Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ It's Not As Much Fun To Pick Up the Pieces ( Chapter 14 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: M Mehiel 
“Come home,” Touko urged again. “Just give yourself up, and it could be so much better…” She buried her face in his chest. “I don’t want them to hurt you,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I love you, Amon, I love you so much…”
Anime/Manga: Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 04.19.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.8K | Visits: 712 | Status: Work In Progress
“Come home,” Touko urged again. “Just give yourself up, and it could be so much better…” She buried her face in his chest. “I don’t want them to hurt you,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I love you, Amon, I love you so much…”
Anime/Manga: Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 04.19.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.8K | Visits: 712 | Status: Work In Progress
Training told Amon that his Hunter would fire, now, and he saw her finger squeeze the trigger while his body corrected, better he catch the bullet than Robin, just as Touko's arm came up awkwardly to knock the gun from Bonn's hands. The bullet went high and wide.
“Don't you touch him!” Touko shrilled. She ran at Amon, slamming into him as her arms closed around him. She turned her face to glare at the Hunter. “If you want to shoot him, you'll have to shoot me, first!”
“I wasn't aiming for him, Touko,” Bonn said quietly. She looked Amon up and down. “I have no desire to harm you, Mr. Nagira,” she said in a clear voice. “Simply come with me, and this will be over.”
Instead of answering, Amon looked at Michael, and Doujima, and at Miho and Sakaki, who had emerged from their hiding place. There was a mixture of happiness, fear, and sorrow on their faces that he couldn't begin to express. They stared at Robin. They stared at him.
“Now, none of you can deny the truth of it,” Margarethe Bonn said. “You all know that both of them are alive. You all have seen this thing.”
Miho's ungloved hands moved in the air aimlessly. She wanted to touch them, hold them, Amon could see that much. But the suspicion was also there—anyone endowed with the Craft could sense Robin's new power, its intensity licking at the edges of a Craft-user's consciousness. “I prayed,” she said brokenly. “I prayed…”
“And so did I,” Touko said fervently, her arms still around Amon. “Amon, come home, please…”
“What?” Amon asked. He blinked, his glance now focused on Touko. Her face was thinner, more fragile. The skin seemed papery, transparent. Her hair hung limply about her face, its original style ruined by rain. The eyes, dark in the night, still managed to sparkle.
“Come home,” she urged again. “Just give yourself up, and it could be so much better…” She buried her face in his chest. “I don't want them to hurt you,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I love you, Amon, I love you so much…”
Amon's mouth worked, silently. “I know,” he managed.
“I knew you couldn't be dead,” she whispered. “I knew it. My whole body knew.”
“Wounds always know their maker,” Amon murmured.
Touko pulled away. “No, it wasn't like that,” she said, her face open and honest, transcendent. “I never blamed you, not once. I've loved you so long, since I was a child…” She hugged him again, smiling through tears. “You're everything to me, Amon. How could I abandon you?” She squeezed, pressed herself even further against him. “I've never left you. I could never betray you like that, like your mother…” Amon stiffened, but Touko didn't seem to notice. “You're so broken, Amon. I know it, better than anyone. You want to talk about wounds…I know all about yours. I know all of them, and I love them, because they belong to you.” She pulled away again, her hand coming up to graze his face. “I'll never leave you,” she intoned. “I will never slip away from you. I will never become unreachable to you. I will never choose something else, or someone else, over you.” She smiled. “You're so torn already. I could never do that to you, again, and live with myself.”
Like a curse, Neville's words returned to him. She loved you, Amon. And this time he saw Robin's face in the car, her eyes gone to gimlets and her jaw set in steel, as she contemplated her future children. His mother's face, a ghost, briefly superimposed itself over Robin's. Unreachable. Slipping away. Given to a power he could not understand or control. Chaotic dancing lights in the sky, beautiful and strange and dangerous and all the things he thought he'd renounced forever. And entirely worth the quest, worth his ravaged mind, his very identity as a human being and Witch Hunter sacrificed—one man had begun this, and another man would finish it.
“You cannot tell me who I am,” he said to Touko. “You don't know me, any longer.”
She frowned, her dream dispelled. “How can you say that, Amon?”
In answer, Amon briefly closed his eyes, imagining those dragons of light above frozen tundra. The ice arrows materialized around him. They were his sharp and twisted aura, hovering, glittering, above his shoulders and head. He held them there, fighting to keep them under control. Seeing them, Touko jumped, stepping away but maintaining a grip on him.
“Whatever wounds I may have, they are not the parts of me that should most trouble you,” he said simply. He smiled blackly. “Your father's worst suspicions proved true.” He swallowed. “As have my own.”
“Amon…”
A few feet away, Margarethe Bonn dropped her gun, obviously unprepared for Amon's new abilities and not willing to take any chances on incurring their use. “Let me go, Touko,” Amon whispered. The arrows trembled. “Let go.”
“I can't…”
“Yes, you can.” His hand came up, and took hers away from his face, gently. He took her other hand and placed the two together. “Let go.”
Touko's eyes flicked to a location behind him. “You were prepared to leave her, just a moment ago,” she said bitterly.
Robin. “I've been prepared to die for her, for months.”
Touko's eyes widened, new understanding rippling across her features. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “You…Amon…”
“I'm sorry, Touko,” he said honestly. “Please go, before you get hurt.”
“I already am hurt.” Tears were falling anew down her face. “How can you do this to me…I love you…”
He shook his head. “The man you love is dead.” He raised a hand, and sent the ice arrows into a wall above Margarethe Bonn's head. The wind they left blew the hair away from Touko's face. She flinched. “I'm a Witch, Touko.” He sighed. “Please let me go, Touko,” he murmured, and willed her to understand his second meaning.
Fear, disgust, rage, and love combated on Touko's face, until she broke with a soft strangled sound in her throat, and tore herself away from him, running haphazardly down a rainy alley and into the darkness. Amon sighed. Margarethe watched her run away, and then brought up her gun again. “It's time, Mr. Nagira.”
“Time for what?” another voice asked, stepping out from the shadows behind Margarethe. Amon heard a gun cock. “My name's Nagira, too.” Two shots fired. Margarethe fell.
“What have you done?” Doujima screeched, running to Nagira.
“Relax, baby,” Amon's older brother said, spreading his hands expansively and smiling easily. “They're tranquilizers.”
Amon smiled dryly at Nagira. “You always did get the better toys, when we were kids.”
“What else are older brothers for?”
***
A moment later, everything moved at once.
Michael was a blur, running to Robin. Behind him, Amon heard Michael catch Robin up in his arms. Doujima was still fretting over Bonn, kneeling in the street and rather helplessly arranging Bonn's coat to better cover her, as though in her sedation her superior would notice the attention and go easy on her, later. Miho and Sakaki merely stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know what, but found Miho merely smiling at him, shaking her head.
“I don't know why I ever doubted,” she said, sniffing hard and wiping away her running mascara. Her short brown hair was now plastered to her head with rain.
“Yeah, long time no see,” Sakaki added. “How was being dead?”
“Busy,” Amon answered numbly.
“So I gathered…” Miho stepped closer to him, but he noticed she was careful not to touch him. Amon imagined that with her Craft, and his current emotional state, standing any closer to him than necessary would probably stand her hair on end. “I've never met someone with the Ice Craft, before. Not even in my training.” She smiled helplessly. “Although you have to admit, it is pretty ironic…”
“Yeah, the ice man cometh, and all that,” Sakaki said brightly. Miho and Amon stared at him.
“What, I can't read Eugene O'Neill?”
Miho rolled her eyes. Then her glance fixated on something else. “Michael?”
