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The stairways up to La Butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and I
— Rufus Wainwright, Complainte de la Butte
She is the Moulin’s most stellar of stars, captivating guests en masse on the nightly. Skyhigh she rises above the cabaret’s stage, voice dangling in sultry tones and legs dangling with sultry promise. Public are her songs, while private are her sensual vagaries, for rumors abound that she bears much talent across all whims, enough to satisfy customers of every fancy, every status. Within vermilion walls, whispers carry an open secret: for the right payment, one may earn any courtesan’s private visits in-residence, adding hours upon hours beyond first nights.
It’s there, during secret dalliances with the privileged, that names like Thorn Princess exercise further pleasure, followed by instant death.
All leave the windmill’s shadow alive, but a select few never survive past a few days thereafter.
Those who fall under her crimes supposedly receive their rightful comeuppance, targeted for hidden lists of offenses. One politician corrupt, another magnate abusive - such are these untouchables who fear nothing but slaughter. In those final seconds, she pockets their dues while basking in their dread, for few sights trump the splattering of toxic blood.
The Moulin Rouge, debauchery incarnate, as red as what its true nature spills.
==
Another summer sundown, another darkening hour. Street lights illuminate Montmartre aglow, guiding the lustful toward rowdy trumpets and hoisted petticoats.
Yor watches tonight’s patrons from atop the usual balcony, muted contenance flanked by far more talkative mouths.
Upon her shoulder, two taps - Shopkeeper, proprietor of this sinful garden, commander of the occasional demise.
“Over there, my love. Your next assignment.”
The Grim Reaper’s presence fades as swiftly as he arrives, leaving her to track a bony finger’s precise point. Tucked into a booth on the second level is a hint of golden hair and pale skin suited in green, blatant colors all offset by the black of gloves. A notebook and a glass - water glass, strangely enough - rest within his vicinity, both evidence contrary to the feral nature her usual clients possess.
“Seems like a boring one.” Millie scrutinizes aloud. “I’ve had better…but we always prefer the rougher ones who struggle as they bleed out, do we not? Hee.”
“I hear he’s a writer.” Close behind, Camilla drawls with judgment. “Not a bad-looking one, at least. They’re usually wrinkled to a fault, and have horrid eyesight.”
A writer? Confusion knits Yor’s brows. “Why would someone like him…be a target?”
“You know we never ask questions.” Her blonde associate reminds, before curiosity seeps through. “But do tell us if he’s actually a wild one in bed, rawr.”
The growl fails to trigger animalistic tendencies, and Yor maintains composure as her observance continues, now unaccompanied. Mere moments pass before blue eyes lock onto hers, mirroring the same serenity. A fedora tips, but beneath is not a salacious smirk, not even a polite smile, as if they were strangers passing one another in the market. She thinks that deduction could be accurate, for he resembles a family man who rushes home carrying produce and baguettes, not one who would exhaust earnings on hedonism.
With a few hard blinks, she wrestles away from theories of virtue. Stilettoed feet soon usher her into the rear alcove, where her superior awaits.
“One week.” She declares with fair confidence.
Though Shopkeeper responds with the typical grin, an extra dose of amusement stirs the air.
“That’s longer than you usually give them, Princess.”
Yor inhales his suspicion, ignores the stifling stings of her corset.
“Sometimes…I wish for my mercy to be rewarded in kind.”
==
She glides through corridors incognito, jazzy notes and gyrating bodies providing ample disguise, before arrival at the intended booth.
“Enjoying your night so far, sir?”
Despite her sudden intrusion, no hint of surprise registers on the lone guest’s face. Instead, a gloved hand lifts the water glass, positioning its rim at the seam of his lips.
“Perhaps if I could manage to get drunk.” Confession doubles as his greeting, before half the clear liquid disappears from view. “But even absinthe barely affects me these days.”
Yor’s throat echoes his gulp.
