me what they see as they die. And so, my eyes have seen the penultimate moments before life is snuffed out.”
“How can you kill them?” Maeve uttered frantically. The brimwood toxin had relinquished her mind faster than usual. Clarity, consciousness, and concern flooded her psyche once again, burdening her with the harsh truths of reality.
“It was necessary. We both do as we please now. Our consciences are not inhibited by apathy like our peers’. I have seen visions of the past, before the near extinction of higher beings. We can destroy and build as much as we desire.” Atlas kissed her cheek. “We are the ancestors and we are the next generation.”
“This feels wrong, everything about this is sinful,” Maeve begged, not really knowing the origin of the word “sinful.” It was lost in her memory, but it seemed appropriate somehow.
“It is a matter of being stronger. I collected their souls so I could utilize these powers better than they did. These people did not care.” Atlas gestured to the human rubble on the dance hall floor. Dried blood caked the marble, blending in with the decorative patterns, coagulating into a blasphemous mess.
A great silence befell the ballroom, and they were only perturbed by the gusts of sea wind protruding the glass of the window frames. New dark feelings filled Maeve’s heart and mind; every emotion was to be learned anew every day.
“Has Nadine seen this place? Is that why she sent me here?” Maeve accused.
“No, I requested your presence,” he started. “Despite the number of guests, I find something lacking about their company.”
Atlas inched closer to her, as if he wanted her to initiate physical contact, but she backed away.
“Why did you take their souls?”
“It is a skill you must learn, since we will be doing it together. In order to preserve this unusual trait, we must never ignore our whims. Certain things have happened to me, which allowed me to rob these ennui-ridden beings of their souls. They did not care as they crept into death. I heard the thoughts of these people as they died and trust me, none were aware that they were even alive to begin with.”
“I do not desire to kill, Atlas,” Maeve protested.
“Humanity is almost extinct,” Atlas smiled. It was a rare sight for anyone, only ever witnessed by Maeve. “We do nothing. No loss and no gain to our existence. But you and I are catalysts of creation. Why let the unproductive live?”
Maeve could tell he was trying to make sense but was falling flat. She shook her head, hair landing in her eyes.
“No... no. I cannot follow you through... this. I cannot understand.”
His chest pressed against hers, and as his being was attached to her, Maeve’s knees almost buckled. Her horror was trumped by the desire to hold him after the hundreds of years that had passed where she thought of nothing but him. He slipped his fingers through hers and placed a hand on her waist, spinning her around to dance. He hummed a lonely song as their steps gracefully weaved in between the bodies that lay on the floor. Maeve dared not look upon their frozen faces, so she stared instead into Atlas’s. He smiled sadistically and danced with her nearly limp body for hours before she collected herself. His eyes transfixed her for this last dance. And when he felt she had enough, he stopped. With her defeated head upon his shoulder, she gazed upon a bloody record of their movements in the footprints that followed them.
“Do you feel for these people? Do you feel any empathy for them at all? I see that you know this destruction I crave is wrong, but you have no idea as to why it is wrong. Your hesitation is the remnants of ancient ethics and customs that have been engrained in your subconscious. Laws that forebode murder and violence are no longer important to our miniscule society. No soul gives a damn about murder or survival. Don’t you see our immortality has made us bored with the only thing that matters... life?” Atlas paused. “You and I can change our lives enough to keep us interested in preservation.”
“Why should they die just because they cannot feel passion for their daily endeavors?” Maeve sobbed, just as Atlas ran his strong fingers through her auburn hair to comfort her heavy mind.
“My love, they are already dead in a way.”
It was now that Maeve compared the wide open, dead eyes of the fallen that carelessly lay in their coagulating pools of blood to the glossy-eyed living gods of earth, lounging in their haphazard gardens as moss and vine grew over their stationary bodies. Not a feeling was felt, not a thought pondered, not a finger lifted. Maeve was not wrong in this comparison but Atlas’s actions were too extreme to justify.
“All I have done is finalize their choices. With their will so indolent, I am more of a shepherd than a slaughterer. So be with me, and bring the rest of these failures of the flock to my door step. You are more than capable of persuasion; I know this better than anyone.”
“No, Atlas,” Maeve choked. “The smell… that omen alone tells me this is wrong. It is an odor that warns others away. A preventative, survivalist measure placed by nature… Can you not smell it?” She lifted a hand to her nose, trying to filter the air. Atlas looked unaffected.
“You do not know what you want. When everyone on this pitiful planet is dead and you crave love for me or... even the love of power, you may return.” He kissed her softly and Maeve closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she was no longer in the room but returned to her beautiful, sun-bathed home. The smell had instantly vanished, the dead bodies no longer at her feet, and Nadine stood before her. The familiar trees surrounded her, alive with chirping birds, the scuttle of small mammals, and the glitter and shine of winged insects. Pollen danced around the two women as they stood face to face, wordless for only a few moments. Maeve’s bottom lip quivered.
Nadine’s vapid expression was unreadable. Maeve looked up at her from the ground, unsure if it was acceptable to cry in her presence. She stopped her hands from shaking, willfully preventing herself from biting her lower lip, and rid her mind of all signs of weakness.
