How to Become A Martyr

How to Become A Martyr

Step One: Find A Cause Worth Dying For.

All that time preparing for the academy inexorably led you here (you never dreamt of beyond): this moment in time, the interstice; when two singular paths intertwine.

You're a detective, now, keeping guard at the museum's grand reveal. The Sûreté Nationale were told to expect a robbery, but surely the message was drivel-- who would announce their crime in advance? None of your colleagues would give it time of day, for what absurdity could drive self-sabotage of that magnitude?

Enter the scene: utter absurdity. When the thief cuts through the glass ceiling and drops via rope fifty feet down into the crowded hall-- moments before he lifts the black diamond --your eyes lock, and you know.

He is clad in full black with a tightly fitted cloak held steady by leather binds, long, dark locks twisted into a feathery bun. When he sees you, he tips an imaginary hat and quirks a grin. If he were right-side up, the layered fringe would be in his eyes. But you can see them well, sun and stars, light and dark. His smile nestles in your gut, where it settles with gentle unease.

You will catch him at all costs.

Step two: ???

Your paths cross often, whether by chance or design. Whose, you could not say.

When he steals the lenticular print off your favorite artist, you don't particularly care. Its value is lesser to you than the act of pursuit.

When he steals that book-- a first edition --the one with the gold leaf and leather binding, you don't catch the name. The objects are notable to you only in their irrelevance.

A painting: that's expected. Cliché, even. Thieves love to steal paintings. It's an oceanscape, a wide, open space that calms the soul. In your youth you idled along a similar coastline. It's the item you notice most-- a pity it's gone for good.

Next, handfuls of jewelry: rings and bracelets, mostly. Nothing gaudy; his taste is refined. The titanium Claddagh is your favorite, but it doesn't hold a candle to the light in his eyes when he catches yours, just before his escape.

Gold, of course, from the national reserve. Not like they were doing anything with it; you wonder what use he has in mind.

He's stealing fancy cookware now, and you ought to be losing patience, but you have all the time in the world for his antics.

You dread the day you'll bring about their end.

Step Three: Die.

The rope is cut and, like so many times before-- like he is, right now --you are falling. The crowd-- he always draws a crowd --goes wild with surprise and a sickly sort of interest: you have at last bested your nemesis. They cheer you on as he disappears from view towards the pelagic waves; disgust worms a heavy place in your belly as the whiplash hits. Your heart rams into your head when you bottom out. His last expression was one of pain: he didn't think you'd really do it. Neither did you. What flits through your mind-- a picturesque flip book of grand memory --at the end, is that you'll never see his face again.

You stare down at your hands in shock; they're the same as they've always been, but they've never before felt so empty.

All that for a cake, you think. Given the chance now, you'd simply hand it to him, along with anything else he desired.

They never do find the cake, but whenever you think of it a mass of bile and decay creeps up the back of your throat with the rising tide.

How to Become A Martyr

Addendum - Step One: Find A Cause Worth Dying Living For.

You're sifting through old notes, scanning for a reason, an explanation, anything. Why was this the time he fell, of all others (why was this the time you made him fall)? Before an untended fire-- dying embers reflected in the wet of your eyes --you're leaning heavily on the armchair, drunk off nostalgia and your best brandywine. In the file hosting the locations he hit, you find a strange piece of paper, old, but new to your collection. It's a simple Caesar cipher; whoever encrypted it must've really wanted you to suss it out. Or they thought you daft.

The key is-- to your surprise --the day and month you met: 17/3. 20: left shift 3. Right shift 3 for decryption. It presents a location and, at bottom, a phrase, underlined: come alone. You laugh. What else could you do?

It's written in a beautifully calligraphic hand. You hold your breath 'til it hurts-- 'til your lungs burn and your ribs ache and the room spins --down the rest of your glass, and prepare for the worst.

Step Two: ?????

"You're not--" you can't bring yourself to utter the words.

"Dead?" he supplies, and laughs at you. "Of course not! I'm far too skilled to be killed so easily," his words are smooth and playful as he winks, "no offense."

"Well, I believe some is taken just the same."

"If you must. But, don't worry: I forgive you."

"For what?"

"Why, for killing me, of course!"

"But you're alive!"

He laughs again. "You didn't know that."

You nod gravely. It can't be denied. "It was the worst mistake of my life." With each word you speak your speech slows as you note the background; a flurry of blinks and you are taken aback, thankfully distracted from such morbid regrets. "And what--" you point just past him, at the stacks of goods and the hilariously gigantic cake, "if I may ask, is that?"