“Is that so?” She attempts to conjure charm. “You have quite the tolerance, Mr.--”
“Call me Twilight.” Blue irises shift to the same corner, giving her a once-over before looking away. “My penname.”
“You write?” Though his long lashes distract, she manages to falsify ignorance. “Intriguing choice of alias. I’m–”
“Thorn Princess.” He politely interrupts once more. “It would be unbecoming to not recognize the Crown Jewel of the Moulin.”
The acknowledgement alters the tension between them, igniting neutral forces into magnetism. She flashes a more assured smile while leaning closer, a blend of relief and courage fueling her next whisper.
“So what, pray tell, is a writer doing in these parts?”
At last, his neck twists, granting her full attention. “Can’t the literary-minded also enjoy life in spectacle?”
“If you can afford to, then surely.” Beneath half-opened lids, she studies the shape of his lips - ensures that he sees exactly where her gaze lands. “Everything has a price here in the end…often, a high price.”
“Yourself included?”
The candor sparks a jolt between her legs, but she feigns bashfulness, putting distance between them again as enticement. “I might be beyond your means, I’m afraid. But I’m open to negotia–”
Yet another interference halts her, though this time not via words. Rather, a thick stack of banknotes lands on the table, a most conflicting presence against all his observed qualities. Between them now rests the worth of a family man’s groceries over many, many days, ready to be lavished upon her instead.
“Courtesy of a recent bestseller.” His poker face graduates into a faint smile. “Written under a different pseudonym, that is.”
Somewhere, Yor knows she has miscalculated him, misjudged this entire circumstance. But as with most other nights, a generous offer promenades alongside opportunity, and so she obliges without delay. Her palm paves its own path at an instant, slithering from cushion up to his inner thigh.
“So which penname shall I have the honor to call out later on?”
He smells of dahlia leaves, and the emergence of lust - but only she detects those faint notes of imminent death.
==
They ascend through the nightclub’s floors, the leather of his glove against her laced one, ignoring every leer and snicker of “lucky bastard.”
Tonight, the Princess has chosen, and the gates to her private suite have shuttered.
As soon as she traps him, he traps her in return - lips trace across her neck as arms tighten around a corseted waist, all poised strength confining her between wallpaper and muscle. Unlike more dubious clients, he doesn’t take her right then, standing with her dress still on. From collarbone to calf, every touch transpires in due time, slow yet primal, not a seam or zipper unjustly ripped.
Yor permits the maneuvering - anyone matching her price is afforded the privilege - but she marvels at the rare display of patience. Stubborn layers of fabric submit to the most gradual peels, before he gently tumbles them both onto her silken sheets. Even then, he doesn’t gape at her nudity, but confronts it gallantly with his own, every friction full of purpose. Together, they form a duet of soft skin shielding pliant flesh, and further beneath, a myriad of nerves aching to encounter euphoria.
At last, his lips lower to meet hers, fulfilling a delayed kiss that feels almost chaste at first. Yet experience shows through all the spots his mouth quickly finds upon her, within her - not leaving a shred unspoiled. She’s soon overwhelmed by touches written as tender but lit with fire, scorching pert nipples one moment, then petaled folds the next.
“Gods.” She gasps through each burn. “You certainly know how to please.”
“Anyone with your name deserves royal treatment.” His tongue avows as it attempts to drain her flooding heat.
“You’re much less innocent than I predicted, si– Twilight...”
Despite the concession, he brazenly leaves her on the precipice before crawling forward, fingers weaving deep into her hair as hips nudge open her thighs.
“Writers have vivid imaginations. Those of us capable simply…” With a fervent thrust, his cock dams what his tongue had not. “...bring our visions to life.”
Moaning at the divine stretch, Yor clamps all of him close as they surrender to primal demands. For tonight, she is his vision - realized, revitalized. Lunge after lunge arches their backs into erotic bends, joined at a singular core. Bodies play parchment to this most risqué script, authored by one but conveyed by two.