Turning, Amon saw Michael with his arms locked tight around Robin. He held the back of her head to his shoulder, the knuckles white. Robin looked limp, tired. She sagged against him. Michael's eyes were closed. As though sensing the presence of other eyes on him, they opened, and bore down on Amon.
“You selfish, greedy bastard,” Michael muttered, and hugged Robin closer.
“Perhaps selfish, but I don't know about greedy,” another voice said from a darkened corner of the alley. It was one of the Faceless, and it sounded familiar. A tall form in a brown cassock stood up, dusted itself off. To Amon's consternation, it peeled off the blank Noh mask and discarded it on the street.
“I think this calls for a drink, don't you?” Kobari asked.
***
“What?!” Doujima shrieked. “You knew the whole time?”
“I told you to bring them to me,” Kobari said smoothly.
“Wait, so you did know, Doujima?” Sakaki accused. “Just like last time? And you told the fucking bartender, but you didn't tell us?”
“I can still hear you, you know, Mr. Sakaki,” Kobari reminded him. “And remember, I'm the one who told you and Miss Karasuma.”
“You told them?” Doujima screeched.
“It's beside the point!” Sakaki insisted. “You fleeced us! Again!”
“I'm never sharing secrets with you again!” Doujima threatened.
“It wasn't a secret; I already knew,” Kobari explained. He began taking off the rest of the cassock, exposing his usual Harry's uniform of black pants and turtleneck beneath it.
“That doesn't give you any excuse to go run and tell everyone!”
“You're one of the Faceless?” Amon asked.
“Ah, good, a pertinent question. The answer is yes, Amon.” Kobari folded his cassock over one arm.
Amon's eyes narrowed. “All of the information you ever gave me…”
“You'll remember that I never gave you a false tip, in all your time at Ravens' Flat,” Kobari reminded him.
“No, you were just spying on STN-J's movements, the entire time,” Amon growled.
“While you were spying on the Witching community's, yes.” Kobari smiled pleasantly. “And you thought your Craft was ironic.”
“Tenchou?”
Robin had left Michael's embrace. She wandered, dazed, to Kobari. The rain had receded to a light drizzle, now, but her hair was already a stringy mess. She slipped in some mud, and Kobari caught her with one sure arm. “Tenchou,” she murmured. She looked confused. Amon wondered if her maintenance of the shield had drained her more than she'd expected.
“Your hair has grown, Robin,” Kobari observed kindly. “And you have different clothes! I suppose you have Miss Doujima to thank for that.”
Robin nodded silently. She licked her lips, obviously trying to find words. “You…were with us, the entire time?”
“Even as you found your new memories, with the Elders,” Kobari answered. He held Robin's other shoulder lightly. “I wouldn't have let any harm come to you, Robin.”
“Is that why you led a Witch Hunter straight to us, then?” Amon spat. “You're obviously the leak.”
Kobari continued to look down benevolently at Robin. “How else was I supposed to get you two out of the country?” he asked quietly. “If the Elders had their way, they would keep the Eve of Witches in a gilded cage forever, the jewel in their crown.” He looked up, his eyes finding Michael. “That, Mr. Lee, is what is called selfish greed.” He looked back at Robin. “Now they will be forced to move, and you will be free of them.”
“And on the run, again,” Amon said acidly.
Kobari's gaze shifted. “Don't tell me you thought it could last forever, Amon.”
It felt like a slap in the face. Amon stared at Kobari. Kobari stared at him. Two pairs of black eyes held one another, and eventually Amon broke away, staring at the street. The barman, informant, and Seed was absolutely right. Michael didn't understand the half of Amon's selfishness.
“You say you have a plan?” Amon asked the bartender.
Kobari nodded. “But we must leave here. We have already stayed too long.” He looked at the rest of them. “Miss Bonn was right. This now involves all of you. Those of you who are willing to help your friends, please come with me.”
***
Robin sat at a little table inside their old haunt, staring at Ravens' Flat with unfocused eyes. Margarethe Bonn slept, bound and gagged, in the trunk of her own car, which Nagira had taken command of. Kobari stood behind the bar as usual, pouring drinks for everyone. Amon held his whisky without drinking it. Nagira, seated beside his brother, had procured an ashtray and half-filled it with cigarette ends. He breathed smoke.
“Leave the country?” Nagira asked. “For where?”
“Italy, of course,” Kobari answered.
“Straight into the lions' den?” Sakaki demanded. “Are you insane?”
“The best Hunters are there, and also the best Witches,” Kobari answered. “Has it never occurred to you that by killing all of the Witches they can find, Solomon has inadvertently been separating the wheat from the chaff?”
“You mean we've been getting the slow, stupid ones?” Karasuma asked.
“And paving the way for evolution,” Michael said dully. “The strong ones smart enough to evade capture live on, possibly training other Witches, or giving birth to Seeds.”
“And the ones best informed of Solomon's advances are the ones closest to its heart, in Rome,” Kobari said. “There are Witches there who can teach Robin more than merely how to defend herself. There's more to the Craft than simple ability, and Robin is gaining access to all of the Crafts—she has the raw talent, but the Elders of the Walled City have given her none of the application, none of the theory. She is the Eve of Witches, the greatest hope any of us have for ending the war. The power you have witnessed is nothing in comparison to what she might truly be capable of, given the proper training.”
“But I remember,” Robin said hollowly, speaking for the first time since their arrival. “I have the Arcanum. Every day, I remember more.” She turned to the bar. Her face was pale. “Isn't that enough?”
Kobari shook his head slowly. “No,” he murmured. “I'm sorry, little one, but it is not enough.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “The memories only expose you to the Craft, and even then only in its more dire uses. You have faced Witches who could project astrally, or insert themselves into the minds of others. This is not merely the Craft, it is spellwork. And it is what the Elders of the Walled City have hidden from you, in an effort to hobble you and keep you all their own, to further their ends and increase their standing within the Witching world.” He leveled his gaze at Robin. “Am I wrong?”
Robin shook her head. “I have done no spells, in my time with them.” She frowned, her eyes gone distant. “I have done very little…”
“Robin, don't say that..” Michael hopped off his stool, striding to Robin's table. He put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her to him. “I'm sure it's been very difficult.”
Robin didn't answer. Her eyes were still vacant, lost. She was squeezed bonelessly by Michael's hug. Amon felt himself frowning, only to feel his brother's eyes, catlike and knowing, on him. Nagira wasn't smiling, far from it. But Amon knew his brother's eyes, knew what understanding they attempted to convey. At any other time, Syungi might have been bemused by his younger brother's unexpected tendrils of possessiveness. On a night like this one, there was little time for such things. They had all fucked themselves into a corner. Touko would go to Solomon. Margarethe Bonn had seen their faces, knew where their loyalties were. She would bring down hell on all of them, STN-J included—the Walled City would be scoured, as would anyone potentially owing a favor to Amon Nagira. Kobari was right, they now had to leave—the Walled City Elders could no longer protect them, or even pretend to do so.
“Michael's right, it must have been so hard, for you,” Karasuma said. Amon was vaguely aware of her joining Michael and hugging Robin tight. “But you're alive, and that's what matters most, isn't it?”
Again, Robin didn't answer. Nagira cleared his throat. “I think it's time we all retired, isn't it?” He looked at Doujima. “Honey, you take Robin home with you to my place. Stay there. I have to figure out what to do with our friend Miss Bonn.” He surveyed the crowd. “It would be better for all of you if I didn't tell you what it was.”
“I should…” Amon began.
“She'll be fine, don't worry. You need your rest, too. I'll take you home.”
Only later would Amon reflect on the fact that the she in his older brother's sentence was implied, rather than stated. He meant Robin because he knew that was who Amon's mind was with. Michael, Karasuma, and Sakaki all made their goodbyes to Robin, Michael's a tad more lingering than the others, and soon Doujima was shuffling her into a car. Robin threw a backward glance at Amon, her face registering confusion. Amon's mouth opened silently—he willed her to understand that it would be all right, he would make it all right. And then she was gone.
