He woke from a restless sleep against the wall. He remembered fractured dreams, pieces, parts, all fading as his eyes adjusted to the light. He pushed himself up from the floor and looked over where he'd put her on the bed. Blood had ran and pooled on the floor, but he noticed her bruising had began to fade.
He walked over to her, studying wounds that were closing, and he knew that she was fighting to come back from the dead. One down, Eight left.

He began a conversation with her, wondering if she could hear him, but talking all the same. He talked about everything and nothing, and even found himself waiting for a reply. He cleaned her wounds, the blood becoming less and less and the bruises all but gone. The times he was not hovering over her, he sat in the chair in the room that she laid in, bottles of whatever he could find in the house, litter of wrappers from what little food he ate, and overflowing ashtrays were all testament to the vigil the man kept over his fallen friend, lover, and partner.

The minutes turned to hours, and the hours to days and while he worked on her bandages on the third day, she spoke. Her voice though dry, and raspy was one he was glad to hear. He'd watched her as her hair went to a silvery white, and her scars faded, he wondered how long it would be before the woman while not vain, prided herself on her appearance would react to the woman that stared back at her.

Varian knew little of the changes she'd gone through while fighting her return, he only knew of his own battle to try to save her life. He'd failed once, he'd let her down. He grew in his own strength, but lived in a regret of leaving her side. She'd said that she had the nine lives. He wouldn't have seen her lose one if he hadn't been so stubborn when she had been. He knew now that his own vow, was to never let her from his sight again.

(Re-posted for The Assassin.)

She'd gone to sleep again. Still fighting for her strength after being down for nearly a week. She was healing fast, with minimal scarring and Varian envied her for that. In every mirror he ever looked in, there were reminders of his life, and his way of living it. One reminder more predominant than the rest. Scars, metal, pins, flesh all were part of who he was now, and there was no way he would ever be able to heal like she did.
He found himself wondering about her life span wondering then if he would grow older while she remained the same. He nearly laughed out loud then, realizing he was thinking about a future with the woman that slept quietly in the chair that he always favored, and not dwelling on the past as he'd been so fond of doing.

Before she'd gone into another long sleep, they'd talked about her death, and how it could be used to their advantage. They talked about her memorial service, and how they wanted ashes. No body to be exhumed, no way of identifying remains.

Varian made some calls and luckily still had contacts around the port for such things. The drive was short as he wanted to oversee the gathering of ash from the cremation chambers, and then he had them placed in a dark urn. Black with a burnished copper trim, and her name engraved on the bottom. He'd stopped by a photography studio, with a picture that was pulled from the remains of her home. It was burned nearly in half and was of her sitting in a chair, with someone assumed to be her husband's hand on her shoulder.
Varian talked to the person at the counter and asked if they could turn it into something nice for a memorial service, the woman growing sad for him, as he laid it on thick about the loss of his friend, and wanting this done for her as a last gift. The woman agreed, and then even promised that the picture would look like an oil painting, minus the hand on her shoulder, and be there at the memorial service. The assassin waited until his back was turned and he was walking from the studio before a smug grin set upon his features and he made his way back to the apartment.


He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wedding ring she'd given him earlier in the day. She wanted it to be part of her memorial service. The death of Lydia, he wondered who, if anyone, would mourn her loss. He knew that he wouldn't be missed, except by her now, and that was beginning to be all that mattered.
Varian studied the ring, and noted the light scarring. Marks left by things handled as it was never taken off of her hand.
A symbol given in love.

A symbol of a lost love.

His own ring, from a wedding several years ago had been dropped into the waters on the way to his island home. A passage once shared, and a passage that's been taken alone since. His eyes moved back to the ring held in his hands and he studied the inscription, wondering briefly what it meant, and then decided it wasn't important to him, or his well being. There were symbols to the ring, that meant something to the pair that shared them, just as the ring he'd given had meaning with Asher, her favorite cut on her favorite stone, and an inscription inside the band long forgotten...or just locked away in the deepest recess of his mind. He closed his hand around the ring, and put it back into his pocket before going back to writing the eulogy of an old friend, and researching all of the recent short term leases looking for his target, wanting his head.

(Re-posted for The Assassin.)

Lydia looked at her reflection in the newly hung mirror, frowning at the face that looked back at her, the rage she'd felt only a few days before replaced now by sadness. She had once promised Amadeus that she'd never cut her hair. Her hair had once been her pride and joy -- her best feature, or so she thought -- thick curls that fell in a ribbon of red down her back and past her waist. She wondered if anyone would recognize her now that her hair had turned prematurely white. Kirin had, but Kirin knew her better than most.

She had recently visited her old friend to ask a favor -- something she trusted to no one but her -- and Kirin had agreed, just as Lydia had hoped. Lydia believed in her heart that there was no better mother for Marissa than Kirin -- Marissa who needed more than Lydia could now give, Marissa whose life was just as much in danger as any of the others, but who was different from all the rest.

There had been no good-byes. Lydia couldn't chance it. The little girl had to think her mother was dead, or her own life would be in jeopardy. She knew that in time, Marissa would grow to love Kirin and her family as her own and forget the mother she once knew. It was only a matter of time. It grieved Lydia to know this, but she felt she had no choice. There was only one way to keep her children safe and that was to distance herself from them.