"It's our wedding cake," he says, and you can't tell if he's serious. It's a masterfully decorated monstrosity: seven tiers, each coated in white buttercream and black pearls forming calla lilies down the right side, with sheaves of edible gold leaf and fondant roses dripping and draping down the left.

You're at the location from the cipher-- an opulent château in the countryside --and the cake is front and center. Behind it, the lenticular, the painting of the place you grew up, your favorite novel, gold a plenty, jewelry to your taste, a titanium engagement ring on a golden table. Even an immense black diamond. It's a pretty bride-price.

You raise your brows. He's serious. "And if I decline?"

"Why? Do you decline?" He shrugs, but he seems smaller, somehow. "Then it'll go bad. A waste of a perfectly stolen cake." He says it with a flourish, with deep confidence. Perfect, indeed.

For the first time in your experience you sense trepidation hidden in the darkness of his eyes, but that doesn't stop his cocky march forward, stride by menacing stride. His hair hangs loose, now, fringe just over his eyes, and the thought flutters within your skull that he looks the part of a dramatic princeling, clad in finery and dripping with feigned confidence. With each step he punches the breath from your lungs. You're backed against the wall before you can catch air, barely enough in you for a hoarse whisper, "No."

You try again, heart beating too fast, too loud. You want him. You want this, and you finally have the wherewithal to declare it so. "I accept."

"Good."

His finger extends, swirls chocolate cake down your forehead and over your nose until, finally, he thrusts his cream-encrusted pointer wholly into your mouth. Not for the first time in your acquaintance, you are overwhelmed by all of him.

You close your eyes, hollow your cheeks, and swirl your tongue.

Over the months, you've been kept on your toes. Now, in an instant, you are brought to your knees.

Step Three: Die Live.

You wake up the next morning in his four-poster, under silk sheets and a roof painted blue-black and speckled as the night sky. Your clothes are gone, and so is he. You panic; of course he fled, of course.

But then he strides through the door, breakfast tray in hand; a smile of pity at the terror on your face.

"You're here," you whisper, blissed out and awestruck.

"Of course I'm here," he grins, then offers a small laugh at your expense. "I'm not going anywhere, mon chéri. I've stolen the only prize of true value: your heart."

You chuckle. "Then let's celebrate. I want cake for breakfast, too," you say, eyeing a leftover slice, "among... other things." You eye him up and down openly, appraisingly, hungrily.

His fire is roaring. You lean into him, cozy, as you toss the last files into the flames. You swirl your brandy and he, his wine. Your fingers catch in the finery of his hair; tangle there and rest. There'll be no trace of you after this: just ashes and ghosts. You wouldn't have it any other way.

But fear grows like a disease; freezing the cockles of your heart, flowing cold as iced water in your creeping veins. You've burnt the files and the last evidence is gone: will the ashes disappear with the wind? Was that his game all along?

Trust comes slowly, with each night you kiss each other to sleep, and each day you wake by the warmth of his side. He's never said as much, but it's obvious he makes a point to sleep in later than you, so you'll never wake alone again.

You're not sure what you've done or where you're going from here (to Italy, or the east, perhaps; somewhere warm and welcoming and with a surplus of treasure, for you'd never once ask him to change), but for all its folly it is surely right.

He wants to go to India, for the anonymity, he says. But you know it's for your sake. You settle on Venice, for its luxuries; you've begged him to teach you his craft. He's reluctant, but proud-- he can't help but give in to your sycophantic prodding, your master thief. Eventually.

You start low and slow; one doesn't rocket to such a caliber overnight. You spend the hours in a dance; dodging, rolling off his body like water off a stone and hoping that, this time, perhaps, you'll pass. You don't. There's just so many maneuvers to master, and he is so very effective at countering them all.

"What're you doing?" he asks, working a lock so advanced you've never seen its like.

You're at his back, hand in his front pocket, fidgeting: your gears long ago switched from pickpocketing to a jauntier sport. You chuckle. "Can't you see I'm practicing?"

"Well, you're doing a terrible job," he tries, tries to play at exasperation but falls short at fondness. He keeps at his work, ignoring you, but he'll give in; he always gives in.

"On the contrary, my dear," you breathe the words against his naked neck and his body shivers, pressing closer to your skin, molding to the curves of you so tightly that it feels like he could sink into your bones and shatter them all at once, "I think I'm doing perfectly." The space between souls, once a hollow cutout lacking in purpose and fancy, these past months has seen itself filled. But for now, you're intent on meddlesome distraction.

It's all good fun. Besides, you know that your inelegance will fade, and time will cure all failures. And if he catches your genuine meddling again and again, you're not concerned: after all, you've got the rest of your lives to figure this out.