Before long, she loses count of paradises found, or who escorted whom within. There is only that faint scent of dahlia, still sprinkled with death, but also fused with a rosy richness belonging to her.
Deep into the darkest hours, the suite echoes with the mutual groans of a final, blissful release. Though his frame hovers above, it is Yor who suffers collapse, barely abiding by precarious boundaries as she basks in one last delight.
“Am I still permitted to see you after tonight, Princess?” He inquires between raspy breaths. Tips of blond hair dangle onto her forehead, each strand damp from exertion.
Hook, line and sinker, as she must - as she always achieves. Though in that second, Yor is uncertain who has actually played the part of lure.
Nonetheless, she cranes her neck upward, sighing into a mouth that she must soon silence for eternity.
“I can come to you, whenever and wherever you’d like.”
==
When is the next night, after teasing refusals to other hungry suitors. Where is a building only blocks away, the towering windmill still within sight.
Yor climbs four flights of a creaking stairway, memorizes its ill-constructed corners as an inevitable escape route. Before she completes the last steps, a door up top swings open, reacting to the racket. A new version of Twilight awaits there, mostly proper in dress but with visible informalities: mussed hair, lack of jacket and all.
From below, she accepts his extended hand, obeys the delicate force heaving her straight into his arms. Confronting her is a face placid, almost aloof, and no words are exchanged as their lips declare devotion, revisiting needs fulfilled mere hours ago. His hands sweep down her corset, appreciating every groove before loosening its binds. In conjunction with the door’s closure, she unfastens her hair, dropping elongated pins buried within onto the ground. The rest of their clothes follow, each piece discarded more haphazardly than its predecessor.
The simplicity of his dwelling barely registers in Yor’s daze, though the hardness of his mattress soon leaves an impression. As her prostrate body adjusts, however, another form of hardness commands her focus.
“I wish to be on top.” She suggests compromise, cupping him as persuasion.
He pauses the removal of her stockings briefly, brows lifting above an otherwise unreadable look. But mysteries decode as he frees her of residual fabric, and after a few pecks along her elevated ankle, he grips her bare waist to flip their positions. At an instant, he becomes a buffer - an enigma stripped down, shielding her from discomfort while promising tenfold in compensation.
“Have your way with me then, Princess.”
And so she does, feasting first with her mouth to draw out the most hidden of his moans. The sight of a handsome writer’s submission kindles her own unbridled lust. It would be so easy to complete her duty during his pleasure, to sever this affair early in its inception. But Yor has yet to discover a single hint of impropriety, much less atrocity. So she savors the taste of his length, coaxes it towards apex, curious if a true monster would then be unleashed.
But even as Twilight’s expression contorts with bliss, and his forehead adopts a sheen, he maintains the composure expected of an educated gentleman. On the contrary, it is Yor who gives into all thoughts wanton, foregoing oral indulgences for the carnal. Palms race to find purchase on his shoulders, lifting her throbbing center to drift above what it seeks. Before long, one heat engulfs the other in its entirety.
With manic passion, she rides him like a royal steed, desiring nothing more than to milk rapture from them both. His hands sneak from her thighs to her breasts, groping with kneads as gentle as his upward grinds. The sensations coalesce, making her skin burst into virginal blushes, turning her body desperate, deprived.
“Twilight… Twilight…”
The calls are of a pseudonym, concealing a name she may never get a chance to learn. But lethal thoughts fail to persist in the relentless cycles of their coupling. After all, she hides as well - not only identity but also intent. He should be nothing more than a target, a tool used to construct her gratification; building, building, building–
But as la petite mort overwhelms her, replaces sanity with mindless delight, Yor wonders, for the first time, if she may prefer the little death over its more dire form.
When she revives, her head has found shelter along the crook of his neck, while the unmistakable drench of his come warms from within. A hand creeps up her spine, as if intending to gather her into an embrace, but it abruptly withdraws partway through.
“...how much…for tonight?”
