The Price Of Love : Pictures On The Wall Psalm 6

[Silver Eagle]

"Don't lay a finger" I said but she held her with five
Kissed the crest of her lips
And put her hands on her thigh
"One million in a week or the girl's gonna go"
"I'd kill you in a second" She laughed "Yeah I know"

==

The purest and most magical form of euphoria had turned to ashes in her mouth, the dry and barren state of misery taking hold and enveloping her every being. She felt as if the heavens would open and a waterfall of salty rain would pour freely down her face, but her eyes were itching and raw, permanently open and pained at what they had just witnessed, an earthquake in the desert that swallowed roasting hot sand. She couldn’t move, her hands glued to the rests of the wooden throne, her fingernails torn and bloody after she dug them into the seat, splinters jabbing into the very tips. Her breath was quickened, gasp after gasp that she couldn’t manipulate or control. She glared at the screen and looked upon the untold horror, unable to do anything.

It wasn’t so long ago that the music played out in her name, the elation of supreme victory after a tactical masterstroke. The Little Circus Girl had studied the rules to the letter, knowing that she was to face one of the hardest hitting and bloodthirsty strikers in the business at their own game. It would strike fear into the hearts of anyone, to step through those ropes bare handed against a man with knives for hands and halberds for feet. But she had walked in without fear, without doubt, without even the death wish that some had claimed she had. She walked in with a plan. “Three strikes and you’re out,” she had whispered to herself as the bell rang, and ring it did again less than three minutes later. In those few minutes she had defeated the destroyer at his own game, she had dethroned a legend within these ranks, and everything was glorious. And now it was not.

Those greens and blues of hers watched on, the air of despondency growing thicker and thicker, filling her lungs like expanding foam. She wanted to cry out as she saw her beloved wife, sorrow taking her every being, wandering through the curtains after the most unfair and cruel of defeats. It was not dominance that beat her, nor skill, nor tactics. It was opinion, an opinion she did not hold herself. Anastasia forced herself up, tearing the arms of the chair off as she did so, not realizing the strength she had in that pocket sized frame of hers. She sprinted from the room, hurling down the wooden stakes, as she barged past any and all that were in her way. She had to get there, she had to find her, to grip her tightly and be there in her hour of need like she had been there for her, so many times.

Hops, leaps, jumps. It mattered not who or what was in the way, and she seemingly took flight on several occasions as she soared out with great wings of silver, flapping high and above the faceless masses as she sought out the only one who mattered now, the only one who mattered forever.

But she was not there. She was not where she should be.

Panic and desperation took hold, as she frantically opened door after door in search of her beloved wife, but it was to no avail. As she turned a final corner, she dropped to her knees, a single bracelet upon the floor, glittering in the artificial light. She picked it up, and then the tears flowed. The bracelet matched her own, in style and colour and markings. The image of a fiery bird of prey, an ethereal spirit coiled around it. She saw the lifeless body of a faceless man laid before her as the tears finally flowed, and she screamed out for help.

She was gone...

==

I won eight hundred thousand on a gameshow
But it's not enough to win her back
As my tears hit the floor she still said "No"
"Come on woman, give me some slack"
I looked at the case she said "I'll show you her blood"
I screamed down the phoneline
"So is this the price of love?"

==

I’ve been unusually silent about this match, as have you Arkia. It’s quite a strange thing, if I’m honest. Most will challenge their opponents to a game of mental chess on either Twitter or via promo. I don’t think that is necessary. I don’t even think trying to hype this match up anymore with posters, words or media is necessary. What is at stake and what we represent is simply enough. We talk about past matches, accomplishments, wins, losses, titles wins and tragedy. We could talk about who trained us, who we trained, what we did, what they did. I could talk about students shaming and disrespecting you. You could talk about how I let so many try to ruin what I’ve accomplished. You could be savage, I could be sweet. We could read the tale of the tape and list every advantage either of us have. But none of it is necessary. Words do not matter. Opinions do not matter. What matters is what we do in that ring when the bell sounds until it sounds again. Me and you. We’ll be the only two people in the world.

I just want to look at you for what you are, a strong and fearsome competitor, an independent woman, a true hall of famer who has earned every ounce of praise given to them. The mighty Arkia.

And I want you to look at me the exact same way you did when I walked into the RISE gym last Summer, when I strolled past every trainee, every trainer and stepped right up to the most terrifying individual in the industry and beat them across the face with a fucking brick. I remember your face when I did that, they way you looked at me. I remember the way I looked at you afterwards.

Remember that look. Because that is the girl you’ll be facing in the Quarter-finals of the Iron King Tournament. I’m Hell With Wings.

#EvolveOrDie

==

When I stare in your eyes I see the image of God
Well girl listen out for the phone call and pray for a flood
I called at a quarter past nine and said "I've done all I can"
She said "You win some you lose some I feel bad for you, woman"
She slammed down the phone and took her coat from the bed
She said "What happens now?" "Well to your wife, you're dead"
She said "I love you" and pleaded for her hero to stay
But knew deep inside that she'd planned it this way

==

Spicy Kale Pesto with Zucchini Noodles. It was the same meal that she had eaten every evening for the past five days. It was in the exact same restaurant her and Sophie had visited the night before the show in San Diego, a quaint little noodle bar that Anastasia had been overly fond of when she had lived in the area years ago. She sat in the exact same seat that she had that fateful night, with the same meal, the same drink, the same everything. The first night the staff must have been sensing some form of deja vu. By the third, they knew exactly what she wanted to order, and the reasoning behind her repeat visits. Now, by the fifth, they already had her meal on the table waiting for her, a reservation sign bearing her name and a note which prayed for the best, telling her to keep faith and that her lover would return to her soon.