Kobari cleared his throat. “I know you're angry with me, Amon.”
“Anger doesn't begin to cover it,” the former Witch Hunter replied as he heard Robin leave.
“However you feel, if that is still your feeling when this is all finished, come back for me and settle it, then.”
Amon nodded, and let his brother urge him into Miss Bonn's car.
***
“Are you drunk enough to sleep?” Nagira asked, outside the apartment.
“I don't know.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
Amon turned to him. “I don't know.”
Nagira dropped a cigarette end outside the car's window. “I thought that a night apart might be a good idea for you two, after that business with Touko.”
Amon leaned forward, his hands sliding up his face, covering his eyes. He rested his forehead against the unfamiliar dashboard. “That business…” he muttered. “Christ, Syungi…Jesus fucking Christ…”
“You were right, Amon,” Nagira said. “She can't tell you who you are.”
“I can't tell me that, anymore.”
Nagira sighed. He smoked. “You're Amon Nagira, my little brother,” he said. “Whatever else happens, that doesn't change.” His hand rested between Amon's sunken shoulder blades, warm and flat. “They tried their best to split us up, back then. And they failed.”
Amon sucked in breath. “The old bastard who teaches me says that Mother came to the Walled City after…Father, and asked for help.”
Amon felt his brother pat him lightly, the way he would a baby, too gentle for the shoulders of an ex-assassin. “It would make sense,” Nagira said. “Where else would she go?”
“Why would she do it?”
“Why does anyone ask for help? Maybe she was afraid. She had a lot to be afraid of, at the time.”
“Even if it's true, they obviously didn't help her any,” Amon snarled, his voice muffled in his hands. “You and I both know how well that turned out.”
“Is that why you hate the Elders?” Nagira asked. “Or is it something else?”
The opportunity to tell his brother about Robin's actions over the past few days hung in the air between them. Amon knew it as well as Nagira did. But for whatever reason, he wanted to keep those memories to himself. What could he possibly explain? That Robin, a child ten years his junior, was becoming more beautiful to him by the day, even as her growing powers drew her further and further away from him? Amon twisted his head around, to look at his brother. He sat up, felt Nagira's arm slide up and rest across his shoulders. “I don't know anymore,” he said. “I don't know anything.”
“You know your job,” Nagira said, and sent his brother off. Amon walked up the stairs to the apartment, and let himself in. It was curiously silent. Without Robin there, the place seemed too big. His footsteps echoed in the kitchen. Even the sounds of his undressing seemed too loud. There was no reason to leave his door open as usual, but no real reason to close it, either. He was utterly useless, at loose ends. He collapsed onto the bed and tried to process the night. Everything returned at once, too fast to understand. But what had etched itself into his memory was Robin, standing her ground, refusing to let him go, considering the transformation into everything she feared most just to keep the rotten failure of his life on its miserable course one more night.
***
He was asleep on top of the covers when she came home the next day. It was late afternoon, muggy and humid. He stumbled out of his room, groggy, still undressed. His tongue felt like cotton. Sleep had been fickle, all night, visiting only in fifteen-minute sessions that left him disoriented and annoyed. Robin didn't look well-rested, either; there were dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
“Rough night?” he asked.
“I didn't sleep.”
“Me either.”
They couldn't look at one another. Both cast their eyes to the floor. Both attempted to say something, faltered at the beginnings of the other, and were silent. He could feel something radiating from Robin. Amon couldn't place it—it was the hollow plea in her vacant eyes from last night, now directed somewhere he couldn't see; at their situation, perhaps. Unable to say anything, Robin pushed past the kitchen table and brushed him. As she did, something fell from her hand. Stooping to pick it up, needful of something to do, Amon grabbed the little scrap of paper-
-And was face to face with his mother, again. And himself, aged two, smiling until his face cracked in half.
As though the sun had chosen to shine its lethal rays down on their apartment, Amon felt sweat break out across him anew; his fingers went slippery on the paper. “Where did you get this?” he whispered.
“Nagira-”
“That fucking bastard,” Amon muttered. “He has no goddamn right-”
“No, it wasn't him, it was me,” Robin protested. “I asked him-”
Amon's face came up. Robin took two steps back, toward the door. “You did what?” Amon breathed.
“I asked him…” Robin's voice trembled. She looked at the little fragment of photograph, as though it might offer her some clue. “After what Touko said, I thought…” She trailed off.
“What did you think, Robin?” Amon demanded. “That it was your business? That you could just pry into whatever you felt like? That it would be fun?”
Silently, fighting back tears, Robin shook her head. “I thought I could understand-”
“Well, you can't!” Amon shouted. Robin jumped inside her skin, quivering. “You can't! Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, perfectly,” she murmured. She blinked rapidly, trying to master her feelings. He gave her the full benefit of his glare, and she caved under it, her head falling. Her bangs hung low, obscuring her face. “Your experience is so different from mine; I shouldn't have tried to understand it.”
Amon shook his head with disgust, and turned to walk into his own room. He was almost at the arch when a small voice behind him asked, “This is why you hate me, isn't it?”
“What?” Amon turned. He made a step toward her. Robin flinched. She was afraid of him, terrified of what he might do. Something chilled inside him. Robin's head remained hung low. Her voice was just above a whisper.
"This is it. This is why you can't stand being near me. It's why, since my new training has started, your eyes have changed, when they look at me. You look at me like you don't know me, any more.” Her face came up, streaked with tears. Amon felt something inside rip—that rooftop feeling, watching her, knowing he would pull the trigger, later. Cold streamed from him. “Because I'm slipping away, like she did,” Robin whispered. Tears dripped from the tip of her nose. “My God, what have I done?”
She sank a little against the wall, her hands coming up to cover her face, clawing into her hair. “Every day with me must be pain, for you,” she said, voice muffled and thick. “Every day, I put you through torture, remembering her, because I'm not strong enough…” Her breath caught. “And it's my fault that you're a Witch, because I was stupid and foolish…and now everything you always feared…you're…you said it, to Touko…” She sniffed. “And Touko…that poor woman...because of me…” Robin coughed on her own tears. “You could be so happy without me, Amon…you deserve so much better than this…”
Her hands came down, made into small fists. Her eyes were red. “I won't let you do this to yourself, anymore,” she resolved, sucking in air. “I'm leaving. You're free.” She pushed away from the wall, head down, steps methodical, jerky. Amon corrected his movements without thought, and Robin walked straight into him. She shook her head. “You're free,” she whispered to herself. “Free of me. Let me go-”
“No,” Amon said, voice quiet. Mercifully icy winds sang through his every vein. “No, Robin.”
Her hands came up to push at him. “Let me go!”
“You're not going anywhere.” He felt himself start to shiver.
“You almost died, last night, because of me!” Robin cried. “It's my fault! If you stay with me, you'll die, just like your mother, and I can't, I won't, Amon…” She leaned her forehead against him. “Amon…”
Shivering, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. He laid his cheek on the top of her head. In the middle of all this madness, her hair at least still smelled familiar. And her shape, how she fit against him, his body still remembered those things, although his mind was reeling. “It's not hatred,” he said. “It's not that.”
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered into his skin. “That day, under the well…” She shook her head, her hair brushing him. Her breath heaved against her will in fits and starts. “I can't…not again…That's why you have to leave…”
Amon surprised himself, kissed her scalp. “I made that decision a long time ago, Robin.”
She shook her head, still fighting him. “It's not right, you shouldn't-”
“It's my life,” he said. And he pulled her tighter, felt her arms snake up around him. He was shaking, now. “Mine.”