“Did you speak with Atlas?” Nadine spoke calmly. Maeve nodded her head sadly. “What has happened?”
Maeve looked into Nadine’s eyes, unraveling her tightly kept mind, allowing the woman to read her thoughts. Nadine obliged. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and focused on Maeve’s fresh memories. The long dark hallways were sped through, the crawling walls ignored, and Nadine stopped her scouring once she came to the scene in the ballroom. With Maeve’s mind vulnerable, Nadine looked upon the horrified faces of the victims, searching for familiars. Maeve and Atlas’s interaction happened as background noise to Nadine, and she had no trouble ignoring their confrontation. The smell of the room was most alarming to Nadine, forcing her away, as if the smell omitted was a natural warning sign of predators. Nadine found a few faces she had encountered once, a handful of close acquaintances, and plenty of complete strangers. All were wounded identically. She quickly counted the bodies, taking stock of every lost human.
When she was finished, she watched Atlas hold his arms up to Maeve before calling herself away from the memories. Her eyes dropped down to the world around her, to Maeve, and she held a hand to the girl.
“Walk with me.” Nadine led her to stand and began pacing slowly through the bustling forest. “I have been gifted enough to possess the will to observe and protect the integrity of our species. When you and Atlas began to spend so much time together, I was naturally curious as to why. I did not understand your actions but perhaps it was a learned behavior. It became clear that you both did not fully understand your feelings, either. When Atlas left and you searched for him, I followed. When you had given up, I continued the search.
“I sought out Atlas and confronted him about the ordeal. He chased me from Albion and has placed some sort of curse on the perimeter of his space, ensuring that I would never bother him again. I was quite content at leaving this issue alone, but after hearing about the growing numbers of missing people, I searched for answers in any sort of eye witness of anyone’s disappearance. Of course they told me Atlas was behind it all. I sent a messenger to remonstrate him, and he asked only for you.”
“Atlas asked me to join him in his purpose.” Maeve paused. “He intends to end humanity.”
Nadine appeared to be deep in thought. “What happened?”
Maeve let out a wail from deep within her. It was a sound neither she nor Nadine had ever heard, something that had not happened in hundreds of centuries. The shrill noise sent Nadine’s shoulders as high as she could lift them, cringing. The influx of emotion spilled tears from her eyes. Nadine watched, unable to speak or comfort, as the ability to comfort was not something that she had ever learned or been taught.
“How could I ever rob the powers and senses of other humans? Is it just a matter of destroying them?” Maeve whimpered.
“No, that would not be enough. You must discover this skill on your own, and use it against Atlas. It is the only way to stop him,” Nadine admitted hesitantly, grabbing a single piece of hair near her cheek and twisting it. Maeve was silent then.
“A soul is not transferred upon death. Atlas knows something about this process that we do not,” Nadine continued. “There is another step involved. You saw the dead in Albion. They all have the same wound. It’s placement upon each breast is a sign that this is where an essence is syphoned.”
“How would I find out how to absorb power?” Maeve said quietly, as if whispering to herself.
“Go forth and ask those who are left alive,” Nadine stated plainly.
“That is absurd,” Maeve retorted. “Who would know? If one did know, why would they tell me? No one will care.” Nadine shook her head.
“You are aware of your personal gift, the gift that no one shares, correct?” Maeve did not answer. “It is the reason Atlas could not convince you to join him, and the reason why he would never end your life.”
A tiny voice in the back of her subconscious spoke aloud, confirming that yes she did know what Nadine referred to. However, the immediate knowledge of such a thing was clouded by years of trivial memories. Maeve grappled with her forgetfulness.
“Your gift is that of persuasion. You alone are to blame for your union. You were drawn to him, without knowing why, and you convinced him he felt the same way. He was, essentially, your captive for a century. Something caused him to disappear from your life and begin this march of death. This is why it is your duty to stop him.”
Something about the way Nadine told this story made Maeve feel as though it was not a first-hand account of what she had witnessed in Maeve and Atlas’s behavior. Maeve noticed the words she had chosen, and even though conversation was not something commonly experienced, she still could not help but feel as though this bit of information Nadine divulged sounded like an impossible story. Maeve felt disgusted by this and choked. This is almost unbelievable. Such a gift is so foreign. Could my will be done this way again? Is it a skill that needed practice? More importantly, this was not Atlas’ fault. It is mine alone. Regardless of how powerful he had become, I am untouchable in some way. Maeve suppressed the mounting guilt of this tragedy. Following the murderous trail and ending it was now her sole responsibility. Her clear eyes were now in a trance, audio softened, brain aflame. She could still see the faces of the dead, wide-eyed just like her.
“I will do what I must, Nadine,” Maeve breathed.
“It is good you wish to take this deed upon yourself,” Nadine replied. As Maeve blinked, Nadine disappeared.
She was alone again. The only time Maeve felt loneliness was immediately after Atlas had left her. Now that Nadine was gone, the pains of such a feeling seized in her chest. She was not lonesome for Nadine, but due to the circumstances, Maeve would have appreciated a bit of closeness and comfort. Instead, she knelt in a patch of brimwood and picked the stalks gingerly, placing them into her satchel.
From within the confines of a tree thick with leaves, two dark eyes watched her, hoping desperately that they would remain unseen.