15 posts tagged “dribbly”

Another Tyler dribbly.  Note to anyone that doesn't RP with me: David is Tyler's stepdad, who's a doctor and specializes in cancers.

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"We can operate, but it's dangerous."

David nodded, looking at the x-rays of his stepson's spine.  "How did the tests come back?"

"It's malignant."

"So the operation is necessary?"

"Chemotherapy is still an option..."

"But?"

"To be honest, if it grows at all, the surgery would become entirely necessary and then it would be so dangerous that, in all likelihood, he would never walk again."

David nodded and sighed.  "Thank you, Doctor.  Let me go talk to him."  They shook hands and David made his way to Tyler's room.

Ty looked up when the older man entered, giving a small smile.  "You're giving me your doctor look, David.  Stop it."

David grinned and squeezed the boy's shoulder, sitting beside him.

"That bad?" Tyler tried to look amused, but ended up just looking sad and lonely.

"It'll be all right."

"Don't lie to me, David."

"I have to smudge the odds a little, it's part of my job."  He gave a smile and then sighed and looked away.  After a minute, he spoke to the wall.  "I think your best option is the surgery."

"Will I be able to walk afterwards?"

The doctor hesitated.  "There's no guarantees.  It's right against your spine... you know how dangerous that can be."

"You don't think so?"

"I don't know, Tyler."
  
Tyler looked away.  "I'm not really worried about not walking."

"I know."

The younger man rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "Gods, when it rains, it pours."  He dropped his hand.  "Have them make the appointment, if that's my best bet."

David touched the top of the boy's head affectionately.  "Don't worry, Ty.  You're in very capable hands."

"David?" Tyler looked up as the man started to leave.

"Yes?"

"Lie to mom."

"Only white ones."

"That's all I ask."

So, my writing group met for lunch today, then afterwards, a few of us went to Borders and wrote for a while.  And this is what came of that.  By the way, writing with other people, EXCELLENT.  I got a lot accomplished, and it felt good to not be in it alone.  Anyway, Aaron and Danjal.  This is near the end, I think.

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"The world is a very different place than you've been led to believe.  Right and wrong, good and evil, black and white... they don't exist.  It's all just one big smorgasborg of half-truths, riddles, and shades of gray.  Heaven: laughable.  Hell: about the same.  When you die, you're dead.  When you're alive, you're dead.  When you're dying, it's just another go around the block.  That's the shit of it, you know?  Everyone keeps believing if they're good, something good will happen down the line for them... and maybe it does, but that doesn't have anything to do with whether or not they did anything good.  But even if they do something they think is good: for instance, giving money to the homeless man on the corner.  Guess what?  That homeless guy takes that money to the bus station, gets a pass down to the suburb where he used to live, kills his wife, their two kids, and, just for shits and giggles, their new puppy named Oscar before holding a shoot-out with the cops, where he takes out a veteran and some poor neighbor kid before they shoot him.  Good?  No, you've done no good."

Aaron looked up at the man, his eye half-swollen shut, blood leaking from his lip.  "Why are you telling me this?"

"Futility.  You almost had it there for a while.  I thought you understood.  I mean, watching your brother die like that, that had to be a major blow... and I really thought that would knock all that silly idealism out of you."  

The boy's hands tightened into fists.

"Of course, that's probably Danjal's fault.  That boy always was trouble.  I should have ousted him a long time before I did, but I thought he would come around."  The man sighed, brushing the near-white locks out of his face.  "Ah, well, not everyone can enjoy this type of thing."  

Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron watched the man withdrawing a long dagger from the duffle bag on the table.  "Danjal trusted you."

The man grinned, testing the sharpness of the blade against his finger.  It slit open easily, then resealed itself.  "Well, yes and no.  He trusted Burdock, and had every right to.  The man didn't mean either of you any harm.  It was sickening, really.  He took to you two as if you were his two dead sons come back to him.  He did die protecting you both, but I couldn't just let all that trust he built up with the half-wit go to waste, and so I just borrowed his appearance.  It was a little hard, acting as though I enjoyed the company of the two of you, but well worth it to get my hands on you."

Aaron pulled at his arm restraints, pushing himself to sit up more.

"Oh, now, that's not necessary.  You won't be able to loosen those.  Just a waste of energy, really.  And you'll want that energy for later, or else you won't be able to scream nearly as much as will be required."

"Go to Hell."

"Now what did I just get done telling you?  There is no Hell.  Pay attention.  They told me you were smart."

Aaron grinned a little.  "Well, there's nothing like physical motion to distract someone from watching energy build up."

"Wha--"

The boy shut his eyes and slammed all the energy he'd managed to haul into himself back out, aiming it directly at the man.  It slammed into the white-haired man full-force and slammed him into the wall, leaving a man-shaped crater in the cement blocks.  The knife fell from the man's fingers onto the floor and Aaron gasped, his body going slightly limp.  An impact like that would be the equivalent of being run down by a race car.

A cough came from the man in the pile of rubble on the floor.  Aaron's eyes jerked open as the man hefted himself back to his feet, laughing a bit.  "Oh, that was very good.  Element of surprise, the power, the aim... Very clever.  But you've worn yourself out now, haven't you?  All of that energy, that was the last of your reserves.  You really shouldn't waste energy like that unless you're certain it will take out your enemy."

"That's not possible.  Nobody could have lived through that."

The man laughed.  "No human, no.  But just because I'm in the guise of a man does not make me a man."  He picked up his knife again.  "Now, enough of these games.  I thought you'd be looking forward to seeing your brother again.  Let's not hold off the joyous reunion for any longer than necessary."

Aaron renewed his struggles against the bindings, tugging at his wrists and torso.

"Now, now, you ought to hold still, or I might just miss..."  The man sliced out at him, cutting a deep gash in his upper arm.  

Aaron screamed, trying to kick out his bound legs at the man.  

"See?  If you keep struggling, this may just turn into a torture session."  The knife slashed at his cheek.

The boy clenched his jaw and hissed in pain, breathing hard.  His whole body tensed and he turned angry blue eyes up at the man.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to say something?"  The man blinked innocently at him and smiled.

"You remember that prophesy Burdock found about my brother?"

"Mm, I do seem to recall that.  What about it?"

Aaron smiled. "I gotta tell you something important about it."

"Indeed?  And?"