“Then, I'll order you,” she protested weakly. “I'll order you to leave, and then-”
“I didn't even load bullets, that night above Nagira's office,” Amon began. “The gun was empty. I had no intention of shooting you.” He buried his mouth in her hair again. “Do you know what that means?” Robin was silent, but she pressed herself closer to him. “It means I'd rather be dead than be the one responsible for killing you.”
“You promised, that if I-”
“I made another promise, instead,” Amon silenced her. His hands wouldn't cease their slight tremor, on her back. His spine shuddered. His teeth were almost chattering. “I tried, Robin. When the time for your Hunt came, I tried.” He made fists of his hands, squeezed, let go. “The one with top marksmanship scores in his class, who couldn't hit one little girl…”
“Amon…” She ran a hand up his back. “You're shaking.”
“I'm fucking freezing, Robin.” He pulled away. He brought one trembling hand up to gesture at the kitchen around them. Every surface, every object, was covered in a thick layer of frost. The floor shone, was now a tiny ice-rink inside the apartment. The constant homely drip of water from the faucet was now a long, thin, glittering icicle. Their dishes, their utensils, were studded with ice crystals. The windows were opaque with ice. Everything sparkled with the sunlight of a summer afternoon. “Does this look like dishonesty, to you?” he rasped.
“Amon…” Robin stared at the kitchen, her grief momentarily forgotten, grass-green eyes taking in the incongruous winter snow surrounding them. “It's beautiful…”
“No, it's not,” Amon replied, and brought her face around to his. And now it was almost cruel that he could only but remember the well, because he held her face the same way he'd done all those months ago, and at his touch the tears she wore froze into hard jewels on her skin. He tucked her hair behind her ears. “You said you would promise me something.”
“Yes?” There was a kind of hope in Robin's face.
He thumbed her face. “Promise me you'll never think that of me, again,” he asked. “You'll never believe that I hate you. You'll never be afraid of me, ever again.” His chattering teeth formed a kind of twisted smile. “I may be a murdering bastard, Robin, but I can't…” He breathed, tried to master himself. His thumb grazed a tear in its perusal of her face; the shard fell into his palm. His fingers closed around it, tight. “Don't ever cry over me again, I'm not worth-”
“Amon,” Robin said, and nestled into his chest, pulling him this time, locking her arms around him. “Amon.”
“Promise me,” he urged, lips finding her hair, arms tight around her. “Promise me, Robin.”
She pulled away a little, as though surfacing for air. Wet eyes looked back at him. She breathed deeply. He felt the entire movement reflected on him, he could only shiver with it. “I promise that I will never believe such awful things about Amon Nagira, who has proven his dedication, over and over, and at such great peril to himself.” She smiled.
Amon's hands came up, held her face. He closed his eyes, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. The lips lingered there, not ready to abandon warmth, softness, Robin; wanting only to imprint this on her, leave a mark, freeze it forever in her memory. “That's the Eve of Witches talking,” he whispered, smiling, and folded her into him, again.
And this time, the embrace wasn't so fraught with danger. She settled against him as though fully aware that it was her place. He rested his head atop hers, one hand tangled up in her hair, content to stand and breathe and be at peace. That is, until he felt something very, very warm at the base of his spine. Robin's fingers, feather-light, searingly hot.
“What are you…” He trailed off, feeling her hand move, which was a different, almost electric, feeling altogether.
“You've been so honest, and I know it's difficult,” Robin answered; one finger making a lazy up-and-down motion that he swore was being scorched permanently onto his nerve endings. “I wanted to show you some of what I've learned, something more constructive than just setting things on fire.” She stopped, and he felt the cold return in full force, angry to have been banished and determined to frost his skin over again and reclaim its territory. “Unless it isn't all right?”
“It's all right,” Amon said before he could think, trying to make up excuses as she continued: he was slipping, last night was awful, his nerves were frayed, Robin had wept, he wasn't even dressed, for Christ's sake, and holy God how did her hands get that warm?
But it was more than just heat. This felt like electrical current. He could feel the presence of his own Craft inside him, rebelling against hers, tingling under his skin where hers warmed its surface. Her other hand came up, both now drifting up and down his spine lightly. Amon closed his eyes against it, mouth opening just to breathe. “You've been so good to me,” Robin said. “And…I wanted to do something for you in return...give you something back…”
Amon knew exactly where that kind of thinking would take him, his mind already compromised with this daze of heat and energy and exhaustion both physical and otherwise. He could imagine exactly what kind of reward he'd like best, other places her hands could wander off to, and silently damned himself for it. Trails of gold were left where she touched him, her Craft pouring sunlight down his spine, soaking his nerves with warmth. He attempted to remind himself that Robin couldn't possibly know what she was doing, not the Robin whose hands moved with such innocent curiosity over him, gentle and exploratory at the same time, as though all they wanted was to know every detail…
“You don't have to give me anything,” he hoarsed. He kneaded her back, helplessly, needing an outlet.
“But you're so cold,” Robin protested. Her fingertips moved distractedly, as though her mind were somewhere else, an autumn breeze full of bonfire sparks inside his muscles, stirring up into the air, to his dizzy head. “And after all you've done, all you've told me, you deserve…” Her voice spoke of her frustration.
“I don't deserve anything special for doing what I already agreed to do,” Amon countered, not sure where his words were coming from or how he could speak, with the lights she was firing inside him, every nerve awake and alive, his back very nearly moving with her, just to follow her fingers.
“But I want to,” Robin said simply. Her fingers moved down to the exquisitely sensitive area at the base of his spine that he'd never known existed, drifted there, making tiny, warm circles, releasing one group of tensions only to build another, more powerful one. “I want to, Amon.”
“Far be it from me to stand in your way.” He buried his face in her hair again, surrendering, if only just for now. He let himself go, the muscles and nerves quaking under her Craft; he could feel her control of it, her control of herself—that was the true nature of her power, he realized in his haze, control. The thing he strove most for, and the thing she seemed effortlessly able to possess. This particular skill was beyond anything a simple pair of glasses could do for her. It seemed almost cruel, the way their situations had reversed. For now there were only her hands, and her smell, and the growing weakness in his knees as he leaned against her in a boxer's hug, while she did things to him he couldn't begin to understand. With his face hidden, he could silently scream, eyes closed, mouth open, his features contorted with pleasure and the agony of suppressing it.
A slight dripping caught his attention, and his curious eyes caught a glimpse of the faucet-icicle, now half-gone, dripping rapidly. His vision roved the remainder of the kitchen. The walls sweated, water plinking down from the cabinets to the counter and floor. Everything dripped. The air was thick, humid, tasted different. Their dishes held water. He looked down, and saw that he and Robin were now the center of a widening pool; their feet were soaked. Only the edges of the kitchen were still frosty.
“Are you doing this?” he asked.
“It's both of us,” she answered. “Without you, there would be no water.” She continued, one hand now playing between his shoulder blades, just under his neck.
“It'll be a hell of a cleanup job,” Amon muttered, smiling, his nose finding her hair again. “You've gotten everything all wet.”
“It's worth it,” Robin assured him, sending a little bolt of electricity up his spine.
And it was then, while he stood nearly naked, bathed in Robin's light, that Kobari and Margarethe Bonn knocked on the kitchen door. Thankfully, it was closed. Amon could just make out their faces in the other window, shaded with a thin curtain. Behind them stood his brother. He looked down at Robin.
“Go put on some clothes,” she said. His eyes surveyed the thoroughly soaked kitchen. There was another knock on the door. “Don't worry,” Robin continued. Amon sighed, and unfolded one hand, that containing the photo. He reached down and pressed it into her hand.
