Solace

sol·ace

–noun
1. comfort in sorrow, misfortune, or distress.
2. something that gives comfort, consolation, or relief

–transitive verb (-aced, -aces, -acing)
3. to comfort, console, or cheer (a person, oneself, the heart, etc.).
4. to alleviate or soothe

Disclaimer: Black Lagoon and its characters © Rei Hiroe

Melancholia.

It was the contemporary name of a so-called "mood disorder." It was a word that was etched into the deepest recesses of her mind. It was an affliction that had chained itself to her heart.

She had once read countless books and articles in her past in hopes of understanding it, back in the days when she believed she had a small glimmer of hope. She had once thought that if she knew more about it, she would be able to get rid of it.

The knowledge only made her condition worse.

It was depressing, all of it. The literary devices at her disposal provided no comfort. Every single analysis of melancholia was overtly negative, brutally pessimistic. It was regarded as a disgusting mental illness, a disorder, a sickness, a disease. It even went so far as to be described as a sin. Every letter of each word was a deadly poison that only served to deteriorate her spirit.

It was a devastating blow to the heart whenever her eyes wandered upon the word "disease." Being inflicted with a disease meant that she was not well, that she was ill, that she was sick. A solid, permanent cure was seldom offered or acknowledged. Knowing, feeling that she would carry this disease throughout her entire life caused her grief.

She was distressed. It was something beyond her control. It was something that was bonded with her being. It was a feeling, a pain she could not eliminate, regardless of her tedious efforts to free herself from it. It was embedded into her spirit.

She didn't dare tell anyone of her condition. She was a quiet girl by nature, withdrawn and insecure. Her small stature and pale complexion already made her appear fragile, weak, helpless. These features alone were a source of mocking from those around her. She knew very well that no good would come of allowing those around her to become aware of her emotional state. It would only bring upon more torment, more rude comments, more unwanted attention, more pain. She wanted to be left alone, far away from the relentless teasing and upsetting remarks.

Keeping to herself, she never expressed her melancholy with another person, the only forms aware of her emotional travail being the blades she dragged across her wrists.

Razors, knives, anything with a sharp edge was utilized. The habit of self-injury was her release from the afflictions of her spirit. The vice-like grasp on her heart, the heavy weight upon her shoulders, the burning that rose in her throat and threatened to spill from the eyes, interrupted by a stinging sensation attacking the nerves as fresh lines of crimson adorned her wrists... The marking of the body being a distraction from the suffering of the heart was a feeling she welcomed often.

The cutting was a frequent venture, constant. She had contemplated bringing her life to a permanent end on many occasions, wishing for a way that the pain would be gone forever, but she was as afraid as she was desperate. The moment the thought of suicide came up, so did the thought of what awaited her in the afterlife.

Melancholia's affiliation with one of the seven deadly sins was terrifying. It was regarded as a form of sloth, not born from laziness, but of a selfish sadness, a superfluous despair. It was seen as hollow apathy, an insufficiency –going so far as to state it was a total absence– of love. She had suffered as images of Dante's Inferno haunted her thoughts. Nightmares were filled with decrepit entities submerged in the waters of the Styx, gurgling and wailing as they wallowed against the pull of the malodorous river, not quite drowning, but utterly deprived of the hope of ever being free to rise from the dismal water, a dark fog shrouding a hideous forest filled with those who had allowed their sorrow to consume them to the point of suicide, their human features sordidly twisted into the form of trees, Harpies tearing and breaking their limbs, causing the blood to flow and relieve their spiritual torment with physical agony, cursing them to endure the act for all eternity; it was dreadful.

The lurid visions of Hell proved to be a twisted motivation. The desires of an early grave were pushed to the back of the mind, her want and need for self-mutilation serving as the only source of comfort from the demons of her spirit. The pale flesh on her wrists slowly transformed into a myriad of scarred cuts and slashes, remaining hidden underneath the long sleeves of her shirt.

It was a cruel irony; the fateful day that her throat had been savagely slit and threatened to end her life was the exact event that made her halt the acts of self-injury. The loss and absence of one of the most basic human qualities, a voice, worsened the conditions of her emotional state, but it had also been an epiphany of sorts. The woe that had accumulated during the horrible experience that had led to the gruesome scar on her throat had proven to be stronger and more agonizing, cuts and gashes unable to provide a sense of relief. The agony was severe, a result of many unresolved and daunting emotional issues. As long as she acknowledged her emotions, the pain would persist. Realizing this, she had turned to an alternative.

Apathy.

She maintained a stoic disposition, indifferent, dispassionate towards everything and everyone around her. It had proven to be an effective method of therapy. It was a manner that distanced her from her emotional issues, and thus, distanced her from the torment. Her amoral temperaments and tendencies had even earned her an infamous identity in the abode of darkness and demons.