Yor stills at the blunt reality, but collects herself in time. Through sheer will, she detaches from their entanglements, smoothing tousled black hair as she shifts to the bed’s edge.
“Pay me in full, the day you wish to end this. I shall keep a record.”
She senses him arise right behind, a shadow idling against her shoulder blade. “You may render me bankrupt.”
“You can always write another bestseller.”
He doesn’t react to the jest, but migrates fingers next to hers - they interlace, then toy with her lace as she begins to dress. Despite transaction playing cornerstone to their liaison, there still exists tenderness in this afterglow. Her heart knows the truth: that despite some frigidity, he is the first target - no, the first man - to respect her pinings, and perhaps herself.
While he weaves the ribbons of her corset, she retrieves abandoned hairpins from the floor.
Hours ago, she had dipped them in poison, in case impulses deem tonight to be the end.
But death doesn’t knock on his door, neither through crime of passion nor crime within passions. There is just her satiated body upon a bed, being brought to endless brinks. For now, farewell takes not the form of bloodshed, but of vigorous kisses promising another night.
Her mercy, so rare in nature, now rewarded in kind.
==
The week passes on, each rendezvous ending with her departure in the witching hour, nethers still pulsing with pleasure and heart simmering with the desire to return. From sunrise to sunset, fervent memories consume her, purging libido for any touch not his.
On this night, her first proposed deadline threatens to expire. Yor lingers past the usual time, aiming to eliminate yet faltering as the minutes elapse. In the end, she relents and clings to him, watches his slumber through her own restlessness. They lie on a mattress that no longer beleagues her with discomfort, having been softened by all their weighted fluctuations. The heat of summer melds them into one seamless form, his nude, unconscious body vulnerable to any strike. But even as darkness turns to morn, it’s not the sharpness of weaponry that drags across his skin, but the sharpness of her nails - voyaging, tracing motifs only decipherable in dreams.
With gradual passage, their brightening room stirs him awake. The sight of her prompts him to rub his eyes, voice straining through weariness.
“It’s almost morning…don’t you have to return, Princess?”
Caught in a conundrum, Yor squeezes his torso in faux protest. “I’m not trapped in a castle, you know.”
He returns a rare smile, though it bears tinges of sadness, as if he doesn’t accept her claim as truth.
Her truth is, indeed, misplaced, for it should present an unrealized scene: his corpse, left in these very sheets days ago. But truth bends within new reflections of herself, captured by azure depths as he moves to cover her, as he enters her again. Fingers follow suit, tending to places he has become too familiar with, lighting dawns across her private horizon before the sun fully emerges. The Thorn Princess in his gaze is a whimpering, indulged husk, devoid of objective and violence. This version of her defies orders - no, she -
Delays. I’m simply delaying my orders.
After all, her content mind reasons, it would be a shame to have such talented hands go to waste. Through them have stemmed the lyrical prose upon his manuscripts, as well as every dialogue of her moaned whispers.
Yor wonders how much longer she'll permit his pulse to continue; at which point the queries from Shopkeeper might begin.
But as she removes lethal hairpins evening after evening, segregates them both from weapons that would free her from him, she swears, time and again:
Tomorrow. I'll certainly kill him tomorrow.
==
They settle in his clawfoot bathtub on one such tomorrow, him smoothing her wet hair as she toys with rose petals afloat. What decorates their haven are remnants of a surprise bouquet, gifted upon her earlier arrival. Though the blots of red don’t dye any waters upon sinking, they resemble bloody truths that chill their joint warmth.
She nestles to restrain a shiver, spine aligned flush against his chest.
“You should know, Twilight - I carry stains that cannot be cleansed.”
Despite weighted words, the caresses of her scalp never slow.
“Everyone does, Princess.”
“You do not mind my past?” How many I’ve slept with? How many I’ve murdered?
“Most in your line of work had little choice.” His conviction remains as resolute as his pampering. “It’s how you must survive, is it not? I have nothing but admiration for such resolve.”