“Nagira gave this to you; it's yours.” And with that, he was gone, wet feet drying themselves on carpet while he tried to gather his thoughts. In his room he wrestled open drawers. The other hand opened, still holding a crystalline tear. In his hand, it had remained frozen. Although he could not explain exactly the bizarre sense it made, Amon placed the tear on his tongue and let it dissolve, salty and human. Perhaps he did it out of his promise to remember, tonguing and swallowing evidence of his Robin, in remembrance of her.
“Don't you touch him!” Touko shrilled. She ran at Amon, slamming into him as her arms closed around him. She turned her face to glare at the Hunter. “If you want to shoot him, you'll have to shoot me, first!”
“I wasn't aiming for him, Touko,” Bonn said quietly. She looked Amon up and down. “I have no desire to harm you, Mr. Nagira,” she said in a clear voice. “Simply come with me, and this will be over.”
Instead of answering, Amon looked at Michael, and Doujima, and at Miho and Sakaki, who had emerged from their hiding place. There was a mixture of happiness, fear, and sorrow on their faces that he couldn't begin to express. They stared at Robin. They stared at him.
“Now, none of you can deny the truth of it,” Margarethe Bonn said. “You all know that both of them are alive. You all have seen this thing.”
Miho's ungloved hands moved in the air aimlessly. She wanted to touch them, hold them, Amon could see that much. But the suspicion was also there—anyone endowed with the Craft could sense Robin's new power, its intensity licking at the edges of a Craft-user's consciousness. “I prayed,” she said brokenly. “I prayed…”
“And so did I,” Touko said fervently, her arms still around Amon. “Amon, come home, please…”
“What?” Amon asked. He blinked, his glance now focused on Touko. Her face was thinner, more fragile. The skin seemed papery, transparent. Her hair hung limply about her face, its original style ruined by rain. The eyes, dark in the night, still managed to sparkle.
“Come home,” she urged again. “Just give yourself up, and it could be so much better…” She buried her face in his chest. “I don't want them to hurt you,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I love you, Amon, I love you so much…”
Amon's mouth worked, silently. “I know,” he managed.
“I knew you couldn't be dead,” she whispered. “I knew it. My whole body knew.”
“Wounds always know their maker,” Amon murmured.
Touko pulled away. “No, it wasn't like that,” she said, her face open and honest, transcendent. “I never blamed you, not once. I've loved you so long, since I was a child…” She hugged him again, smiling through tears. “You're everything to me, Amon. How could I abandon you?” She squeezed, pressed herself even further against him. “I've never left you. I could never betray you like that, like your mother…” Amon stiffened, but Touko didn't seem to notice. “You're so broken, Amon. I know it, better than anyone. You want to talk about wounds…I know all about yours. I know all of them, and I love them, because they belong to you.” She pulled away again, her hand coming up to graze his face. “I'll never leave you,” she intoned. “I will never slip away from you. I will never become unreachable to you. I will never choose something else, or someone else, over you.” She smiled. “You're so torn already. I could never do that to you, again, and live with myself.”
Like a curse, Neville's words returned to him. She loved you, Amon. And this time he saw Robin's face in the car, her eyes gone to gimlets and her jaw set in steel, as she contemplated her future children. His mother's face, a ghost, briefly superimposed itself over Robin's. Unreachable. Slipping away. Given to a power he could not understand or control. Chaotic dancing lights in the sky, beautiful and strange and dangerous and all the things he thought he'd renounced forever. And entirely worth the quest, worth his ravaged mind, his very identity as a human being and Witch Hunter sacrificed—one man had begun this, and another man would finish it.
“You cannot tell me who I am,” he said to Touko. “You don't know me, any longer.”
She frowned, her dream dispelled. “How can you say that, Amon?”
In answer, Amon briefly closed his eyes, imagining those dragons of light above frozen tundra. The ice arrows materialized around him. They were his sharp and twisted aura, hovering, glittering, above his shoulders and head. He held them there, fighting to keep them under control. Seeing them, Touko jumped, stepping away but maintaining a grip on him.
“Whatever wounds I may have, they are not the parts of me that should most trouble you,” he said simply. He smiled blackly. “Your father's worst suspicions proved true.” He swallowed. “As have my own.”
“Amon…”
A few feet away, Margarethe Bonn dropped her gun, obviously unprepared for Amon's new abilities and not willing to take any chances on incurring their use. “Let me go, Touko,” Amon whispered. The arrows trembled. “Let go.”
“I can't…”
“Yes, you can.” His hand came up, and took hers away from his face, gently. He took her other hand and placed the two together. “Let go.”
Touko's eyes flicked to a location behind him. “You were prepared to leave her, just a moment ago,” she said bitterly.
Robin. “I've been prepared to die for her, for months.”
Touko's eyes widened, new understanding rippling across her features. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “You…Amon…”
“I'm sorry, Touko,” he said honestly. “Please go, before you get hurt.”
“I already am hurt.” Tears were falling anew down her face. “How can you do this to me…I love you…”
He shook his head. “The man you love is dead.” He raised a hand, and sent the ice arrows into a wall above Margarethe Bonn's head. The wind they left blew the hair away from Touko's face. She flinched. “I'm a Witch, Touko.” He sighed. “Please let me go, Touko,” he murmured, and willed her to understand his second meaning.
Fear, disgust, rage, and love combated on Touko's face, until she broke with a soft strangled sound in her throat, and tore herself away from him, running haphazardly down a rainy alley and into the darkness. Amon sighed. Margarethe watched her run away, and then brought up her gun again. “It's time, Mr. Nagira.”
“Time for what?” another voice asked, stepping out from the shadows behind Margarethe. Amon heard a gun cock. “My name's Nagira, too.” Two shots fired. Margarethe fell.
“What have you done?” Doujima screeched, running to Nagira.
“Relax, baby,” Amon's older brother said, spreading his hands expansively and smiling easily. “They're tranquilizers.”
Amon smiled dryly at Nagira. “You always did get the better toys, when we were kids.”
“What else are older brothers for?”
***
A moment later, everything moved at once.
Michael was a blur, running to Robin. Behind him, Amon heard Michael catch Robin up in his arms. Doujima was still fretting over Bonn, kneeling in the street and rather helplessly arranging Bonn's coat to better cover her, as though in her sedation her superior would notice the attention and go easy on her, later. Miho and Sakaki merely stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know what, but found Miho merely smiling at him, shaking her head.
“I don't know why I ever doubted,” she said, sniffing hard and wiping away her running mascara. Her short brown hair was now plastered to her head with rain.
“Yeah, long time no see,” Sakaki added. “How was being dead?”
“Busy,” Amon answered numbly.
“So I gathered…” Miho stepped closer to him, but he noticed she was careful not to touch him. Amon imagined that with her Craft, and his current emotional state, standing any closer to him than necessary would probably stand her hair on end. “I've never met someone with the Ice Craft, before. Not even in my training.” She smiled helplessly. “Although you have to admit, it is pretty ironic…”
“Yeah, the ice man cometh, and all that,” Sakaki said brightly. Miho and Amon stared at him.
“What, I can't read Eugene O'Neill?”
Miho rolled her eyes. Then her glance fixated on something else. “Michael?”
Turning, Amon saw Michael with his arms locked tight around Robin. He held the back of her head to his shoulder, the knuckles white. Robin looked limp, tired. She sagged against him. Michael's eyes were closed. As though sensing the presence of other eyes on him, they opened, and bore down on Amon.
“You selfish, greedy bastard,” Michael muttered, and hugged Robin closer.
“Perhaps selfish, but I don't know about greedy,” another voice said from a darkened corner of the alley. It was one of the Faceless, and it sounded familiar. A tall form in a brown cassock stood up, dusted itself off. To Amon's consternation, it peeled off the blank Noh mask and discarded it on the street.