"It wasn't about my brother."  Aaron's shoe hit the ground and he kicked the man hard in the groin.  "DANJAL!"

The door jarred with a sudden impact.  And again.  

The man's eyes jerked to the door, then back to Aaron.  He growled and grabbed his knife.  

Aaron kicked himself backwards away from him, his chair falling backwards.  His head hit the floor.  "Danjal!  Hurry!"

The door splintered with the next slam.  Aaron couldn't move any farther.  The man was on his feet, jumping at Aaron, knife extended.  The knife jammed down into Aaron's side and he screamed, his back arching as much as possible through his bindings.

Danjal burst through the door and dove right at the white-haired man, knocking him away from the writhing boy.  A flurry of wings and feathers erupted from both the men as they wrestled away from Aaron.

So, as a side-effect of moving, I have to sort through and chuck a lot of my stuff... and so a few days ago, I went through all my folders and kinda eliminated and cut down on the massive amount of papers I have EVERYWHERE.  And in the process found some old dribblies and snippets, so here they are.

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"As with every child born to a fae, each of the four elements was flaunted in front of you, to see which one your magic would recognize," the old woman said slowly as Blaine listened.  "The only one you even reacted to was the dirt."

"Really?" the boy smiled excitedly.  "What'd I do to the dirt?"

"You ate it," she said flatly.
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"Your father gave his life to protect those boys!" her mother yelled.

"And I lost my ability to do anything more than parlor tricks, Mother!  Those talismans are EVERYTHING I can do to protect my sons!  Father gave his life to protect his grandsons, both of them!"

"You disgraced your father!  He died humiliated, all because you had to run off and sleep with a human!"

"Father died proudly, doing what he has always done--protecting his family!"

"How can you call that-that thing- family!?  He can't even do magic!"

"He came from my womb; a product of love!  He's my son, and I expect you to treat him exactly as you'd treat Linden!"
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Tell me a story or sing me a son
The sea will capture you long before dawn,
Holding your soul, but don't be alarmed
This is our secret, we'll do you no harm.
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It was always the ocean.  That melodic lapping of the waves against the shore, the tumbling of the wave as gravity breaks the rolling water in on itself, the tiny sounds of the sand shuffling in the aftermath.  The aromatic salt water called to him, hailing the boy from miles away.  He ached for the granules of sand creeping between his toes, still warm from the day's son.  The wash of the tide circling around his ankles, hot and cold mingling to create the temperature that made him one with those waves, causing him to mourn each receding wave as if he were losing a piece of himself--a memory, a sensation, a thought, or a limb.  The wet sand yielding to his steady steps--here there existed no past, no future, it was only now--one step after another, no trace of him left behind.  He felt the moon's pull.  Tugging.  Beckoning.  Urging him along like a childhood friend taking him to a secret place.  The sweet-smelling wind drifting in to wrap those breezy arms around him.  They held him.  Secure. 

Away.  He could stay forever in this place, drifting endlessly on the scents, sounds, and feelings right there on the land's end.

This was a safe place.  It offered nothing, promised nothing, and was nothing but itself.  And still.  It welcomed him.  It took away his history and opened its arms to him.  It held him.  This place was the music to his soul--the gay cries of the sea gulls melding seamlessly with the waves, creating a harmony that ignited every cell of his body.  He was invigorated.  Happy.  Free of every constraint the world had placed on him.  For this moment, he was truly free.
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Tell me a secret
Sing me a song
Describe life to me
It won't take long
Tell me of things
And stuff and those
Don't forget the specifics,
Or the garden hose.
Show me excitement
Let me feel green
And orange and purple
What about cerculean?
Show me the wind
And lightning in clouds
Teach me to laugh
And dance out loud.
Tell me great stories
Of faeries and bears
Windsocks and toadstools
And long winding stairs.
Show me wild animals
And ladies with beards
Make sure that I know
It's okay to be weird.
Tell me you love me
And show me you care,
But most of all...
Just make sure you're there.
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"And later tonight, we'll be hearing from Dan who is on location in New York covering a recent string of abductions.  But right now, we're going to talk to Trisha McMillan, who's covering the latest developments in the James Tyler murder.  Trisha?"

The television flickered to a woman standing outside of a large mansion's gates, the heavy iron chains still holding them closed.

"Thank you, Connie.  As many of our viewers remember, three years ago, these gates were thrown open by police and the state of affairs within shocked the nation."

In the upper left hand corner, they showed the old footage.  Beaten, bruised, some of them missing fingers or ears, nearly fifty boys, aged eight to seventeen, were led out, wrapped in blankets.

"The owner of this house, a Mr. James Tyler was killed.  Police received this disturbing phone call."

She went silent as the recording started to play.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then, a soft, scratchy, and entirely soulless young voice spoke.  "I just killed James Tyler.  I don't know the address here.  It's a big house.  There's a black fence."

"Did you just say you killed him, honey?"

"There are lots of kids here.  They need help.  Ambulances.  Some of them are real hurt."

"What's your name?"

There was another pause.  "Are you sending help?"

"Yes.  The ambulances will be there soon.  I need you to tell me your name and stay on the line with me."

"I can't.  I have to go."  The boy paused again.  "I'm not sorry.  I had to stop him.  Take good care of the boys.  They've been through a lot."

The line went dead and the reporter raised the microphone to her mouth.  "The boy who made the call was never identified.  According to several of the boys that were found inside, he killed himself, but of the bodies found inside, none were fresh enough to have been the caller."
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(Haha, this might look familiar.)

"He's the cutest little boy.  Just makes it that much sadder, doesn't it?"

The blond-haired boy shifted uncomfortably on the stiff Louis XIV-knock off sofa.  His feet swung almost a foot off the floor and wide blue eyes watched the overdressed women whispering about him over the quiet accompaniment of the string quartet.

Blues shifted, stealing a glance at the taller blond man in the crowd.  The older man gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Seconds later, the wide eyes clouded over with crocodile tears and the small boy let out a wail of pain as if he'd been stabbed.  From both hands, red was dripping.  The boy was staring at his hands in absolute horror.

"RICKY!" the tall blond man shoved his way through the gawking crowd.  He knelt in front of the boy, looking worried.  The look flickered for a fraction of a second as he winked at the blue-eyed child.

Ricky gave another wail of horror.

"Someone!  I need towels!"

