Caged Phoenix

Ring. Ring.

Wearily, Aster ignored his cell phone—for the third time that morning. He’d only arrived back in the “real world” three days ago, and the press was already merciless.

Everyone wants to know the truth…

“Here’s your tea, Mr. Phoenix.”

The server set down the delicate yet sturdy teacup. Aster grimaced when he spied the lemon wedges that had been placed on a neighboring plate.

…but they won’t.

A slight tremor shook his hand as he tentatively picked up a slice of the yellow fruit. In the background, the cell phone was still ringing incessantly.

Forget my name.

The cell phone quieted. Breathing a sigh of relief, Aster suddenly squeezed the lemon. As the familiar tangy odor rose up to meet him, the clear acidic juice harmlessly coated his fingertips. He grimaced all the same. If he closed his eyes, the memories just came flooding back…

That sneering mouth. Those reptilian eyes. The knife invading my flesh.

Aster’s eyes popped open. The cell phone was ringing again.

I hope I don’t have flashbacks.

Giving in at last, Aster raised the phone to his ear and struck the button that would put him in touch with the reporter on the other end. Sure enough, a breathless, girlish voice began rattling around immediately in his eardrum. Merely half-hearing her, he quickly agreed to whatever interview she wanted to host. Why refuse?

Maybe talking about it will help.

Except Aster hadn’t talked about it. To this point, he had given only the barest details possible. He had not identified the perpetrator. He had not revealed what had happened to him. Perhaps he never would. However, this wasn’t good enough for the press. Aster supposed that’s why he was now being bombarded with calls every other minute while trying in vain to eat breakfast.

I’m just grateful to be alive.

Zane, as direct as ever, had knocked him out again with…something Aster couldn’t quite remember. If he could guess, he supposed that the former Obelisk Blue had snuck the sleep-inducing substance into his food. After Aster had eventually awoken, he was surprised to find himself on land—warmly dressed—and surrounded by spectators. Zane had indeed kept his promise.

But, will I keep mine?

Ring. Ring…

Vaguely deliberating if Aster should throw the cell phone against the nearest wall; Aster managed to finish his meal and generally continued with life until the dreaded moment where he was situated in a cushion across from the smiling blonde interviewer who made it a point to shake out her hair at every opportunity.

“Welcome to our show, Mr. Phoenix.”

He smiled politely. “Thank you. It’s good to be here.”

Ordinarily, he would have put on his debonair hero routine, but, given the circumstances he had been placed in, the public would have to go wanting. Even now, in front of a crowd of teeming people, under the harsh glowing stage lights; Aster could feel his “war wounds” twinge in pain. He hadn’t yet shown them to anyone, and he wasn’t about to now. Disrobing on national television would only fuel his irrational shame.

The questions flew past one after another. Wearing a charming grin as if nothing bad at all had transpired, Aster answered them. He then relayed the tale of how he had been knocked unconscious and kept aboard a ship. He didn’t elaborate much else.

Then, the inevitable, groundbreaking inquiry came hurtling toward him.

“Tell us honesty, Aster. Did you know the kidnapper? Could you tell us possibly who he is?”

Aster was beginning to feel faint. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and it most definitely was not from the burning lights overhead.

He’s watching, isn’t he?

This particular interview was being televised across the country. No doubt Zane had cloistered himself in a dark room—dark as his soul—and was watching his faltering reactions right this moment.

I couldn’t survive it. Not again. I would die. I would forever cease to see the light of the day…

Zane would do it. He would hunt him down. Aster would suffer the consequences.

He only hates me. I don’t think he’d personally hunt just anyone down for mere sport.

Still, shouldn’t the general population know that someone like Zane exists?

Aster lowered his head. He knew what he was about to say, and he knew he was going to hate himself afterwards.

“I don’t know what he looks like. He kept his face masked.”

“Really? No clues whatsoever?”

His stomach churned in protest, but the lacerations that had been carved above the organ hurt far worse.

“None.”

Visibly a bit disappointed, the interviewer raised other inquiries. However, Aster did not tell her about the tortures. Or the world, for that matter. Finally, the interview simply tapered off and lost speed on its own. In fact, it concluded on a rather sour note. With no actual “dirt,” his story would soon fade into memory when something more sensational hit the airwaves. Being captured and bound on a boat with not the vaguest inkling whom your attacker was—while traumatic—wasn’t very exciting.

Carrying a heavy heart, Aster walked out of the studio and into the chilly night. Right at that moment, he silently counted his blessings. The wounds would heal. The public would forget.

And, in time, so would he.

Zane switched off the television set with firm conviction. Seeing his recent obsession on the screen had admittedly given him goosebumps, but now, he just felt disgusted.
How could I have even put such a plan into effect?

Mentally, Aster had suffered some long-term damage, even if each and every wound healed completely.

I must have been out of my mind.

However, as much as Zane regretted the act, Zane didn’t regret the person he had become. His rather nonchalant hand would still hurt people, just in different ways.

Would I have honored my promise if Phoenix had ratted me out?

Zane knew he would have. Without hesitation. It had been both entirely enjoyable and so genuinely heart-wrenching at the same instant to see those haunted blue eyes jerk about nervously; hands clasped in his lap, self-conscious smile wavering under the media’s harsh and uncaring glare. This apparent trepidation had increased tenfold when asked the question. Zane himself had grown rather nervous and unusually alert during that anxious break where Phoenix observably weighed his options.

I’m glad he kept his word. Now, I can move on to more important matters.

Almost furtively, Zane looked down at the bed—the empty bed. A bit saddened, he sighed depressedly.

It would have never worked out. You don’t fall in love with your enemy overnight.
With nothing else left to ponder, Zane crawled onto the bed, ducked under the covers, and promptly fell asleep.

A/N: This is where it ends. This wasn't NC-17 fic to begin with, so that's why there wasn't much...yeah you know. There's a 20% chance of a sequel, but I probably won't write one. Feel free to tell me if there really should be a sequel though. Thanks to all my readers!