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Did he really think I was born with snowy hair? I'm not a mummy! Although... My constant state of fatigue might suggest otherwise. Exhausted, I struggle to get going again, following in the wake of the ghost who's gone mute once more; paradoxical king of both silence and eloquence.
“Can we take a break?”
The apparition faces me and gives me a sympathetic smile before pointing to a natural alcove between the roots of a large trunk.
“You rest. I'll keep watch.”
I settle down on the opulent moss and curl up to protect myself from the biting cold. Surrounded by roots, I'm protected from the onslaught of the wind. I rest my head on my rucksack, untie my hair, through which the night air rushes, and close my eyelids. Behind my back, I feel the presence of the specter settling beside me.
Although I’m exhausted, sleep is slow in coming. Now that I’m motionless, the cold creeps into my clothes, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Are you all right?”
That husky timbre envelops me in a wave of sweetness. Despite the atypical nature of this situation, I'm no longer alone. Someone is watching over me, at least for a while. And even if I'm apprehensive about the ephemeral nature of this presence by my side, for now it's enough to fill the void that surrounds me.
I turn around abruptly and find myself face to face with the entity, whose ember gaze immediately plunges into mine. The way he stares at me thrills me, as if he's stripping me bare and making me his own.
“Believ,” he murmurs, panting, putting his hand on my cheek.
His touch sends another shiver down my spine, making me tremble from head to toe. I palpitate. Did he really just touch me? I place my hand on his. The pulp of my fingers sink delicately into his flesh before falling through it.
I touched him!
“I...”
What could I possibly say to him? Not only am I so overwhelmed by his supernatural magnetism that I can't string three words together, but anything I might say won't change a thing: our relationship is just a sweet illusion that will fade as soon as he has the chance to return to the heavens.
“Here I am.”
His voice mingles with the howling wind. Surprisingly, I'm no longer cold. He runs his fingers through my hair and slowly leans over to place his lips on mine. He closes his eyes and embraces me. I feel his power, his flesh, and his desire. His body, which never existed before, now presses against mine, while his tongue explores my insatiable mouth.
I want him.
However, just as I had feared, he eventually loses the solidity that was just beginning to fill me up and, in his rush, runs right through me. I imagine this demonstration took a lot of energy. I bite my lip as if to rekindle an aftershock of that contact, to remember that tonight, for just a moment, I came back to life.
On his perfect face, I read immense frustration. I imagine it's visible on mine too, even if this brief closeness was enough to put a smile back on my face for the night.
“Say, will you lie down with me?”
I've dared to make this request out loud. I feel dizzy, a soft shiver running down my spine at such audacity—or recklessness. I feel ready to embark on an unknown path. Here I am, having had only fleeting, sporadic affairs in recent years, congratulating myself on leaving them in the early hours of the morning, asking an impalpable being to hold me in his arms. He stares at me without answering, his eloquence evaporating along with his consistency. I'm no longer interested in his words—at least, not tonight. His mere presence is enough to make me feel invincible. Even if I were to perish tomorrow—which isn’t at all hypothetical—I know he would be there to welcome me. His warmth won't save me from a fatal destiny, but at least it has the merit of freeing me from my fears.
I take refuge in the hollow between the roots, my eyes still locked on his, my hand outstretched in an invitation to join me. He smiles tenderly and moves closer. Finally, he melts on me, materializing again, as if his desire alone could make him tangible. And Lord! He seems to want me as much as I want him! Once again, his mouth devours mine before leaving me panting.
“I'll stay with you,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
This simple phrase makes my whole body vibrate. Beyond the person who uttered it, this promise is just as unreal. And yet, I want to believe in its veracity, like a fundamental, inescapable, and urgent need. To no longer feel alone, to fill a void.
I'm probably crazy for clinging to the possibility, just as I hold onto his shoulders as he lies on top of me, the weight of his body that of a slender yet muscular man. To further convince myself, I palpate his shoulders and arms as his mouth migrates down my neck, dotting it with feverish, ravenous kisses. The bulge I feel against my crotch raises the fever between us. One of his thighs spreads my legs, while he rubs himself languorously against me, caressing my curves with delight, turning my head inside out. What are we going through? I don't want to think about it anymore, I just want to enjoy this moment and, above all, I don't want it to end... Better still, I want us to go even further.
My latest nightmare has made me realize the absolute necessity—if I wish to be reunited with my family when I die—of training a successor. It's an imponderable imperative if I don't want to end up cursed forever.
Strictly speaking, it's not a question of transmission, but of passing on.
To be Sin Eater is to build a bridge between the dead, to brandish a sword of defense for life. At no point is it a question of carrying the sins of others forever, nor of assuming them when the time comes for us to die. But to get rid of them and enjoy a happy eternity, it’s necessary for someone to take up the burden.
This mechanism is a bit of a win-win: I get to go to heaven, while the world discovers a new Sin Eater. The only one to lose out, in short, is the one who is most interested in this new adventure. It's deeply unfair, but that's the way life is.
So I'm gathering as much information as possible for my successor, even before I know who he or she will be.