There was a murmur of reluctance from the crowd, none of them wanting to abandon the spectacle.  But when the man pulled a syringe from the inside pocket of his jacket, several members of the crowd hurried off to find the towels.

The man looked directly into the boy's eyes and was met with unadulturated trust.  Giving the tiniest smile to the screaming child, he jabbed the syringe into his forearm, injecting its contents into the bloodstream.

The screaming was broken by a small sob, then the boy swayed a bid, red eyes closing, and fell forward, his head crashing gently into the older man's shoulder.

Towels were handed to the blond, and, using the cloth as a cover, the man stabbed the palms of the boy while pretending to wipe them off.

"Mr. Johnson, why don't you bring him to the bathroom?" a woman asked, gently touching his shoulder.  "You can both get cleaned up there, and I'll get you some bandages for little Ricky's hands."

"Oh, thank you, Ms. Louse," he gently hoisted the boy up, following the woman and admiring the low-cut bejeweled dress.

"Please, call me Jo Ann," she said, giving a soft smile over her shoulder.  "Is your son going to be all right?"

"I gave him a mild sedative.  It's the only thing that calms him down once the stigmata sets in." He gently laid the boy on the cool counter top.

"I hope you don't think me morbid, but... may I see?  You may not have heard, but I have great interest in Christian mythology."

The man feigned surprise well enough to fool his host, whose eyes were mostly focused on the boy's hands.  "Are you?  Well, I suppose he wouldn't mind..."

(Jumping ahead about five years...)

A cool wind picked up, brushing longish blond locks away from the pale face.  Blue eyes closed and the boy inhaled the wind--he could smell the evergreens and falling leaves.  As it died down, he felt the familiar ache in his hands that always came with the colder air.  The boy looked down at the scars on his palms; long since healed, but he'd never felt the same.  Broken trust was bitter.

"Aaron!" the bark was followed by the familiar stench of whiskey wafting from the back-lit figure at the door to the roof.

"If you ain't gonna jump and put us both outta yer misery, get yer skinny ass down an' get packed!  We're leavin' firs' thing in the mornin'."

Stiff hands clenched into fists and the boy felt hatred rising up into his throat like bile.  He forced it down and hopped off the ledge of the roof, heading towards the door again.  "So soon?  What happened this time?  Get drunk and blow our cover again?"

He saw the fist coming, but wasn't fast enough to avoid it.  The hit landed against the side of his head.  He stumbled, seeing stars, and fell to the roof, skinning his arm.  Blue eyes teared up as he fought to keep from crying in front of his father.

"You think yer so much smarter'n me, boy?" the man reached down and grabbed the front of his son's shirt, the rancid smell of his breath bringing a pathetic whimper from the blue-eyed boy.  "Well, yer not.  Now you watch yer tone and do as yer told or I'll throw ya off the roof myself.  Or, better yet, I'll jus' leave ya on the side of the road somewheres... you wouldn' last one day on your own..."

The maniacal gleam in his father's eye left no doubt in his mind that the threats were not hollow.  He gave a barely audible sniff and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat as he watched his father.

After a long moment when Aaron was certain the older man was seriously weighing the option of throwing the boy from the roof, his heart started beating again.  The man hauled him to his feet and shoved him to the door--he collided roughly with the frame.

"Go pack before I change my mind," the man grumbled.

Aaron, aching and terrified, headed to the stairs, eager to get out of arm's reach of the man.

"Yer new name an' story's on the table!  Get to memorizin'!"

Hate.  Anger.  Disgust.  And... defeat.  As much as he loathed to admit it, the old drunk was right.  He wouldn't last out there on his own.  He was stuck.
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All done.  And you got a bonus poem!  Woo.  There may be more later.

Yeah, so, been a little while since I posted these.  Not that I haven't been writing them... they've been coming out like crazy, but I just haven't gotten around to it.  So here's a couple.  Out of order, as always.  And the ones at the bottom... they might not even end up in the story, but I've written them, and so I'm gonna toss them here.

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"Why are you here?" came the quiet croak from the bed.

The man looked up at the sound of his son's voice.  Bloodshot green eyes stared back at him: angry, miserable, and ashamed.

"Come to berate me for not protecting Trevor?"

"Aaron, I'm glad you're awake," his father said, giving a small shake of his head.  "No... No.  You did your best..."

The boy gave a bitter laugh, struggling into a sitting position.  "The golden boy is dead and you are left with an ordinary mortal and you expect me to believe that you're all right with that?"

"You were no match for grown men..."

"And since when has that curved your wrath?" Aaron nearly shouted.  "He gets a black eye from a 200 pound neanderthal in seventh grade, and I'm expected to take him out!  Why shouldn't a skinny seventeen year old be able to overcome four grown men?"

Anger flared in the older man.  "He was your little brother!  I expected you to keep him out of those situations!"

"You wanted to force me!  You wanted me to take the licks!  You wanted me to take the knife for him!"

"I never--!"

"He told me!  He told me what you did to me!"  Aaron gripped the sheet tightly.

"It was for his protection!  It had to be done!"

"NO!  No, it didn't!  I loved him!  He was the only family I had, Father!  He was the only person who gave a damn about me!"  Tears streamed down Aaron's cheeks.  "I would have died for him!  If I could trade him places, I would!  I wish I were the one that died!"

There was such anguish in his voice that his father could not think of a reply.  He stared at his son.

"GO AWAY!  Go back to wherever it is that you go!  Trevor is dead," his voice cracked.  "Now you can go back to your magic and leave me alone."

"Aaron, you have it.  Trevor gave it to you."

Aaron shook his head.  "No.  No, he didn't."

The man blinked.  "He did.  Can't you feel it?"

The boy shoved himself unsteadily to his feet.  "I don't want to hear anymore.  If I had the powers, I'd have killed you when I woke up... Now... Get.  Out."

His father paused and unfocused, staring through his son.  The power was there, but it was shielded.  The shields felt of Trevor.

"I said, LEAVE!"

The room trembled, but Aaron was trembling and didn't notice.  The shields weren't solid enough to hold if Aaron lost control of himself.

"I'll send one of Trevor's teachers to you as soon as the healer says you're well," his father told him.  Then he turned, making a quick exit.

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"Can you take it back?"

"Back?"

"Yes.  I don't want it.  I was never meant to have it."