Sawyer the Cleaner.

Her aloof mannerisms and attitudes were ideal for her profession as a body disposal specialist in Roanapur. And if the occasion called for it, executioner. Those on the receiving end of her horrifically precise services were not considered human, not seen as a valued soul. Every single body that was brought in, dead or alive, was treated as a product of a job, something to dismember and dispose, nothing more.

There were moments when she found herself bored at the meatpacking plant, deciding to work in the field to interrupt the monotony. She had found amusement in hunting, tracking her prey and eliminating all opposition that stood in her path until she reached her designated target. Hearing screams and cries ripping at strained throats as the chainsaw roared and witnessing bright sprays of blood, the event entertained her. Her smiles were cruel, mischievous, sadistic, lacking happiness. It was an empty passion, void of genuine emotion.

Her reputation as the city's most notorious cleaner had earned her a great deal of respect... and intimidation. Whether she was clad in surgeon's attire or gothic clothing, there was a frightful aura clinging to the atmosphere whenever she was present. Her attendance always managed to cause a level of discomfort and unease.

Many regarded her as someone dreadful, chilling, unnerving. Thus, she was frequently avoided whenever possible. It was a detail she welcomed with open arms. She was not the type that craved attention. She preferred to be left alone, away from the public eye, a desire from her childhood that had manifested into a second nature. Her interaction with those around her, or lack thereof, made it all the more simple to maintain a cold disposition. The further she was distanced away from people, the easier it was to remain untouched by her emotional issues.

However, fate had decided that it would not be a permanent arrangement.

The simplicity and ease had diminished the very moment Shenhua and Rotton had entered Sawyer's personal life.

Shenhua, an assassin who preferred blades over bullets, she was passionate, upbeat, a person who had found a frightening balance between jovial vehemence and cold-hearted bloodlust. Rotton, an odd hunter of sorts, dwelling in a city of villains and desiring to make a memorable first appearance, his demeanor was calm, collected, cool, even when his flashy entrances weren't.

The cleaner had grown attached to the mercenaries. Every now and again, Sawyer caught herself showing a genuine smile, feeling an unfamiliar warmth welling up in her chest whenever she was in their presence. Each and every time Sawyer realized this, she immediately felt miserable.

She could not deny that Rotton and Shenhua were her friends, her companions, the only two people she was even close to. Being with Shenhua and Rotton had made her happy, and that fact alone caused her a great deal of sorrow. Happiness in and of itself was an emotion, something Sawyer had wanted to cut herself off from long ago. Regardless of whether the feeling was joy, anger, sadness, Sawyer knew very well that moment she allowed herself to feel, it was also the moment that her melancholy would consume her.

As close as she was to them, Sawyer never dared to show Rotton and Shenhua her emotional distress, let alone talk to them about it. It was terrible enough that they were aware of the issues she had whenever she lost her Ultravoice. Sawyer didn't want Shenhua and Rotton to know about her bouts of depression, which were becoming more and more frequent. They lived in Roanapur, a city that housed the most wretched and immoral of villains. Signs and admissions of weakness earned no sympathy, only revulsion and ridicule.

Despite her great emotional travail, Sawyer did not fall back into the habit of cutting her wrists. She had given up on that method long ago. However, she still found ways to harm herself when no one was looking.

Her breaking points often took place at night in her bed, alone. Her knees tightly clutched to her chest in the fetal position, a straining tenseness in her muscles, labored breathing, a face stained with tears, drenched in a cold sweat, a relentless stinging in her heart, she bit down on her lip and the lining of her cheek, digging her nails into her flesh to the point of drawing blood. It did not eliminate all of the suffering, but it had offered her an iota of relief, proving to be her only source of comfort.

Sawyer kept her pain hidden from her companions, refusing to make her feelings known in their presence. She had assumed that Shenhua and Rotton were unaware of her troubles; they never commented on her behavior. The Taiwanese assassin and "the Wizard" remained completely silent on the matter...

Until Shenhua addressed the issue one day.

"Sawyer?" asked the Taiwanese woman softly. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, the two deadly femmes currently spending time together at Sawyer's residence. The gothic woman sat on the floor in front of the sofa with her knees huddled up to her chest, her eyes fixated on the television screen while Shenhua lounged on the couch. Sawyer paused the video game she had been playing and looked over at the Asian woman with an inquiring glance.

"Come up here, please," said Shenhua as she patted the spot next to her on the couch, signaling for Sawyer to sit next to her. Sawyer stared at her nonchalantly.

"Don't give me that look," Shenhua scolded, "Sit here and leave game alone for second. Have to tell you something." Placing the controller of the game console aside and rising from her spot on the floor, Sawyer calmly acquiesced to Shenhua's demand.