“I think this calls for a drink, don't you?” Kobari asked.
***
“What?!” Doujima shrieked. “You knew the whole time?”
“I told you to bring them to me,” Kobari said smoothly.
“Wait, so you did know, Doujima?” Sakaki accused. “Just like last time? And you told the fucking bartender, but you didn't tell us?”
“I can still hear you, you know, Mr. Sakaki,” Kobari reminded him. “And remember, I'm the one who told you and Miss Karasuma.”
“You told them?” Doujima screeched.
“It's beside the point!” Sakaki insisted. “You fleeced us! Again!”
“I'm never sharing secrets with you again!” Doujima threatened.
“It wasn't a secret; I already knew,” Kobari explained. He began taking off the rest of the cassock, exposing his usual Harry's uniform of black pants and turtleneck beneath it.
“That doesn't give you any excuse to go run and tell everyone!”
“You're one of the Faceless?” Amon asked.
“Ah, good, a pertinent question. The answer is yes, Amon.” Kobari folded his cassock over one arm.
Amon's eyes narrowed. “All of the information you ever gave me…”
“You'll remember that I never gave you a false tip, in all your time at Ravens' Flat,” Kobari reminded him.
“No, you were just spying on STN-J's movements, the entire time,” Amon growled.
“While you were spying on the Witching community's, yes.” Kobari smiled pleasantly. “And you thought your Craft was ironic.”
“Tenchou?”
Robin had left Michael's embrace. She wandered, dazed, to Kobari. The rain had receded to a light drizzle, now, but her hair was already a stringy mess. She slipped in some mud, and Kobari caught her with one sure arm. “Tenchou,” she murmured. She looked confused. Amon wondered if her maintenance of the shield had drained her more than she'd expected.
“Your hair has grown, Robin,” Kobari observed kindly. “And you have different clothes! I suppose you have Miss Doujima to thank for that.”
Robin nodded silently. She licked her lips, obviously trying to find words. “You…were with us, the entire time?”
“Even as you found your new memories, with the Elders,” Kobari answered. He held Robin's other shoulder lightly. “I wouldn't have let any harm come to you, Robin.”
“Is that why you led a Witch Hunter straight to us, then?” Amon spat. “You're obviously the leak.”
Kobari continued to look down benevolently at Robin. “How else was I supposed to get you two out of the country?” he asked quietly. “If the Elders had their way, they would keep the Eve of Witches in a gilded cage forever, the jewel in their crown.” He looked up, his eyes finding Michael. “That, Mr. Lee, is what is called selfish greed.” He looked back at Robin. “Now they will be forced to move, and you will be free of them.”
“And on the run, again,” Amon said acidly.
Kobari's gaze shifted. “Don't tell me you thought it could last forever, Amon.”
It felt like a slap in the face. Amon stared at Kobari. Kobari stared at him. Two pairs of black eyes held one another, and eventually Amon broke away, staring at the street. The barman, informant, and Seed was absolutely right. Michael didn't understand the half of Amon's selfishness.
“You say you have a plan?” Amon asked the bartender.
Kobari nodded. “But we must leave here. We have already stayed too long.” He looked at the rest of them. “Miss Bonn was right. This now involves all of you. Those of you who are willing to help your friends, please come with me.”
***
Robin sat at a little table inside their old haunt, staring at Ravens' Flat with unfocused eyes. Margarethe Bonn slept, bound and gagged, in the trunk of her own car, which Nagira had taken command of. Kobari stood behind the bar as usual, pouring drinks for everyone. Amon held his whisky without drinking it. Nagira, seated beside his brother, had procured an ashtray and half-filled it with cigarette ends. He breathed smoke.
“Leave the country?” Nagira asked. “For where?”
“Italy, of course,” Kobari answered.
“Straight into the lions' den?” Sakaki demanded. “Are you insane?”
“The best Hunters are there, and also the best Witches,” Kobari answered. “Has it never occurred to you that by killing all of the Witches they can find, Solomon has inadvertently been separating the wheat from the chaff?”
“You mean we've been getting the slow, stupid ones?” Karasuma asked.
“And paving the way for evolution,” Michael said dully. “The strong ones smart enough to evade capture live on, possibly training other Witches, or giving birth to Seeds.”
“And the ones best informed of Solomon's advances are the ones closest to its heart, in Rome,” Kobari said. “There are Witches there who can teach Robin more than merely how to defend herself. There's more to the Craft than simple ability, and Robin is gaining access to all of the Crafts—she has the raw talent, but the Elders of the Walled City have given her none of the application, none of the theory. She is the Eve of Witches, the greatest hope any of us have for ending the war. The power you have witnessed is nothing in comparison to what she might truly be capable of, given the proper training.”
“But I remember,” Robin said hollowly, speaking for the first time since their arrival. “I have the Arcanum. Every day, I remember more.” She turned to the bar. Her face was pale. “Isn't that enough?”
Kobari shook his head slowly. “No,” he murmured. “I'm sorry, little one, but it is not enough.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “The memories only expose you to the Craft, and even then only in its more dire uses. You have faced Witches who could project astrally, or insert themselves into the minds of others. This is not merely the Craft, it is spellwork. And it is what the Elders of the Walled City have hidden from you, in an effort to hobble you and keep you all their own, to further their ends and increase their standing within the Witching world.” He leveled his gaze at Robin. “Am I wrong?”
Robin shook her head. “I have done no spells, in my time with them.” She frowned, her eyes gone distant. “I have done very little…”
“Robin, don't say that..” Michael hopped off his stool, striding to Robin's table. He put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her to him. “I'm sure it's been very difficult.”
Robin didn't answer. Her eyes were still vacant, lost. She was squeezed bonelessly by Michael's hug. Amon felt himself frowning, only to feel his brother's eyes, catlike and knowing, on him. Nagira wasn't smiling, far from it. But Amon knew his brother's eyes, knew what understanding they attempted to convey. At any other time, Syungi might have been bemused by his younger brother's unexpected tendrils of possessiveness. On a night like this one, there was little time for such things. They had all fucked themselves into a corner. Touko would go to Solomon. Margarethe Bonn had seen their faces, knew where their loyalties were. She would bring down hell on all of them, STN-J included—the Walled City would be scoured, as would anyone potentially owing a favor to Amon Nagira. Kobari was right, they now had to leave—the Walled City Elders could no longer protect them, or even pretend to do so.
“Michael's right, it must have been so hard, for you,” Karasuma said. Amon was vaguely aware of her joining Michael and hugging Robin tight. “But you're alive, and that's what matters most, isn't it?”
Again, Robin didn't answer. Nagira cleared his throat. “I think it's time we all retired, isn't it?” He looked at Doujima. “Honey, you take Robin home with you to my place. Stay there. I have to figure out what to do with our friend Miss Bonn.” He surveyed the crowd. “It would be better for all of you if I didn't tell you what it was.”
“I should…” Amon began.
“She'll be fine, don't worry. You need your rest, too. I'll take you home.”
Only later would Amon reflect on the fact that the she in his older brother's sentence was implied, rather than stated. He meant Robin because he knew that was who Amon's mind was with. Michael, Karasuma, and Sakaki all made their goodbyes to Robin, Michael's a tad more lingering than the others, and soon Doujima was shuffling her into a car. Robin threw a backward glance at Amon, her face registering confusion. Amon's mouth opened silently—he willed her to understand that it would be all right, he would make it all right. And then she was gone.
Kobari cleared his throat. “I know you're angry with me, Amon.”
“Anger doesn't begin to cover it,” the former Witch Hunter replied as he heard Robin leave.
“However you feel, if that is still your feeling when this is all finished, come back for me and settle it, then.”