"Your brother--"

"...gave it to me, yes," Aaron nodded lightly and turned to look out the window.  "He was the mage, not me.  I'll never be half the mage he was."

"He wanted..." the man stopped as the boy violently shook his head.

"No.  He was scared and he was dying and he didn't know what he was doing."  Aaron wiped his eyes on his sleeve.  "Can you help me?"

The man lowered his eyes and shook his head.  "No.  I'm sorry.  This is out of my depth."

Silence descended.  After several seconds, a quiet sob broke through the room.

He looked over at Aaron, who was sniffing and crying as he opened his backpack.  The boy removed a small bundle of cloth and opened it.  "Aaron, that's...."

"I know," he murmured, wiping his nose on his sleeve.  "Comfrey, please.  I can't.  I don't want to live anymore.  Not without him."  Aaron laid the blade on the table between them.

"Gods, boy, what did they do to you?"

Comfrey stood, Aaron's eyes following him, and walked to the window.  The boy didn't speak while he stared out the window.  After several minutes, Comfrey looked at Aaron's tear-stained face.  "You know I can't... Even if your father weren't my best friend, I've known you since you were born.  I can't just kill you."

Tears started again.  "Please... please, Comfrey..."

The man shook his head.  "I'm sorry, Aaron."

The younger collapsed in on himself, weeping openly, his face buried in his hands.

Comfrey went to him, gently pulling him from the chair and wrapping him up in his arms.  "Shhh.. It's going to be okay..."

Aaron gripped the front of his shirt in his fists and shook his head, shaking from head to toe.

The older man couldn't help but marvel at the amount of control the boy had achieved, without training, in just a little over a month.  He expected the hotel to collapse in on itself with the weight of the boy's misery.  Comfrey sat on the bed, sitting Aaron beside him.

When Aaron had calmed again, the old man smiled a little to him.  "I have to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."

"There isn't much that I like anymore."

"It wasn't a coincidence that we ran into each other.  Your father asked me to come and get you."

"Huh," Aaron said.  "That explains why you were so hard to find."

"What?"

"I've been tracking you.  I found your house empty, so I've been following you."

"Why?"

Aaron smiled a little.  "I'm not going to trust just anyone to kill me.  I trusted you."

"And now?  Do you still?"

Aaron considered.  "It was a mistake to ask you.  Whether or not I still trust you depends."

"On what?"

"Are you going to try to take me back?"

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"What's your name?"

"Danjal."

"Let me see your face."

The boy tensed, hesitated, then shook his head.  "I'd rather not."

"I'll see it anyway, eventually.  Could you really be so disfigured that it bothers you to show people?"

Danjal didn't speak, his fingers gripping the strings of his hood as if he expected the man to rip it off at any second.

"I won't force you, but no matter what you look like, my offer stands."

The strings wound their way around the thin fingers.  He let them fall and reached up, carefully lowering the hood from around his face.  He kept staring downward for a long moment, then, he raised it and looked fearfully at the older man.

"Those marks..." the man's eyes widened as he stared at the black symbols beneath the boy's left eye.  "You're a..."

The boy jumped to his feet, looking stung and ready to run.  The man saw the muscles in the boy's calves tighten.

"No!"  He reached out and grabbed Danjal's arm before he could bolt.  "Danjal, no, I didn't mean it like that... I've just never seen anything--anyone like you before.  I wasn't prepared.  Don't go.  I promise this does not change anything."

Danjal stayed tense for several moments, but didn't take off when the man let him go.

"My name is Burdock."

The boy lowered himself off the balls of his feet and gave a small nod.  He pulled the hood up over his head, covering the black hair and dropping his pale face, silver eyes, and the strange markings back into shadow.

"Okay," Burdock said.  "Why don't we go and get some coffee and we can talk some more?"

"All right."

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"Two hot chocolates, please."

The woman behind the counter looked quizzically at Danjal, then nodded to Burdock.  "Three dollars."

Danjal kept his head down, hood up, while the man placed their order.  His shoulders were tight.  "I thought we were getting coffee," he said as Burdock handed him the hot chocolate and led him towards the ill-lit table in the corner.

"Coffee stunts your growth, and you're too small already."

"I'm not going to get any bigger."

"No?"  They slid into the seats, Danjal's back to the rest of the cafe.

The boy shook his head.  "We all have different forms--some as infants, some full-grown, and the rest of us are somewhere in between."  Danjal smiled a little, Burdock could just make it out beneath the hood.  "How old do you think I am?"

"See, with a question like that, I can tell you what I think and I know you'll tell me I'm wrong," he grinned.  "So tell me how old you are."

"In human years, I'm two hundred and thirty two."

"And you'll look like that forever?"

"From the second I entered existence until the moment it comes to an end."

"Then what happens?"

"Then, I cease to be, as will any human, animal, magician, demon, angel, and... others like me."

"So some deity will just wipe it all out and start over?"

Danjal laughed unhappily.  "There are no deities.  No gods, no goddesses, no half-animal-half-men creatures causing things to happen.  The angels and the demons are on the same team--against the humans, and it is all just one big game."

Burdock's brow furrowed.  "How can angels and demons be on the same team?"

"Think of any sport.  There is an offense and a defense on every team.  Different goals, but the same opponent."

The man considered, then looked at Danjal.  "So... what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You aren't on their team anymore, so does that mean you are on ours?"

"No.  It means that I refuse to play."

"Why?"

"For many reasons.  It's unfair, there is too much suffering, we--they can influence you and not the other way around."

"How can we win?"

Danjal shook his head.  "You can't.  You don't even know you're playing."

"How do they win?"

"Every time one of you kills another, they win."

They were both quiet for another moment before Burdock looked at the boy again.  "What made you quit?"

"I never played."

"Even so, you were there for two hundred some years before you were ousted, something must have happened for them to suddenly decide to boot you."

Danjal was quiet, looking down at his hot chocolate.  After a moment, he spoke.  "Have you heard of a group called, The Consecrators?"

Burdock shook his head.

They are a fairly new group--formed a little after the Salem Witch Trials.  They've kept themselves very secretive since.  They're a band of religious zealots, Hell-bent on erradicating magic from your world."