Anastasia didn’t utter a word, she just looked out with hopeful eyes and ate. Then she waited, sipping on her soya protein shake as the world went by without her, and she sat without her. She would sit here until close, ever dreaming that the woman of her dreams would stroll back through that door and tell her that she was alright. But that hadn’t happened the first night, nor the second and it wasn’t happening now either. She sighed the saddest of sighs as she slumped in her chair.

She had searched every inch of the arena, her Mother’s villa where they were staying and every hotel in the city for even a hint that Sophie had been there. But she had come up empty handed. She had contacted her Mother, who told her to be calm and patient, she had contacted her friends, who had said the same thing. She had contacted Sophie’s sister, who merely said she would be calming down and would be fine. And then there was the barrage of bombs. A girl named Coda, who she didn’t even know, began to hint at the worst. Zoey Adler, a woman she truly despised, began to taunt her, hinting that maybe Sophie was repeating that fateful mistake she made on Ana’s birthday the year before, when she ran away with another woman. These fears were exacerbated when a mysterious account began to send her images of Sophie, which cryptic lines that bore no meaning to her at all. “i took soph. actually. she came with me. Nbd,” the words read.

She began to wonder if this was all her fault. Her thoughts had began to wander in the buildup to the last round, her thoughts on Phoenix, her chances, the involvement in the tournament of her wife and Uncle. The jealousy that she felt when they had entered the tournament had been building within her, and she knew she had used some of that as fuel for that final kick that floored Masato in her monumental and unexpected victory. Part of her wished that neither of them had entered Phoenix, part of her had wished that they would be eliminated, so that she could continue the lonesome path to glory she had aimed to carve out for herself. And now they were eliminated, her Uncle due to the dastardly illegal tactics of Cassius Reed, her darling Sophie to the vote of the jury. If she was judge, it would have gone the other way, but she was biased. And she was broken. And she was alone. And she missed her wife so much and…

“Do you think history is repeating itself, Little Wing?” That voice, smooth as silk and drilling deep into her mind. “Did it feel this way when you were blowing out the candles last year?” She froze in her place, eyes opened wide and unable to move as she felt hot breath upon the back of her neck, making the fine hairs stand up on end. The vibrant sounds of Symphony No. 5 played melodically in the background, that voice ringing out in her ears to a chorus of violins. “Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.” The voice, inviting and eloquent, with the slightest twang of a Germanic accent continued. “You can't stop the future. You can't rewind the past. The only way to learn the secret...is to press play, and allow the silence in your mind become a symphony.”

She had to know.

She turned abruptly to see the source of the voice and was met with the sight of green eyes and blue eyes staring back at her, a face shrouded in bloody bandages, dripping down a bare chest coarse with thick black hair. Horns, crimson and devilish protruded from his forehead and a mouthful of vampiric fangs, blackened and rotted smiled back at her. He screamed, a hellish wail of death and despair that made her jump back in her seat, tumbling over the table as plates and glasses and food was scattered everywhere. She blinked. And they were gone.

==

"I gave her my heart now she's left it to die
And I know I can't go back"
She walked out the room shouted "See you around"
She begged "Come on give me some slack"
She said "There's no hope but babe you can wait for that dove"
She screamed from the window
"So is this the price of love?"

==

She was alone to her thoughts. She had been convinced to return home and leave San Diego far behind. “When she comes back, she’ll come back home. I hazard I guess she would want to leave this place far behind,” her mother had said as she escorted her to the airport. It was a lonely couple of days, Holly and Kenzie were competing in Japan and Sophie was still nowhere to be found. She had spoken briefly to her Uncle, but his mood was a strange one, it always was after a rare defeat, and especially so after he visited Isaac’s grave. He had mostly kept to a professional level, as he often did with her, and he had sent her a selection of videos to study ahead of her match with Arkia, a greatest hits of some sorts, with a few starting notes on things to look out for. And so this is what she did with her time, studied, trained, ate, slept, repeat. She focused every waking moment on this match, knowing that it would be the fight of her life, alongside knowing that if she stopped for anything but sleep her mind would wander to parts unknown and would not return. She tweeted as the footage rolled, almost on autopilot until a familiar name cropped up on her feed. The most familiar of them all.

@alost_One

Her heart quickened, her breathing grew out of control as letters turned into words and words turned into sentences as she desperately clicked send after send upon her laptop. Was this actually her? Was this another trick? Was Sophie finally reaching out to her?

“I am in the room,” it read.

She stood, hesitantly, her hands quaking and palms sweating. As she turned she saw the figure of beauty, golden locks cascading down and a radiance that lit up her entire world. Anastasia gasped, sprinting forward and leaping into the arms of her wife, coiling around her with arm and leg and refusing to let go, her head buried into her shoulder as sweet relief washed over her. “Tell me this isn’t a dream, Ghostie! Please tell me it isn’t a dream!”

Sophie pulled her face close, a tear in her eye as she stumbled over her words. “It’s not a dream. It’s not. I promise.” She tried to say something else, an apology maybe, but Anastasia wouldn’t let her, as she took those words and breath away with the fiercest and most passionate of kisses. Time was all they were, time is what they are, and this time she was never, ever letting go.