Amon nodded, and let his brother urge him into Miss Bonn's car.
***
“Are you drunk enough to sleep?” Nagira asked, outside the apartment.
“I don't know.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
Amon turned to him. “I don't know.”
Nagira dropped a cigarette end outside the car's window. “I thought that a night apart might be a good idea for you two, after that business with Touko.”
Amon leaned forward, his hands sliding up his face, covering his eyes. He rested his forehead against the unfamiliar dashboard. “That business…” he muttered. “Christ, Syungi…Jesus fucking Christ…”
“You were right, Amon,” Nagira said. “She can't tell you who you are.”
“I can't tell me that, anymore.”
Nagira sighed. He smoked. “You're Amon Nagira, my little brother,” he said. “Whatever else happens, that doesn't change.” His hand rested between Amon's sunken shoulder blades, warm and flat. “They tried their best to split us up, back then. And they failed.”
Amon sucked in breath. “The old bastard who teaches me says that Mother came to the Walled City after…Father, and asked for help.”
Amon felt his brother pat him lightly, the way he would a baby, too gentle for the shoulders of an ex-assassin. “It would make sense,” Nagira said. “Where else would she go?”
“Why would she do it?”
“Why does anyone ask for help? Maybe she was afraid. She had a lot to be afraid of, at the time.”
“Even if it's true, they obviously didn't help her any,” Amon snarled, his voice muffled in his hands. “You and I both know how well that turned out.”
“Is that why you hate the Elders?” Nagira asked. “Or is it something else?”
The opportunity to tell his brother about Robin's actions over the past few days hung in the air between them. Amon knew it as well as Nagira did. But for whatever reason, he wanted to keep those memories to himself. What could he possibly explain? That Robin, a child ten years his junior, was becoming more beautiful to him by the day, even as her growing powers drew her further and further away from him? Amon twisted his head around, to look at his brother. He sat up, felt Nagira's arm slide up and rest across his shoulders. “I don't know anymore,” he said. “I don't know anything.”
“You know your job,” Nagira said, and sent his brother off. Amon walked up the stairs to the apartment, and let himself in. It was curiously silent. Without Robin there, the place seemed too big. His footsteps echoed in the kitchen. Even the sounds of his undressing seemed too loud. There was no reason to leave his door open as usual, but no real reason to close it, either. He was utterly useless, at loose ends. He collapsed onto the bed and tried to process the night. Everything returned at once, too fast to understand. But what had etched itself into his memory was Robin, standing her ground, refusing to let him go, considering the transformation into everything she feared most just to keep the rotten failure of his life on its miserable course one more night.
***
He was asleep on top of the covers when she came home the next day. It was late afternoon, muggy and humid. He stumbled out of his room, groggy, still undressed. His tongue felt like cotton. Sleep had been fickle, all night, visiting only in fifteen-minute sessions that left him disoriented and annoyed. Robin didn't look well-rested, either; there were dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
“Rough night?” he asked.
“I didn't sleep.”
“Me either.”
They couldn't look at one another. Both cast their eyes to the floor. Both attempted to say something, faltered at the beginnings of the other, and were silent. He could feel something radiating from Robin. Amon couldn't place it—it was the hollow plea in her vacant eyes from last night, now directed somewhere he couldn't see; at their situation, perhaps. Unable to say anything, Robin pushed past the kitchen table and brushed him. As she did, something fell from her hand. Stooping to pick it up, needful of something to do, Amon grabbed the little scrap of paper-
-And was face to face with his mother, again. And himself, aged two, smiling until his face cracked in half.
As though the sun had chosen to shine its lethal rays down on their apartment, Amon felt sweat break out across him anew; his fingers went slippery on the paper. “Where did you get this?” he whispered.
“Nagira-”
“That fucking bastard,” Amon muttered. “He has no goddamn right-”
“No, it wasn't him, it was me,” Robin protested. “I asked him-”
Amon's face came up. Robin took two steps back, toward the door. “You did what?” Amon breathed.
“I asked him…” Robin's voice trembled. She looked at the little fragment of photograph, as though it might offer her some clue. “After what Touko said, I thought…” She trailed off.
“What did you think, Robin?” Amon demanded. “That it was your business? That you could just pry into whatever you felt like? That it would be fun?”
Silently, fighting back tears, Robin shook her head. “I thought I could understand-”
“Well, you can't!” Amon shouted. Robin jumped inside her skin, quivering. “You can't! Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, perfectly,” she murmured. She blinked rapidly, trying to master her feelings. He gave her the full benefit of his glare, and she caved under it, her head falling. Her bangs hung low, obscuring her face. “Your experience is so different from mine; I shouldn't have tried to understand it.”
Amon shook his head with disgust, and turned to walk into his own room. He was almost at the arch when a small voice behind him asked, “This is why you hate me, isn't it?”
“What?” Amon turned. He made a step toward her. Robin flinched. She was afraid of him, terrified of what he might do. Something chilled inside him. Robin's head remained hung low. Her voice was just above a whisper.
"This is it. This is why you can't stand being near me. It's why, since my new training has started, your eyes have changed, when they look at me. You look at me like you don't know me, any more.” Her face came up, streaked with tears. Amon felt something inside rip—that rooftop feeling, watching her, knowing he would pull the trigger, later. Cold streamed from him. “Because I'm slipping away, like she did,” Robin whispered. Tears dripped from the tip of her nose. “My God, what have I done?”
She sank a little against the wall, her hands coming up to cover her face, clawing into her hair. “Every day with me must be pain, for you,” she said, voice muffled and thick. “Every day, I put you through torture, remembering her, because I'm not strong enough…” Her breath caught. “And it's my fault that you're a Witch, because I was stupid and foolish…and now everything you always feared…you're…you said it, to Touko…” She sniffed. “And Touko…that poor woman...because of me…” Robin coughed on her own tears. “You could be so happy without me, Amon…you deserve so much better than this…”
Her hands came down, made into small fists. Her eyes were red. “I won't let you do this to yourself, anymore,” she resolved, sucking in air. “I'm leaving. You're free.” She pushed away from the wall, head down, steps methodical, jerky. Amon corrected his movements without thought, and Robin walked straight into him. She shook her head. “You're free,” she whispered to herself. “Free of me. Let me go-”
“No,” Amon said, voice quiet. Mercifully icy winds sang through his every vein. “No, Robin.”
Her hands came up to push at him. “Let me go!”
“You're not going anywhere.” He felt himself start to shiver.
“You almost died, last night, because of me!” Robin cried. “It's my fault! If you stay with me, you'll die, just like your mother, and I can't, I won't, Amon…” She leaned her forehead against him. “Amon…”
Shivering, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. He laid his cheek on the top of her head. In the middle of all this madness, her hair at least still smelled familiar. And her shape, how she fit against him, his body still remembered those things, although his mind was reeling. “It's not hatred,” he said. “It's not that.”
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered into his skin. “That day, under the well…” She shook her head, her hair brushing him. Her breath heaved against her will in fits and starts. “I can't…not again…That's why you have to leave…”
Amon surprised himself, kissed her scalp. “I made that decision a long time ago, Robin.”
She shook her head, still fighting him. “It's not right, you shouldn't-”
“It's my life,” he said. And he pulled her tighter, felt her arms snake up around him. He was shaking, now. “Mine.”
“Then, I'll order you,” she protested weakly. “I'll order you to leave, and then-”
“I didn't even load bullets, that night above Nagira's office,” Amon began. “The gun was empty. I had no intention of shooting you.” He buried his mouth in her hair again. “Do you know what that means?” Robin was silent, but she pressed herself closer to him. “It means I'd rather be dead than be the one responsible for killing you.”