"There are magicians who still practice to this day, and not the slight-of-hand sort."  Danjal sighed, looking up towards the ceiling.  "The Consecrators used to only attack full-grown mages.  Mainly because they could not identify them until their auras pulsed at full force during adulthood.  Recently, they've found a way to identify them young--sometimes as early as age ten.  The deaths of mages have never been easy..."  He shook his head.  "They attacked a boy and his brother.  He died, very painfully, and it nearly killed his brother--who was not a mage.  He was twelve.

"I was so angry... I went to a senior angel and practically begged him to stop it.  To stop the zealots, the game, all of it."  He sighed again.  "He refused and said that younger victims should be considered a greater victory.  And I... something in me snapped.  I attacked him.  What I thought I would do... I'm not sure.  I wasn't any match for him.

"I lost consciousness.  When I came to, I was here, and I couldn't go back."

Okay, so I have absolutely no idea what the hell the colors are doing with this or why the colors will only color one line of my writing every time I try to change the color, but it's pissing me off, and if anyone knows how to fix it, PLEASE TELL ME!  That is all.

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The shadows of the room shifted, gathering together on the wall opposite the bed.  They grew dense momentarily before two tall men stepped from inside of them and out into the dark room. 

The first man strode towards the frail figure in the bed, his companion falling into step behind him.  He stopped at the edge of the bed.  The boy was sweating, pale, and sickly thin.  He reached down, placing his hand against the boy's forehead as his face took on a far-away look.  After a moment, he came back to himself.

"He's in shock.  The loss of his brother..."  The man shook his head.  "They were too close, I should have realized sooner..."

"Sir?"

"When Trevor was born, he showed all the properties of being a damn fine mage, but he was small and physically weak.  Aaron was bigger, older, and stronger, but with no magical talent to speak of.  But they were brothers, and so I widened the link between them, so that Aaron felt honor-bound to protect his brother.  Like twins would."

"But they weren't twins, what link was there between them?"

"Blood calls to blood, Comfrey.  With twins, the blood was shared for nine months before, and so the link is very strong.  With other siblings, the link is there, but it's weaker, and most people ignore it.  When I was young, I would feel queasy every time my younger sister got hurt, it took me years to figure out that I could feel her if I concentrated enough.  And so I used that knowledge, and opened the link more between the boys.  They could feel each other much the same way twins do.  Sometimes their mother was sure they were speaking to each other silently."  The man shook his head.  "I should have realized..."

"Realized what, sir?" 

"Aaron was not magic.  His body wasn't set up to handle the backlash of his brother dying, and with the link as wide as it was..."

"He felt the spirit leave," Comfrey finished.

"And probably felt the agony of dying every step of the way as well.  I'm more than a little surprised that he didn't die right along with Trevor."  The man sighed, looking down at the prone, miserable body under the blankets.  "Go to the healers.  Tell them the boy is in shock.  Have them mix some Chysanthemum for his fever and add some Betony.  With luck, the Betony will start healing up the raw link."

"And if not?"

"Then he will feel that loss every day for the rest of his life and may wish that we'd just left him to die."

Comfrey stared at the other man.  "Sir..."

"Go, Comfrey.  The sooner we break the fever, the better."

"Yes, Sir."

The man exited the room through the door.  As soon as it was closed, the tall man lowered himself to sit beside the boy on the bed.  "I've made a damn fine mess of your life, haven't I, boy?  I never thought... Well, I never thought of a lot of things.  I'm going to do the best I can for you.  If I can, I'll close up that link again, I just wish I'd thought to do it sooner."

The man spotted something out of the corner of his eye.  He was on his feet in an instant, his shields up around himself and his son.

Trevor quirked a brow at him.  "Would you kill me again, Father?"

The shields collapsed.  "Trevor..."

"Don't close the link.  Aaron is my responsibility now.  I'm going to protect him, the way he protected me."

"You died..."

"And he did his damnedest to save me."  Trevor looked sadly at his older brother.  "I did something horrible."

The man looked confused.  "What?"

There were tears sparkling on the transparent boy's cheeks.  "I gave Them to him."

A silence stretched between man and ghost.  "You... That isn't possible."

"No?  Check him, Father.  Check him like you did at birth."  Trevor turned angry eyes on the older man.

The man frowned, then turned back to his living son.  He placed his hand against the boy's forehead, his eyes unfocused.  When he shook himself free of the daze, his eyes widened and he turned back to Trevor.  "No.  No wonder he's in shock... you could have killed him!"

"My dying nearly killed him anyway!"  Trevor shot back.  His very being trembled in anger.  "I gave him a gift.  A part of me that we couldn't share--the only part we couldn't share!  I loved him and he loved me.  Even if you hadn't opened the link, he would have died to protect me."

"He can't handle it!  He--"

"He can!  He's the strongest person I've met in my life!  He should have had them to begin with, not me!"

"That's not for you to decide!"

"No."  Trevor calmed slightly.  "No, it wasn't.  But I did anyway."  He looked past his father at Aaron.  "And now I'll make it right.  I'll help him, and he'll be ten times the mage I would have ever been."

"He'll die, Trevor.  Some bodies can't handle it.  His body is rejecting it."

"It's not.  It's adjusting.  I lost a little control... at the very end... I was going slow... and then... then Death was there, and I had to stop, and so I ended up doing all that was left in a fast spurt.  It would have been fine."

"Why are you here?"

"To tell you not to close the link," Trevor looked up at the man again.  "I need it open to help him.  I can't stay by his side all the time, and so I'll need the link so we can work together at a distance."

"He'll be miserable with it open."

"He won't.  He'll feel me there, like he always did."

"You don't know that."

The boy's face twisted into a look of disgust at his father.  "And you do?  You don't know anything about us..." He paused and spared another look at his brother, his face softening.  "I have to go.  Here."  He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a woven bracelet dotted with pink coral.  His hand solidified long enough to hand it to his father.  "Give this to him when he wakes.  It won't make everything better, but.."

"The coral will help the emotional healing," his father finished, looking at it.

Trevor nodded.  "If you stay long enough to see him awake... tell him I love him, and that I'm watching him.  I promise, Father, I will guard him with every fiber of my being.  Don't close the link."

And then, the man was alone with the shocked body of his living son.  He collapsed back down on the edge of the bed and looked at the boy.  "Yeah, Aaron, I made a real mess of your life."

What can I say?  I like brother stories. 

