Milo - Book Two Sneak (Patreon)

“Fuck!”

A blade clattered to the floor, bent at the tip and caked with something soft and spongy.  Two bodies lay inert, their faces pressed down into the boggy soil.  The sludge of the river that ambled by was tinted red and murky brown.  Milo collapsed against the side of the drain tunnel, a hand pressed tight to his side.

“Fuck,” he muttered again, sliding down, legs weak.  There was a bruise blooming on the side of his face and his lip was split.  His surroundings were dark, the opening to the storm drain at least a mile in either direction. His eyes glowed softly within the circular enclosure, bouncing a soft amber light. Just enough for me to see the death that encircled him and the discolored wetness to his shirt.

“Milo,” I started, “that wound really doesn’t look good.”  It fell on deaf ears. He couldn’t hear me. He couldn’t even see me.  But, I didn’t want the only sound in the tunnel to be his ragged breathing.

Closing his eyes, he audibly swallowed, working himself up to something.  There were echoes above that sounded like feet running towards us and while I was pretty sure he was safe, for now, it was clear he couldn’t stay for long. They were looking for him. Most of the market was, at this point.  Whether it was because Belladonna had sent out a manhunt or the guard was trained to bring him in, didn’t actually matter.  It was the people looking for a leg up that were the dangerous ones. The ones who thought they could be the Gatekeeper.  They had nothing left to lose and no rules to dictate their lives by.

When Milo dared to peel his eyes open again, he looked down at where he pressed his ringed hand against his wound.  Slowly, he pulled it away, whimpering a little at the side of the torn flesh below.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Not too bad. Been in worse situations. Been close to death plenty of times. Just got to get up. Walk out of here. Just got to–” As he planted one booted foot beneath him, it slid against the ground, sending him stumbling to the side.  “Or not.” He rolled onto his back, panting and gritting his teeth.

When I splashed across the waters towards him, I made no sound. What I could and could not affect was still at random.  But I couldn’t just leave him there.  It was funny, really.  The blood that dripped from him was far more than what had ever dripped from me. My wound was made of light. It had shone with a blinding brightness that had sucked out the rest of the lanterns. Milo’s was made from blood, leaching between his fingers and pouring life down onto the concrete. Little bits of moss tried to grow as his fae blood mingled with the soil. They failed to thrive, though and guttered into nothing just as soon as they came.

I knelt by his side.  There was a small and bitter part of me that still echoed that he deserved this.  That the pain was something he should wallow it. It was the human part. The one that was angry.  But along with that, the soft and forgiving part of that personality, wanted to reach out to him.  They warred with each other, both caught up in a power struggle. It was an incredibly confusing thing to be alive and shrouded in such narrow opinions.

“So this is how it ends, huh?” he spoke to no one. “Me, alone. Bleeding. With only my sins to keep me company.  Yeah, that sounds about fucking right.”

He was giving up. The bruises and wounds that littered his body were roadmaps, falsely glorifying the last few months.  It was out now. That scrawny kid that was seen laughing in taverns and dancing on tables? He was the Gatekeeper. I wondered if the ones wielding the blade against him knew what they were getting into. I certainly didn’t want them for my protector.

“Milo,” I said, close to his ear.  He startled, eyes snapping open and blazing in the dark.  “You need to get up.  Find help.”

His breath came out in a soft wheeze. “Oh, gods. I’m dying. This is me dying.”

I pressed my hand down on his wound, feeling the pulse of life beneath his skin. The way it stretched out through the tunnel, a living thread in the fabric that was my world.  “You’re not dying,” I told him, not sure if he could hear me. “Not if you get up and out of here. But you can’t just lie here and give up.”

The fight had been fleeing.  It had been doused repeatedly. Now, I thought he got up on sheer stubbornness alone.  But down here, in the dark, I wondered if he would finally let go. No one but me was here to witness this. No one was here to stop him.

“I miss you,” he muttered.

I startled, looking down at him as a tear escaped the corner of his eye.

“I know you can hear me.  Don’t know how much it matters. But I do miss you.”

“Then get up,” I urged. “Get up so we can have all this out when I come back. I want to yell at you, kiss you and hug you and in return I need you to do the same to me. We need to make everyone uncomfortable with our odd little thing we got going.” I pushed my fingers through his hair. “We need to chase each other's nightmares away.”

I didn’t understand how much I wanted that until that very moment. For most of my time wandering, I had ignored Milo.  He was often too far from the Graveyard for me to appear and I still didn’t quite know what this new form was turning into.  But I knew I was coming back. That it was imminent at this point.

I didn’t want a new Gatekeeper to take his place. Given that the people around him were dead, it was just going to get shoved on some unsuspecting soul which felt like a death sentence all on its own.

And on top of that? I just wanted Milo around. He made me feel alive.  And it was a feeling I desperately craved.

“Get up, Milo,” I demanded. Not as me but as the Night Market, speaking to their Gatekeeper.

Slowly, he sat up. “‘Kay,” he mumbled.

I scrambled backwards as he slowly rose, looking at him with searching eyes because I was almost positive he had heard me that time.

Bracing himself against the wall, he began moving down the tunnel, still clutching his side.  For one more day, he would continue to walk the realm. Continue to try and make this right.