She and Amadeus had had six of them in total, from the eldest, Dante, to the youngest, Duncan. She had arranged it so that some of them would remain with the pride, while the others would go to Am's sister -- she was Garou; she would know how to protect them. All but Marissa.

Lydia picked up the scissors and by doing so, broke the promise she'd once made to Amadeus. Promises made, promises broken. He had always promised to be there for her, and he had broken that promise for the very last time.

She carefully sheered away all the long curls, letting them drop into the sink, discarded along with the rest of her past. She picked up the bottle of hair dye and read the instructions, wondering what it would feel like to be a brunette, after all the years of her life spent as a redhead, but it no longer mattered.

The only thing that mattered now was the safety and well-being of her children and of the man she was slowly coming to love. Everything else, including her own life and happiness, was inconsequential.

The traces came back with news of at least seven leases in the coastal area. The cliffs alone would prevent any knowledge from the sea, and blocked the clear views of the houses. The private docks would be armed with cameras at every angle, willing to catch anyone and sound alarm if strangers came too close. The other downfall is that the houses were on both sides of that same road. Some backing ocean, some backing dense forest. Both with advantages.

Varian did more research of the area and found there were construction companies that were building in the area, east of the houses so if they were to seperate, he knew that anyone could find their way back to the car and be ready to run if things turned bad. That night they would make their move, and be on the look out for anything, or anyone recognized and he would have his revenge on them for what they did to Lydia.

The drive was quiet. Neither of them saying much, but his explaining to her that they think her dead, and that if the bodies were found ripped to shreds, that illusion was ruined. He'd talked her into using the pistols, and following his lead into the fray. The car was parked, and the plan laid out, the night was going to be bloody. Varian would see to that.

The first house was an old couple, they sat at a table, looking out over the bay, enjoying their vacation home and each other, something they looked to have been doing for years. They would speak in turns, and share laughter, oblivious to the man outside their view watching them with a touch of envy. Varian spoke into the comm quietly, "Not this one, moving on."

He moved through the woods quietly for a man his size. Careful of branches too low, or sticks on the ground. His enhanced vision allowed him to scan for traps and other pitfalls along the way, bringing him to the next house.

He heard Lydia's breathing in his ear through the earpiece, and could tell she was not winded in the slightest. Her pulse beat in her neck loud enough that he could tell the hunt had her blood flowing. He hoped that the urge for her would not be too great, and that she'd taken to heart everything he'd said about her 'death' being their saving grace. He was about to speak to her to ask her to stand back, when he was hit from the side by a dark and muscular shape. The werewolf stood back from him, as if judging his enemy and Varian fired off two rounds as quickly as his hand came up with the pistol. "One down, move Lydia. Move!" The yelp of the dying one was enough to raise alarm and Varian moved into the open yard, putting himself out for bait to bring them to him. Another shot from the dark and was close enough to the assassin that when his cranium exploded, Varian was covered in blood and gray matter. The fight became a blur, Varian focused on revenge, and Lydia focused on the man she was coming to love. He was a killer, like she was in one way, but different in many others. He seemed to be enjoying the kill, and she could have sworn after she cleaned her hands from the grass and mud she'd dove into as she heard him shout for her to drop and felt the weight of another of the Garou fall upon her that she'd seen him smiling.

She followed him as he walked into the house. There were no signs of any inside. Apparently falling for the bait of the human, thinking him an easy target. She was about to follow him as he walked past her, but she waited as he instructed and watched as he walked to an out building and broke the handle on the doors. In a few minutes he appeared back outside the building walking toward the house with two large gas cans.
"What are you going to do?" She asked him, as he stopped to light a cigar.
"Eye for an eye in a way, Red." He said as he took a deep drag on the smoke.
"What?" She asked but then saw him moving through the house, pouring gas and humming a tune. "You are enjoying this." She said, and quickly stepped back as he walked past her, "Watch your feet, don't want this on you when this place goes up." He'd warned.

She followed him into the kitchen, and watched as he pulled the stove away from the wall, and then turned to leave the house when he'd told her to. She hadn't known what he was like when he was doing his job, she was both curious, and scared, but stuck with him none the less.

Varian carefully pulled the gasline from the wall, and let the gas flow into the room, and calmly told her that she may want to start running for the car. He walked slowly through the room, toward the door they'd come in and after a drag on the cigar, he dropped it to the floor, igniting the gasoline and moving away from the house hurriedly.

Lydia stood by the car, her heart racing, and a breathing faster from the cold, damp air. She watched the treeline then a blink as well as her hand coming up to shield her eyes from the blast tha sent a large fireball skyward.
"Varian?!" She yelled into the comm.
"Lydia?" He asked as he emerged from the trees near the car. "You don't have to yell, I can hear you fine."
"You are a fucking pyro." She said as she wrapped her arms around him.
"And you love me." He said as he pressed his lips to hers.

(Re-posted for The Assassin.)

(This story is continued in the thread "Retribution". Thank you!)