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Trevor's back hit the wall hard.  The back of his head struck against the rough bricks and the world danced in front of him.  His hands were pinioned to the wall above his head by one larger one.  He fought to focus on his attacker, pulling at his arms.

A fist crashed into his side, and the other wouldn't let him double over as he gasped.

Off to his left, he could hear a scuffle.

"Let him go!  DON'T TOUCH HIM!"
 
Trevor tried to look at his brother, to see what was happening, but his own captor kneed him in the groin.  He gave a yell of pain and his knees buckled, but the man held him upright.

"STOP!  I swear I will kill EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!"

He could feel his brother's anger and hate just as well as he could feel those calloused hands grabbing his upper arms.  The wall and his back collided again and a whimper left his throat.

The fierce brown eyes stared at him, willing him to focus past his pain.

The sounds of the struggle came again.  Louder, with more cursing.

His eyes started to drift.  The man shook him, hard.

"Boy, you look at me," the deep voice said.

Trevor focused on the grizzled face in front of him.

"I want you ta know, this ain't nothin' personal.  We're doin' God's work, ya understand?"

"Let go of him!  DON'T!"

Trevor's voice was weak.  "No god orders the slaughter of children," he told the man quietly.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

"Thou shalt not kill," Trevor replied.

"TREVOR!"

There was a flash of light from the blade and then nothing but pain.  His whole torso was aflame in agony and he couldn't bring himself to scream as he collapsed to his knees, staring down at the hilt of the blade.

Hands on his shoulders, his jaw; turning his face towards the anxiety ridden face of his brother.

"Trevor.  Trevor, hold on, I'll get you to the hospital."

Trevor swayed, the edges of his vision darkening.

Gentler hands pulled him to his feet, draping his arm across his brother's shoulders, an arm supporting him around the waist.  Trevor's stomach lurched and he felt ill.  The front of his shirt was soaked.

They were on the main road now, under the streetlights.  His brother was attempting to flag down a cab.

Trev smiled a little.  "They aren't... going to stop... for someone.... who's bleeding to death..."

His brother shot him a look, then led him out of the streetlight and leaned him on the wall.  "Don't say anything and don't move.  As soon as I get a cab, I'll get you."

Trevor nodded, leaning heavily against the wall and resting his head against it.

When his brother went back to the side of the road, he closed his eyes.  He felt so tired and so cold.

Dying isn't so bad, he thought, if I just fall asleep...

For once, this was not written longhand, but typed straight to the computer.

Tyler laid in his bed.  Al had refused to give up the couch... or to admit that he knew that was where Tyler had been sleeping.  But Al would not be denied, not when he was trying to prove a point.

Without the low buzz of the television, Ty was finding it harder to fall asleep.  He lay on his back, watching the shadows drifting across his ceiling with every movement from outside and letting the words of his best friend wash over him.

Think, deal, heal, move on.  The hardest part is now.

He closed his eyes.  The hardest part was knowing.  Knowing that he'd caused so much disaster and that he'd had a part in the murder.. no, the genocide, of an entire city.

When he'd come to Al, he was still naive.  He could see it now.  He was still that hopeless little innocent Al had met at the school.  He'd honestly believed that the undead could just... wish everything away.  Like it never happened.  But he realized it now.  That wasn't what happened.  At all.  What happened was not the forgiveness of some uncaring deity.  It was forgiving yourself.

It's the things ye've done that can't be changed.  All ye can do is figure out what comes next.

Tyler took a deep breath and opened his eyes.  He wasn't at all surprised to find them wet, and that his chest was tight.  He thought about those multitudes of people that waited for him as soon as he fell asleep as he listened to the light snores of the mad Irishman. 

He'd been running from them for so long now.  So much of him died with them... But so much of him had lived on.  He blinked at the thought.  He took a deep breath and did a quick survey of himself, until he could feel the blood in his veins, hear his heart beating, and feel his lungs expanding.  They were basic.  It was all basic, but on a deeper level, he could feel more.  Trust and love for the man in the other room, sadness and guilt towards the people in his dreams... fear, hope, anger.  They were all still there, reacting to the same things they'd always reacted to.  Happiness seemed momentarily out of reach, but he remembered.  What it felt like, who helped him find it.

See, I've learned that the only way ta deal with shit is ta think about it.

Tyler pushed himself up a little and looked around the empty room.  He thought of Greg and saw him there, just beneath the window, smiling towards him with a sad little half smile.

"Was wondering when you'd think of me," he said, that light tease in the back of his throat.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you," Tyler admitted.

"Yeah, but you never wanted to see me."

Ty looked away for a moment, then back at him.  "Are you angry with me?"

"More angry than you are with yourself?  Not even remotely possible."  Another smile quirked on the pale lips.  "No, I'm not angry with you."  He turned serious then.  "Listen.  We fucked up.  I fucked up even more.  Nobody wants you to torture yourself over it.  Not me, not them.  Everyone makes mistakes.  We made one that was slightly bigger than most, but it's still, just human err.  That counts for a lot.  So does feeling bad about it.  And I think you've done more than enough of that."

Tyler felt himself shaking a little, then shook his head at him.  "I can't stop feeling bad about it..."

"And you shouldn't.  Nobody's telling you to forget what happened.  It's part of you now, like a shadow.  But that doesn't mean you should let it tear you to shreds.  You made a mistake, do with it what you'd do with any other mistake--learn from it.  Feel bad, absolutely, but don't let that bad feeling consume you.  That's not what it's there for.  It's there to remind you of what could happen, and to help you make sure it doesn't again."

Tyler closed his eyes, letting those blond locks fall into his face. 

"Look at what you've done already.  With how you grew up and how you didn't let that rule who you became.  It's the same thing now.  Take what's useful out of what happened and push forward.  You're alive, Tyler.  Mistakes happen as easy as breathing, it's a side effect of life.  So live.  And just roll with it."

The blond rubbed his face a little and looked up at Greg again.  "Can you ever forgive me?"

"I forgave you ages ago, Tyler.  All that's left is for you to forgive yourself."

And then, he was alone again, his heart pounding.

Tyler grabbed his blanket and pillow and crept out into the living room, where he could still hear the clove-scented snores of his boss.  He laid his pillow down in front of the couch, then stretched himself out on the floor, pulling the blanket around him.

He laid still for several minutes, listening to Al breathing and the ragged breaths of the snores, and he slowly relaxed.  And then, fell asleep.