Assurance converts into newfound sentiment, affection that coagulates faster than the blood of her prey. This is emotion she must never feel for a patron, much less a mark. But long has it stayed buried at the core of her chest, where heartbeats race at his every proximity. Only denial has imprisoned such truths, but it stands as fragile as another ongoing denial: that her inaction has been rooted in delay, not defiance.
Realization ricochets throughout mind and muscle, propelling Yor into a stance that disrupts their comfortable solace.
“I must go.” Amidst scrambling limbs, an adjacent ottoman topples, sending hairpins placed upon it to the ground.
Twilight pauses at her stumble, but does not question the circumstance.
“Here—” He reaches down along the same porcelain she steps across, intending to retrieve forsaken needles of gold.
“No, don’t.” She hunches on instinct, clutching his wrist before threats of a fatal prick. “They’re sharp.”
Tomorrow.
==
Many more tomorrows pass, so numerous that Yor loses count - does not care to count at all. Likewise, she seldom scrubs away the marks he leaves, even treasures those darker in shade. For her acceptance of every stain now resembles his, and fresh impressions, each a sign of their passion, have veered far from the curses of old.
She still loiters on the cabaret grounds, keeping performances distant and glances platonic. Whenever crude guests relay interest, Yor flaunts the blemishes throughout her neck - claimed, my apologies - delivering one staunch rejection after another.
The swell of such refusals, however, earns unfavorable attention amongst the Moulin’s whispers. And days past that self-imposed deadline, the first expected questions surface.
“When shall the young man meet his maker?” Within the alcove, Shopkeeper relays a soft ultimatum. “I’m afraid we’re losing your share of revenue…and our sponsor is losing patience.”
Yor knows the old man would never punish her outright, or anyone else beneath this red ceiling. But he is only another pawn wielded by the faceless powers-that-be. If any delay ever openly becomes defiance, even he must stand aside as others sever volatile strings.
“I decide my own schedule.” Dire prospects heeded, she reaffirms her stance.
What she fails to confess is how said schedule retains defects, as a single penname occupies the rest of its days without cessation. Perhaps, Yor muses during bouts of cynicism, the man dubbed Twilight may even outlive her in the end.
==
Hints of a new season blanket over the city, dressing humid evenings with stints of breeze. But feverish conditions persist in this fourth story flat, home to fiery bodies sleep alone can tame.
Despite the autumn cold’s futile attempts, it does, on occasion, awaken.
She encounters as such one night, when drafts from an open window bite against her nudity. Between blurs blinked away, Twilight comes into focus: clad in only a towel at his desk, scribbling to the flickers of an oil lamp. Indecipherable shadows dance upon pronounced muscle, playing complement to faint scratches throughout his back - mostly aged, a few still fresh.
Yor shuffles closer, fatigued legs dragging behind. “What are you doing?”
The fountain pen slows its work, retires to a state of rest. Its owner stands before returning to her side, expression unreadable but intent clear. Soon, a flurry of kisses voyage from her bare waist upward, as if continuing where ink had left off.
“I’m composing a new novel.” The admission sounds after a final press upon her lips.
“Oh?”
“It’s about a Spy.” He tucks an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. “A Spy who falls for a Princess.”
“Is this Princess…trapped in a castle?”
“She doesn’t believe she is.” Nailbeds drift past her cheek, relaying implications alongside the verbalized. “But if she wishes to escape - the Spy will do anything to rescue her.”
Yor’s chest tightens.
“Sounds too utopian, if you ask me.”
His eyes do not waver, much less cater to her doubt. “Writers are dreamers, after all. As are most characters within our pages.”
Pages - within a novel, within a schedule - flipping through days of future past, stories of tomorrow that continue to unfold without bloodshed. Cleansed of ruinous stains, her arm lifts of its own volition, guiding a palm to envelop the hand that cups her jaw.
“And? What are your dreamers’ names?”
The corners of Twilight’s mouth curve upward, revealing emotions true and tales unknown.