"Good girl," teased Shenhua. Sawyer rolled her eyes, wondering what it was that the assassin had wanted to tell her. Knowing she had Sawyer's full attention, Shenhua's playful smile gave way to a more serious demeanor. She sighed deeply.

"I been meaning to tell you this long time," Shenhua started, "Me and Rotton... we see things..." Sawyer blinked and tilted her head to the side, unsure of what Shenhua was trying to tell her. The Taiwanese woman sighed heavily once more.

"It about you," Shenhua confirmed, "We notice things about you... Every time we see you... you look sick..." Sawyer's eyes narrowed as she pouted, interpreting the words as a remark on her ghostly complexion. Shenhua noticed this.

"No, no, it not like that." Shenhua shook her head from side to side before placing a couple of fingers against her lips, as if in thought. Her eyes wandered along the dark décor of Sawyer's home, finally fixating on the female mannequin that Sawyer had hung up in her living room by a noose. She had given it to Sawyer as a gift, feeling that the creepy, life-sized doll would complement the cleaner's macabre settings. Shenhua noted that Sawyer had added her own additional flair to the mannequin and embedded several nails into the head and ripped off both of its arms. But the unorthodox decoration was not the reason for Shenhua's difficulties in regards to telling Sawyer what was on her mind.

"What I mean is," Shenhua continued, now pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to find the appropriate words to express her sentiments, "You not look well... Like you not healthy..." Sawyer blinked, confused at the statement. Why would Shenhua want to talk about her health? Shenhua exhaled hoarsely and released the bridge of her nose. The Asian woman took one of Sawyer's hands in hers and pressed it to the red fabric that covered her chest.

"What I talk about is heart," said Shenhua, still unsure of what she could say to get her message across, "Sawyer... Me and Rotton... We want you to know..." Shenhua let go of Sawyer's hand, lightly placing both of her own on the gothic woman's shoulders, looking into Sawyer's eyes.

"If there something wrong with heart... You tell us, okay?" Sawyer furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. She didn't understand. The Taiwanese woman sighed exasperatedly and hung her head, slipping her hands off of Sawyer's shoulders and turning away from her.

"Aiya, my talent is killing," Shenhua murmured as she massaged her temples, "I no good with things like this... I let Rotton tell you when he come here. He better with words."

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Brilliant moonlight spilled through the partially covered window and into the otherwise dark bedroom, casting soft shadows and illuminating the three figures on the bed.

Rotton gently caressed Sawyer's stocking-clad leg and nuzzled the bare skin of her thigh as Shenhua massaged the young woman's sides and breasts underneath her striped shirt and lightly teased the scarred flesh on her neck with her tongue. The silver-haired man moved his head upwards, past the dark skirt, lifting the hem of Sawyer's long-sleeved shirt to trail kisses up her abdomen. Shenhua moved her hands to give Rotton better access, lifting Sawyer's shirt further up in the process. The Taiwanese woman then directed her attention towards Sawyer's blood red lips, the two of them sharing a heated kiss. Still moving upwards, Rotton left a series of butterfly kisses along Sawyer's slender neck while Shenhua shifted to the side of Sawyer's face and lightly nibbled on her ear lobe, both of the mercenaries' hands occupying themselves with caressing her pale flesh.

Slow, deep breaths filled the air as Sawyer's heart raced. Despite the soft touches and gentle kisses, her muscles were achingly tense. There was no doubt that Shenhua and Rotton's doting attention was pleasurable, but it was also sparking clusters of unwanted, painful feelings. She wanted to keep any and all emotions at bay to avoid feeling the melancholia, but she also did not want to give up the bond she had with Rotton and Shenhua. Her spirit was torn in two.

The striped shirt was eventually lifted over Sawyer's head and tossed aside, leaving the upper half of her body bare, exposing the scars on her wrists. Immediately noticing the faded wounds, Shenhua and Rotton gave each other somber, knowing glances. Rotton slowly leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Sawyer's lips before he pulled away, lightly lifting up one of Sawyer's wrists as Shenhua lifted the other. Sawyer's eyes widened and her heart beat faster, her breathing becoming more erratic as she began to sweat. They were looking at her scars. Noticing this, Rotton took her chin in his hand and pressed his lips against her forehead.

"Calm down, there is nothing to worry about," he reassured. Sawyer trembled as she exhaled, her breath suddenly stopping short as she witnessed the mercenaries gingerly caress her scars. Rotton looked over at Shenhua, as though asking a question, the both of them sharing a silent conversation. The Taiwanese woman fluidly moved her head down, then up, nodding her consent. The Wizard nodded back. Moving his hand along the markings on her wrists, Rotton looked into Sawyer's sapphire blue eyes.