I'm only puttin ye through hell cause I know ye can handle it, an I care.  Ye know that, doncha?  I mean, it might not seem like it half the time, but I do.

I wrote this after waking being awake for far too long one night.

It was late.  The red digits on the clock boldly announced 2:37.

The boy stared at them, his eyes misting over as his brain circled back to the same maddening thoughts that had kept him up every night for the past week, those molten tears steaming into his ears and onto his pillow.

I'm never going to be happy.  I'm going to be alone and lost forever.

A choked sob escaped into the darkness of his room.  He retreated from the shadows, curling onto his side.  His body shook and convulsed as the sobs forced their way out.

He surrendered to the tears, wishing for the water and those pain-filled breaths to take the desperation with them.  Wishing now did no more good than wishing when he was a child.

Every bit of him ached.  His back, his chest, his legs, his head, his arms, his wrists--his wrist, scratched as it was from his desperate attempt to claw the veins free.  He could see the angry red lines in the dark, while his mind tormented him.

All alone.  Stupidest smart person alive.  Failure.  Useless.

The boy sat up, freezing under the two heavy blankets, the heat in the apartment was cranked at seventy.  He screamed.

What was supposed to come out as a roar of anger and frustration came out entirely wrong.

The yell twisted inside him, latching onto his aching heart and drawing out a gut-wrenching scream of anguish and confusion and self-loathing.  Agony ripped at his throat, cutting out his desperate cry that had almost assuredly pulled his neighbors from their sound sleep in their own apartments.

And not one of them will come to see if I'm okay.

The bitterness of the thought made him ill and ashamed.

The room swam and he collapsed onto the bed, shaking uncontrollably and chilled to the core.

He pulled the covers around him tightly, weaving a cocoon around him to force out the cold that seemed to cling to him and the misery that stalked him.

I wish I had the courage to end it, he thought, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

Before I begin, I would just like to say that I did not shower today.  That is all.
----------------------------------------------------

(I've actually decided to change the second half of this, but for now, I'm leaving it as is.)

"Do you have a knife?" Jaden asked Zip, walking beside him on the way back to the little house.

"No.  Mama does."

"Yeah?  Do you think I can use it?"

Zip looked at him wearily.

"Not for anything bad," he assured the boy.  "I want to cut my hair."

"Oh!  Okay.  I'll go get it," Zip ran ahead of him, turning the corner.

Jaden smiled, but followed after at a slower pace.  He frozed as he rounded the corner.  Outside of the house, the man with dark green hair--the middle aged man from the forest--was face to face with Whisp.  He ducked behind the corner fence.

"The boy with the brown hair... where is he?"

"He left," Zip's mother said, holding Zip against her.  "He left yesterday.  Heading south."

Jaden felt a wave of affection and relief towards the woman.

"Did he now?" the man asked.  He pulled a dagger from his belt.  "Then you won't mind if we take a look around." He motioned to the two men behind him--one with fire-engine red hair, the other's the color of bricks.

They shoved their way past Whisp and Zip, and into the house.

"Keep him alive!" the man yelled after them.  "Melba needs him alive!"

Jaden heard Whisp gasp.

"Oh?  The boy didn't tell you who was after him?"

Zip looked towards where Jaden was hiding, and Jaden ducked out of sight.

"Get away from her!" Zip yelled.

Jaden popped his head up over the fence to see the boy trying to shove the man away from his mother.

The fist knocked the boy flat on his back.  "Maybe we should cut up the boy and teach him to hold his tongue.  Better yet, why don't we hand it to him?"

The man with brick hair was holding the crying woman.  "No!  No, please!"

"Where is the boy!?"

Whisp didn't answer, her mouth shut tight.

"Very well."

Jaden couldn't watch this.  He jumped up.  "Stop!  I'm over here!  Let them go!"  And then, he froze.  His legs wouldn't move, his heart thudded in his ears.

The green-haired man stood from where he'd been kneeling over the boy.  He said something to his men and the man with bright red hair started walking towards Jaden. 

Don't run, Jaden told himself, even though his legs twitched with the urge.  Don't run.  They aren't safe.

Something slammed into his side, hard, latching onto his arm and dragging Jaden, stumbling, in its wake.

"Treven!"  Jaden gasped as he tried to regain his footing.  "Treven!  Wait!  No!"

"Are you completely mad?  Do you know who they are?"

Jaden planted his feet, jerking his arm away.  "NO!"

Treven stopped.  "Jaden, those are Melba's men!  They want to kill you!"

"No, they're on orders to keep me alive... But they'll kill Zip and his mom if I don't go with them."

For several seconds, the blue-haired boy stared, then sighed.  "Give me your bag."  When Jaden hesitated, he hurriedly added, "If they take it, you won't get it back."

The brunette handed over his shoulder bag.  Treven took it, then handed Jaden a dagger.  "Hide this.  I'll follow you and get you out as soon as I can."  He watched Jaden hiding the dagger.  "Be safe, Jaden."

Jaden nodded as they heard the footsteps behind them, the heavy pounding of two men running.  "I will.  I'll see you soon."  He watched Treven jog off, then turned as the two men caught up to him.

"Sorry about that," Jaden told them with a grin.

They each grabbed an arm, looking disgruntled, and tugged him along between them, back towards the small house.
--------------------------------------

Jaden sat on the windowsill, one leg crooked, the other dangling.  His arm was draped across his crooked knee and his head was tilted back against the frame, his face sad and serious.

"Silver for your thoughts?" Treven asked from where he was folded up on the bed, sharpening his dagger.

"Hm.." Jaden said lightly, not looking away from the sky beyond the window.

"Do you miss your home?"

Jaden smiled a little.  "No, not really."

"What are you thinking about?"

"It's nothing."

"Nothing seems to make you awful melancholy."

Jaden frowned.  "If it were any of your business, I would have told you."  He pushed himself from the windowsill.  "I'm going out for a walk."

"No.  It's night.  Even if there weren't dangerous creatures about, if the night watch catches you..."

"I won't be caught.  If, after all these years, I still can't dodge the cops, then I wouldn't have been in the apartment you found me in."

Treven blinked at him.  "Cops?  I'm assuming that's your night watch... but... why would you have to dodge them?  What were you doing?"