“His is ‘Loid,’ but I have yet to conceive one for her.”
She digests the disclosure, attaches that single word to all paltry hopes. And then, a mutual declaration - as resounding as her most impassioned songs, as reckless as her budding love.
“Yor. Call her ‘Yor.’”
==
Yor.
Loid.
Above conjoined bodies, monosyllables replace aliases abandoned.
He grins often now - against her mouth, against her skin, against both their wiser judgments. Limbs interlock in company with shared joy, shutting access to infatuated hearts from all else.
There are nights when no trysts take place, when he simply clutches her to his chest, and narrates adventures like promises.
“Dream, Yor.” Her Loid encourages time and again, affection as melodic as lullabies.
In utopia, he owes her months’ worth of past dues, but gifts her everything priceless.
==
Shopkeeper awaits by the gate one evening, a partial obstruction in her journey out of lecherous lands. This path, not Loid’s stairwell, now acts as means of escape - though both divert her away from brutality.
“The young man lives still.” He confronts her with her own choice.
Without lagging in step, she accepts the challenge - dares to defy. “And still he shall live.”
As she passes, a deep sigh precedes a stark warning. “You know I cannot protect you for much longer, Princess.”
“I am aware.”
Prior to exodus, she turns back once more.
“I’ve always considered all of you family.”
“I’m afraid nothing is unconditional under this roof, my dear.”
Escape no longer guarantees freedom, will soon fail to release rose petals into flight. As consequences loom near, Yor elects to confess entire truths, to seek that rescue offered in grace. But thus far, only fiction designs its likelihood, and beforehand, it is forgiveness that will require the utmost cost, far exceeding what a writer may wish to afford.
==
The sun sits high above, a vivid daytime doubling as ironic camouflage, for this is when an exhausted cabaret slips into ignorance.
Yor embodies stealth during this particular departure. No exit music accompanies her rush, no dancing bodies collide or blockade. There is solely her and her necessities held close, hairpins still securing tresses as contingency.
Hours earlier than usual, she enters a destination that has served as shelter, and encounters a slightly different display.
Besides her lover’s missing presence, a batch of papers rest upon the lone desk, yet to be organized. Most are lined with his elegant script, but atop the handwritten rests something mechanical, almost cold: rigid typeface printed on a telegram, halfway folded, all motives exposed.
Time running out STOP
Must receive concrete evidence of the Moulin’s offenses STOP
Further delays unacceptable STOP
Don’t force our hand, Loid STOP
All weave into logic, the sails of a windmill powering the loom. Answers to much unanswered resurrect faded stains: why this mysterious man had been their guarantors’ target, why these rays of Twilight had posed such a threat. Four phrases, brief yet distinct, traverse from palette to stroke, painting a scarlet target upon her well-kissed back.
The creak of an opening door burrows through her distressed mind, followed by the crash of a briefcase onto wood.
“Yor…” The voice of a liar torments further.
She withdraws both hairpins on instinct, defaulting to defense above aggression. Loosened strands cascade into a dark waterfall, though liquid pools in two separate reservoirs.
“Don’t.” Her unstable voice articulates, its tremors as broken as countless promises. “Don’t come any closer.”
Poison is more potent than ink, yet Yor cannot recall the last time she desired the former, the last time she dipped any weapons within. What would’ve ended him at the start of this affair could now leave mere lacerations. But for weeks, those same wounds have already existed, inflicted upon herself through risks taken and orders defied. As they stand-off, the remnant scars split open, provoking pain far worse than a swift death.
“You’re no Writer.” You’re the Spy.
Loid, name true but identity false, removes his hat to bare expression, or lack thereof. There is no grin, no shock - just the stoicism she had witnessed months ago.
“I was a Writer. Once upon a time.”
The words begin without stutter, as if he had long prepared for this occasion.
“But more often than not, dreams tend to fail in reality, and I became a private investigator years ago. Days before my visit to the Moulin, the henchmen of a past fatality hired me to dig further into its dealings, as grounds for retaliation.” Spoken plainly, he unveils origin after origin. “I’ve always known what you’re capable of, Yor - everything you’ve done.”
