The Solune Prince: [Workshop II]

Let us look into the future for a moment, as we did here.

He shook her awake frantically. It didn’t matter. He had to know that she hadn’t died or worse. She had died, but she wasn’t dead any more. The romance in her heart wanted to believe that he had brought her to life, but she knew it wasn’t true. She knew the name of her savior. It burned into her memory.

She opened her eyes and let her head sway lazily.

“Wake up, fuck!”

The words were sweet and loving. The slap across her face, less so. He was carrying a box, a small medic’s kit, which he now opened. A scalpel covered in dried blood clattered to the wooden floor, lying in a small puddle of fresher crimson. It fit in with the rest of the grunge lying around, and the periodic splats of blood on the walls. He uncapped a needle full of some black liquid.

“Relax Alex. Relax!” She listened. She had to. He grabbed her by the collar and injected something hot into her neck. The warmth spread around her body. He took the needle out, and put it into his little box. The scalpel next. “Are you serious? What the hell is this?” He felt the small pool of blood, and then started groping Alexandre until she winced with pleasure. It was her thigh. He sighed.

“Anz, come play with me,” Alexandre moaned.

Anselm stood up and took the music box from the giant woodgrain dresser. He wound it up, hoping it would play something soothing. It did.

He came down over her and pulled her pants down to look at the wound. She hadn’t touched it. In fact, it was still bleeding. He scoffed, “Yeah, maybe when we’re in one piece.” He looked around the decrepit room. Everything was metal. The walls, the supports, the ceiling, all iron or cheap bronze. Only the floor and the furniture was wood. He took a bandage from his kit and fixed her. “Anything else, you dumbass?”


He shook his head and pulled her pants back up. “That isn’t a wound.”

“What about this one? Sireeeeeennnnnnnn come to meeeeee.”

That one he could deal with. They kissed for eighteen seconds—until it hurt to continue.

“You know, I dreamed of you. When I was dead.” Alex’s voice was sultry, saccharine.

He sat down next to her, leaning on the cold steel wall. “Oh yeah?”



“And I was you. We were the same. I remember it. I remember you getting that and running to find me. Hunting for my like an animal, or a parent, or a lover. But I knew, I was so happy, but I knew that you were too late. That I was too late as I ran from place to place, hoping that I wasn’t home on the other end of the city. But I was. So I ran.”

“I outran transit.”

“But it was too late.”

“I remember thinking it was too late.”

“That wasn’t you. I thought it was too late when I was you. It was too late Anselm. I was dead.”

He looked at her sidelong. “You weren’t dead when I got here.”

“No. I was taken from you and put back here.”

Anselm leaned back. “Yeah?”


“By who? Who brought you out?”


That’s all folks.
Please check out the full work, The Solune Prince.

The previous workshop is here: The Solune Prince: [Workshop I]

Daniel Triumph.

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