Jaden gave a wry smile, tucking his own dagger into the arm sheath.  "I think I'm entitled to my secrets.  Don't wait up."

"Jaden!"

The door closed behind the brunette and Treven scowled.  "I am not bailing him out.  No."  He went back to his dagger, focusing his attention on the blade as he pulled the sharpening stone along it.

--------------------------------------------------------------

By the time that Jaden reached the thinning-out trees and saw the first roofs of the houses, he was starving.  He'd found a few nuts and berries occasionally, but had been hesitant to eat it, not knowing what was poisonous and what would be good.

He put on his shirt as he approached, trying to keep from standing out too much.  And he was a mess.

His body was nearly covered in cuts and scrapes, his clothes were torn and dirty, and his hair was tangled.  He wished he could be invisible, but the looks coming from the people in the village told him that wishing wasn't enough here anymore than it was back home.

Jaden turned his eyes down, clutching his bag and jacket to his side as he made his way through the crowds.  He had serious misgivings about entering the village now.

A child came running up to him.  The small fire-engine red-haired boy skidded to a stop and Jaden stopped and blinked at him.

"What's your name?" The boy asked. 

Jaden smiled to him.  "Jaden, what's yours?"

"Zip," the boy smiled shyly.  "You look weird."

Jaden bent over until he was eye-to-eye with the boy.  "Wanna know a secret?"  The boy nodded.  "I feel weird."

Zip laughed to Jaden.  A moment later, a larger woman came towards them and gently grabbed Zip's shoulder.

Jaden straightened immediately and blinked at her.

She looked the stranger over, her eyes lingering on his hair, his eyes, and then his clothes.

"Mama, he's funny," Zip announced.

Jaden felt his lips twitch a little.

"He looks like a walking stick," she said, brushing a few purple locks from her face.  "Ye got any money?"

"No, ma'am," he said softly, looking down.

"Well, then, you'll just 'ave to work it off.  Come with me.  I'll get ye somethin' to eat, and I'll bet my older boy's clothes'll fit ye about right."

Jaden blinked, then smiled brightly.  "Really?  Thank you."

Zip ran ahead and Jaden fell into step behind the robust woman, his eyes on the back of her heels to avoid the stares he was getting.

They ended up in a small house, roughly the size of Jaden's one bedroom apartment.  The woman, who informed Jaden that he could call her Whisp, sat Jaden down at a table with Zip and gave them a bowl of thick soup and a large hunk of bread.

Whisp left the room while the boys ate.

Jaden ate the soup gratefully.  He felt that it could have tasted like toes and he would have devoured it, but it didn't.  It tasted very similar to a dish that one of his old friend's mother used to make: a combination of tomato soup, basil, chicken, onions, and garlic.

He and Zip finished their meal just as his mother reentered the room, holding a set of tanned clothes.  "Ye can put these on in the bedroom," she told him.  "If ye want to keep them," she indicated to his clothes, "we can wash 'em with the next set."

Jaden stood and accepted the clothes.  "Thank you so much, ma'am."

She waved him off.  "I told ye, call me Whisp."

He smiled.  "Thank you, Whisp."

I don't know, this has been lurking in my head for a while.  Poor Tyler.

---------------------------------------------
He sat on the windowsill of the dingy little apartment, staring out at the slowly darkening night.  The only light came from the kitchen, behind the wall, passing vague shadows as it tried to creep out the door and into the main room.

The main room itself was a mess, but he just didn't have the desire to clean it.  His couch was strewn with sleep-tossed blankets and a crumpled pair of sleeping pants.  The television dark, for the moment, but he knew that when he laid down to sleep, it'd be turned on and the volume on low, just so that the apartment didn't seem so depressingly void of life.  The table between was covered in books, some open, some stacked, all of them in various stages of disrepair.  All the spines were cracked, the pages thick from being turned.  Here and there lay a crumpled napkin, that at some point might have contained something he forced himself to eat, but were now empty.

He'd given up sleeping in his bed the second week here.  It was one of those things that bothered him.  Too large, too empty, far too depressing.  He never really knew why single people bought anything larger than a twin, but he'd bought a full-sized bed, not understanding, and definitely not happy.  So he'd moved to the couch, and that was where he'd stayed, in the comfort of the closed-in space that might almost feel as though he weren't so desperately alone.

When he was younger, he'd always wanted to see England.  Now that he was here... he felt isolated.  He felt like he was being punished.  London was a beautiful, gray city.  It was lively and excitable in a way that Tyler felt he could never be again.

A couple walked by below him, laughing, their arms looped together casually.  How long had it been since he'd laughed at all?  Let alone so loudly and freely.

The pain wasn't stopping.  The guilt didn't go away.  He had thought that, in coming to his friend, a weight would be lifted, and he could feel like himself again.  But he had realized all too late that this was who he was now.  He was always himself because now, those horrible things had made themselves a part of him.  Nothing would bring those people back.

Maybe Greg had the right of it after all.  Maybe the only possible atonement he could make was to offer up that which he'd taken.  What right, after all, did he have to be here?  No right.  He had no right to the happiness he'd deprived so many people of.  And what about those people?  Many of whom would have probably done far more good for this world than he had ever, or would ever, do. 

He closed his eyes, his face and collar wet with the tears he'd too often shed.  At least he grieved for them.  What little comfort that might offer the dead was all he could give, because he had made a promise some eleven years ago... and he couldn't bring himself to break the promise, though he regretted it now.  How was he to know that one day, he would actually have a good reason to take his own life?  Not just a stinted love affair, but a way he could make things right.  He asked for catastrophes: a drunk driver, a bus without brakes, a bank robbery gone wrong while he was depositing his paycheck.  But now that he no longer wanted it, he seemed to be living a charmed life.  Nothing came close to hurting him, not anymore than the dull ache of existing always hurt him, anyway. 

"How can I make it better?" he whispered to the empty rooms around him.  "Please... please... I don't want to hurt like this.  I'll do anything.  Just, please... forgive me."

The room didn't answer.  He hadn't thought that it would, but he had hoped that it would.

He staggered away from the window and fell onto the couch, clicking on the dull sounds of the television and burying his face into his pillow.  If only he hadn't promised.  If only he hadn't given his word.  If only, if only...

Tyler let himself fall into the haunted dreams he'd come to expect, where countless numbers of faceless people accused him and he could not refute their anger and could not answer their questions.