"Do you still do this?" he asked quietly, gesturing to the scars. Sawyer was taken aback. She didn't expect such a personal question. She averted her eyes from his and bit her lip, hoping he would drop the subject and move on. Seconds passed by, feeling like hours. The room was completely silent, the tension nearly unbearable. She looked back at Rotton's face. It had not changed since he had uttered the question. He was determined to get an answer. Sighing in defeat, Sawyer slowly moved her head side to side. "No."

"Do you still hurt yourself?" The gothic woman was taken aback again. She had essentially told him that she didn't cut herself anymore. Was that question truly necessary? She then noticed the seriousness in both his and Shenhua's eyes. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew very well her companions would wait the entire night for an answer if they had to. As she remembered all the nights she had lain in bed, curled in the fetal position and tearing her skin with her nails, Sawyer grit her teeth agony and opened her eyes. She moved her head up and down. "Yes."

"Stop it," said Rotton firmly. Sawyer took a sharp intake of breath as Shenhua gestured in agreement with Rotton. The gothic woman shut her eyes and thrashed her head to the side, on the verge of tears. Damn it, damn it. She had admitted her weakness. They were disgusted, repulsed...

A pair of lips kissed the corners of her eyes.

"Don't cry, Sawyer," said Shenhua faintly, holding the smaller woman's hand. Cautiously, Sawyer looked up at the faces of her companions. Much to her surprise, their expressions were void of any traces of revulsion and spite. They were concerned, compassionate, amorous.

Still holding her wrist, the Wizard reached down with one hand and cupped Sawyer's cheek.

"Sawyer," Rotton whispered tenderly, "Whenever you spend time with us, you're always in pain. We notice it, even when you try to keep it hidden. We know you have a hard time expressing your emotions... We know you have issues, images and events from your past that cannot be shaken, atrocities that have left a mark on your soul, but...

"You do not need to punish yourself," he continued, "Yes, we are villains, but of a different breed. The three of us... Ever since that fateful night when that hunt had gone awry, our spirits, our souls, our hearts are pieces of trinity. The bond and trust we have is something that is only shared between the three of us. It is not shared with any other villains, any other factions, any other figures in this realm. It is only shared between us. We are bound together.

"Sawyer, there is no need for you to do this," Rotton gingerly ran his thumb along the scars, "If you have any wounds, be it physical or emotional, we will help you heal them. You do not need to force your body to take on the suffering of the spirit. You are not going to endure your pain alone. Shenhua and I..." Rotton paused as he and Shenhua looked into Sawyer's eyes and gently pressed their lips against her wrists in an act of solidarity, a confirmation of their bond.

"We will be your scars."

Throughout her entire life, she was tormented by an insufferable aching in her heart, forced to endure it alone. The only things that had ever shared her woes were her scars. She had no one to help her with her pain. And now here she was, residing within the most vile and evil city on earth, a dwelling place for the most wretched of souls, in the presence of two people who cared about how she felt and willingly offered, desired to help relieve her of her agony.

Tears, not of sorrow, but of euphoria spilled from her eyes, a true, genuine smile gracing her face as she reached out to her companions and pulled them towards her, holding them to her chest as a pleasurable warmth swelled in her heart.

Their souls dancing and intertwining in the moonlit night, the immoral trinity celebrated their unity and immersed themselves in ecstasy, finally finding a moment of solace.

THE END

A/N: Hmm? Black Lagoon and a legitimate attempt at romance? It's blasphemy, I know! I should feel so ashamed... yet, I don't.

Can you honestly believe this is probably the most difficult fiction I've ever written? No? Well, I can't either, but I do still feel it was rather daunting to write. Instead of focusing on the sadistic part of Sawyer, I wanted to focus more on the emotional side of her personality.

This can probably be described as a more... emotional offset of my other centric, "Immaculate." Minus the disturbing gore, plus more intentional fluff.

This story may need to be taken with a grain of salt, since... Well, half of this fiction is of the romance genre and these are Black Lagoon characters we're talking about...

Dante's Inferno – Obviously from Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. Just as a note, suicide was actually considered more to be a form of wrath than sloth (violence against oneself), but I decided that the "humans twisted into trees" mention was appropriate for the context I was using it in. That, and it was freaky.

Since she's a hardcore mercenary that's more likely to kill first and ask questions later, I figured Shenhua would have a bit of an awkward time expressing more "fluffy" emotions. And Rotton... Well, what can I say? He's good with words.

I used the "Their souls dancing and intertwining in the moonlit night," sentence because "Sawyer, Shenhua, and Rotton boinked like wild bunnies 'til the sun came up," doesn't sound very eloquent.

Cheers.