“You promised, that if I-”
“I made another promise, instead,” Amon silenced her. His hands wouldn't cease their slight tremor, on her back. His spine shuddered. His teeth were almost chattering. “I tried, Robin. When the time for your Hunt came, I tried.” He made fists of his hands, squeezed, let go. “The one with top marksmanship scores in his class, who couldn't hit one little girl…”
“Amon…” She ran a hand up his back. “You're shaking.”
“I'm fucking freezing, Robin.” He pulled away. He brought one trembling hand up to gesture at the kitchen around them. Every surface, every object, was covered in a thick layer of frost. The floor shone, was now a tiny ice-rink inside the apartment. The constant homely drip of water from the faucet was now a long, thin, glittering icicle. Their dishes, their utensils, were studded with ice crystals. The windows were opaque with ice. Everything sparkled with the sunlight of a summer afternoon. “Does this look like dishonesty, to you?” he rasped.
“Amon…” Robin stared at the kitchen, her grief momentarily forgotten, grass-green eyes taking in the incongruous winter snow surrounding them. “It's beautiful…”
“No, it's not,” Amon replied, and brought her face around to his. And now it was almost cruel that he could only but remember the well, because he held her face the same way he'd done all those months ago, and at his touch the tears she wore froze into hard jewels on her skin. He tucked her hair behind her ears. “You said you would promise me something.”
“Yes?” There was a kind of hope in Robin's face.
He thumbed her face. “Promise me you'll never think that of me, again,” he asked. “You'll never believe that I hate you. You'll never be afraid of me, ever again.” His chattering teeth formed a kind of twisted smile. “I may be a murdering bastard, Robin, but I can't…” He breathed, tried to master himself. His thumb grazed a tear in its perusal of her face; the shard fell into his palm. His fingers closed around it, tight. “Don't ever cry over me again, I'm not worth-”
“Amon,” Robin said, and nestled into his chest, pulling him this time, locking her arms around him. “Amon.”
“Promise me,” he urged, lips finding her hair, arms tight around her. “Promise me, Robin.”
She pulled away a little, as though surfacing for air. Wet eyes looked back at him. She breathed deeply. He felt the entire movement reflected on him, he could only shiver with it. “I promise that I will never believe such awful things about Amon Nagira, who has proven his dedication, over and over, and at such great peril to himself.” She smiled.
Amon's hands came up, held her face. He closed his eyes, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. The lips lingered there, not ready to abandon warmth, softness, Robin; wanting only to imprint this on her, leave a mark, freeze it forever in her memory. “That's the Eve of Witches talking,” he whispered, smiling, and folded her into him, again.
And this time, the embrace wasn't so fraught with danger. She settled against him as though fully aware that it was her place. He rested his head atop hers, one hand tangled up in her hair, content to stand and breathe and be at peace. That is, until he felt something very, very warm at the base of his spine. Robin's fingers, feather-light, searingly hot.
“What are you…” He trailed off, feeling her hand move, which was a different, almost electric, feeling altogether.
“You've been so honest, and I know it's difficult,” Robin answered; one finger making a lazy up-and-down motion that he swore was being scorched permanently onto his nerve endings. “I wanted to show you some of what I've learned, something more constructive than just setting things on fire.” She stopped, and he felt the cold return in full force, angry to have been banished and determined to frost his skin over again and reclaim its territory. “Unless it isn't all right?”
“It's all right,” Amon said before he could think, trying to make up excuses as she continued: he was slipping, last night was awful, his nerves were frayed, Robin had wept, he wasn't even dressed, for Christ's sake, and holy God how did her hands get that warm?
But it was more than just heat. This felt like electrical current. He could feel the presence of his own Craft inside him, rebelling against hers, tingling under his skin where hers warmed its surface. Her other hand came up, both now drifting up and down his spine lightly. Amon closed his eyes against it, mouth opening just to breathe. “You've been so good to me,” Robin said. “And…I wanted to do something for you in return...give you something back…”
Amon knew exactly where that kind of thinking would take him, his mind already compromised with this daze of heat and energy and exhaustion both physical and otherwise. He could imagine exactly what kind of reward he'd like best, other places her hands could wander off to, and silently damned himself for it. Trails of gold were left where she touched him, her Craft pouring sunlight down his spine, soaking his nerves with warmth. He attempted to remind himself that Robin couldn't possibly know what she was doing, not the Robin whose hands moved with such innocent curiosity over him, gentle and exploratory at the same time, as though all they wanted was to know every detail…
“You don't have to give me anything,” he hoarsed. He kneaded her back, helplessly, needing an outlet.
“But you're so cold,” Robin protested. Her fingertips moved distractedly, as though her mind were somewhere else, an autumn breeze full of bonfire sparks inside his muscles, stirring up into the air, to his dizzy head. “And after all you've done, all you've told me, you deserve…” Her voice spoke of her frustration.
“I don't deserve anything special for doing what I already agreed to do,” Amon countered, not sure where his words were coming from or how he could speak, with the lights she was firing inside him, every nerve awake and alive, his back very nearly moving with her, just to follow her fingers.
“But I want to,” Robin said simply. Her fingers moved down to the exquisitely sensitive area at the base of his spine that he'd never known existed, drifted there, making tiny, warm circles, releasing one group of tensions only to build another, more powerful one. “I want to, Amon.”
“Far be it from me to stand in your way.” He buried his face in her hair again, surrendering, if only just for now. He let himself go, the muscles and nerves quaking under her Craft; he could feel her control of it, her control of herself—that was the true nature of her power, he realized in his haze, control. The thing he strove most for, and the thing she seemed effortlessly able to possess. This particular skill was beyond anything a simple pair of glasses could do for her. It seemed almost cruel, the way their situations had reversed. For now there were only her hands, and her smell, and the growing weakness in his knees as he leaned against her in a boxer's hug, while she did things to him he couldn't begin to understand. With his face hidden, he could silently scream, eyes closed, mouth open, his features contorted with pleasure and the agony of suppressing it.
A slight dripping caught his attention, and his curious eyes caught a glimpse of the faucet-icicle, now half-gone, dripping rapidly. His vision roved the remainder of the kitchen. The walls sweated, water plinking down from the cabinets to the counter and floor. Everything dripped. The air was thick, humid, tasted different. Their dishes held water. He looked down, and saw that he and Robin were now the center of a widening pool; their feet were soaked. Only the edges of the kitchen were still frosty.
“Are you doing this?” he asked.
“It's both of us,” she answered. “Without you, there would be no water.” She continued, one hand now playing between his shoulder blades, just under his neck.
“It'll be a hell of a cleanup job,” Amon muttered, smiling, his nose finding her hair again. “You've gotten everything all wet.”
“It's worth it,” Robin assured him, sending a little bolt of electricity up his spine.
And it was then, while he stood nearly naked, bathed in Robin's light, that Kobari and Margarethe Bonn knocked on the kitchen door. Thankfully, it was closed. Amon could just make out their faces in the other window, shaded with a thin curtain. Behind them stood his brother. He looked down at Robin.
“Go put on some clothes,” she said. His eyes surveyed the thoroughly soaked kitchen. There was another knock on the door. “Don't worry,” Robin continued. Amon sighed, and unfolded one hand, that containing the photo. He reached down and pressed it into her hand.
“Nagira gave this to you; it's yours.” And with that, he was gone, wet feet drying themselves on carpet while he tried to gather his thoughts. In his room he wrestled open drawers. The other hand opened, still holding a crystalline tear. In his hand, it had remained frozen. Although he could not explain exactly the bizarre sense it made, Amon placed the tear on his tongue and let it dissolve, salty and human. Perhaps he did it out of his promise to remember, tonguing and swallowing evidence of his Robin, in remembrance of her.