Revelations plague her every cell, a disease spreading with none of the mercy she had granted him. Her arms remain aloft, but strength vacates until depletion. In the end, it is not betrayal that devastates, but his everlasting knowledge of her deeds. Everyone bears irremovable stains, he had assured. Everyone has deplorable secrets.
So much forgiveness she had sought, only to be shown her own naivete.
And yet, in the midst of agony, its cause steps forward, then forward again.
“But you… none of you had the privilege of choice.” With caution, he clenches both her wrists. “So I accept you as you are - courtesan, assassin, all of you.”
Still identical is his touch, as gentle as a hundred previous nights. It is then that Yor realizes that he does not hope to deter, but to empower where she has grown weak. Nevertheless, the contact incites a last bout of distrust, fueling her next words.
“You make it sound so damn simple, when it’s anything but.”
“It has never been simple, for either of us. But if you must–” Pausing, he guides the end of one hairpin to his throat. “I offer my life. Take it, as you were meant to. Take it, for the survival you seek. Otherwise, many will pursue me from here, for I shall not deliver anything they demand.”
A sharpened point menaces against vulnerable flesh, on the verge of satisfying its original ambition. Indeed, so simple would one lethal pierce be, poison-laced or not. But simple are not her memories, brimming with the boundless peace found within his arms. All those moments shared, imbuing her with defiance, with emotion, with the audacity to dream.
“My life is yours, Yor, as my heart has been.”
He - the Spy who has accepted her flaws, the Writer who has composed her new story - offers neither mercy nor grace, but gospel.
With a sob, she crumples, weapons descending alongside infinite tears. But while metal clashes against ground, she remains upright, for his robust strength steadies where obligations could not. It seizes her from the clutches of duty, draws her into a familiar scent. As the aroma of dahlia leaves engulfs, Yor revisits a future unearthed in dreams. The scenes depict a mutual belief: that love can weather a life endangered, on the run - but not one that is lonesome, without another.
“This…I am no longer capable of.” She embraces her counterpart with vigor, abandoning all savage intent. “I do not wish for survival of this kind.”
Kisses stamp her forehead, then along the wetness of lashes and cheekbones. The journey ends at her lips, where inhales morph into gasps. Each exchange of breath, deep and poignant, yearning not for air, but the fervor essential to true survival.
At its conclusion, they endure, defying foreboding omens as one.
“How long…did you plan to give me?” For the last time, he recalls a voided fate.
“A week, at most.”
His lost grin returns.
“So have I actually dwelled in the afterlife every week since? Hell is not so terrible, it seems.”
Yor can’t determine whether hell or heaven awaits their upcoming days, but perhaps, they were meant to rewrite broken destinies. To abandon costumes of blood red, weapons of bloodshed; to exist as two liberated souls in a market, strangers no more, seeking fresh baguettes for their joint home.
She leans into his torso, finally attaining rest.
“The Spy you’ve penned…he would go to the ends of the earth for her?”
“And beyond, if needed.”
“You should add,” The Princess’ neck cranes, until two foreheads meet and four eyes flutter shut. “That she would do the same for him.”
“Come dream with me, then, Princess of Thorns.” The Spy vows, shaping fiction into intention with a Writer’s finesse. “You can blossom in fields far, far from here. I’ll make sure of it.”
==
Beneath moonlight, a gloved hand leads a laced one into the great escape, aided by the same darkness that had always given two lovers shelter. Through alleyways they hasten, east to west, before boarding a train headed only to worlds they designate.
With each rumble of speeding wheels, the Moulin’s windmill fades further into the distance. Its vanes cycle against a glowing skyline, like clock hands in the passage of time, tracing the layered petals of a rose. High above clamorous nights and sordid histories, its scarlet red signifies death - but its vivacious bloom, life.
[Fin]