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the-witty-pen-name · 3 years

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Deadbeat Pt. 7

Lee Bodecker x F!Reader

18+ ONLY

Warnings: age gap (reader is 21), fluff, angst, cursing, abandonment, toxic parent, violence, toxic siblings, infatuation, cheating/divorce, insecurity, mild housewife kink, mentions of prostitution, mentions of alcohol, corrupt official, fake relationship, jealousy

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: You work at the bar at the edge of town, the Sheriff is going through a divorce and needs to rent a room.

A/N:

IMPORTANT UPDATE

I made a Google form to be added to my taglists, so if you want to be added, the link is in my bio. I’ll only be adding people to the list if they requested to be added by filling out the form! This way all of the requests are just in one place so I don’t miss requests! Thank you!!!

I’m sorry for this chapter being shorter than normal, but it is more of a transitional chapter to set up some new stuff! I’m trying a new writing style in this chapter and this is why the word count is shorter. I’m nervous about posting this chapter honestly, since I tried something different. The following chapters will be back up to 3.5-4k as usual! This story is not over!

Thank you all so much for reading and sharing my work. Everyone whose reached out and told me how much they love the story really makes my day, oh my gosh!! I love you all so much, I’m so thankful.

Address mentioned is completely made up.

This is unedited, and I missed anything I should include as a warning let me know! I hope you all enjoy!

Tags and Requests are OPEN

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // Part Six

Lee never stopped telling you how much he loved you. At first, you had thought it was a spur of the moment exclamation but you were mistaken. When you realized he meant it, you reciprocated telling him you loved him too, making him the happiest man in the world. It all happened so fast, and your relationship was evolving quickly.

Maybe living together played a factor in how quickly the relationship progressed. It’s hard to just be dating someone you already live with and can’t take out on proper dates. It made everything else happen faster. He wished he could spoil you and take you to restaurants and walk into a room with you on his arm, but he couldn’t yet.

But from that moment on, he never stopped telling you. He said the phrase probably every moment he could manage. Every time he called from his office; he wouldn’t hang up without muttering the phrase. He’d tell you that he loved you before he left the house, or he’d just announce it unprompted when you both were home together, like it was some epiphany or declaration. He’d love to whisper it to you, especially at night with you pulled tightly to his chest.

He made sure he’d tell you in nonverbal ways as well, always letting you know he was thinking about you. Somehow, you’d end up with flowers on your desk at work at least once a week as well, never with a card. He’d cook, and on his days off, he’d spend them with you or he would surprise you by fixing things on the house. Never in a million years had you ever expected Lee Bodecker to be such a romantic, and when you’d joke about it, he’d say,

“You give me a reason to be, doll.”

It was thrilling, having someone to love and to have those feelings reciprocated. The ability to just be able to give and receive love was something he was never able to manage, perhaps it was just never the right person, or perhaps he had always been too selfish.

Now for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t thinking about himself.

You gave him purpose and something worth fighting for.

“When this whole thing is over and we’re out of this town, I’m gonna marry you,” he said rubbing your arm as you lay in bed cuddled up to his side. You lay your arm across his tummy and rest your head on his chest. You hum in agreement, resting your eyes, both of you waking up earlier than you needed and you were enjoying the peaceful moment of the morning together.

“I hate seeing you with that Russel kid,” he’ll mutter, possessively pulling you closer, you could feel the vulnerability in his voice.

The past weeks have been really hard on Lee. It bothered him more and more each day, knowing Arvin was the one who got to drive you home from work and just being out and about with you. He knew you were his, and he never didn’t trust you. But you were so blind to the boy’s obvious feelings for you. It was something that would eat at him at night.

He couldn’t even blame you, if Arvin was able to sweep you away from him. Arvin was a good kid- took care of his family, worked a decent job, went to Church, and he was your age. He was much better looking in the traditional sense than Lee as well. Plus, you had a history. The boy was your first love and no one forgets their first love.

He knew you didn’t look at Arvin the same way Arvin looked at you, but he was always worried that a shift could come. If that damned reporter wouldn’t leave town and the more time you spent with Arvin, the more you’d see how much you’d actually want to be with him instead. You always told Lee he was the one you wanted and he believed you, but he worried that you would change your mind. He was so insecure, and he felt guilt, and he knew that he didn’t deserve to be happy, that he didn’t deserve your affection.

Sometimes he couldn’t let himself relax. Scenarios of all the different reasons you could leave him for polluted his mind and he hated how it took him out of being in the moments he just wanted to enjoy. He’d see you in his mind, happy with Arvin, marrying him instead and creating all those experiences with Arvin instead of him.

“He’s just my friend,” you reiterate, probably now for the millionth time. You were patient, and it never seemed to bother you, that the two of you ending up having this same conversation over and over. He needed the constant reassurance, and he hated the fact that he did.

“I want you, Lee,” you’ll mumble affectionately, trying to shower him with compliments and praise, to lift him up when he got down like this. “I don’t want any other man,” you’d affirm.

“This town is poison,” Lee mutters, looking out the window, the blinds pulled back as the sun is steadily rising. “Everything feels like it’s tainted,” he observes.

“Except us,” you correct him. He nods, but he knows his statement especially applies to him.

“Except you,” he sighs, his fingertips tracing circles on your bare shoulder.

“You don’t think you’ve ruined me, Sheriff?” you tease, making him smile, gradually pulling him out of his state. You’d lean up and kiss him, and the sensation would help his thoughts fade away for a few minutes. The feeling of your lips and soft skin against his own just putting his mind at ease, using his other senses to just keep his mind at bay.

He’s not sure if you realize how much he means it when he talks about escaping away from the town and marrying you. He thought about it all the time and it was what he was working toward. He knew even if he managed to go straight, if when Curtis left town, if the case around your mom was resolved, the town would still eat you up. The image of you both would be sullied. Reputation was crucial for survival in a town like this. You’d already been subjected to it before your relationship started.

He knew the solution was simple. He needed to take you away from Ross County, move to a new town where no one knew you both. It would just be a Sheriff and his new bride looking for a place to settle down. No rumors, or peeping eyes, or reporters, or exes, no corruption- just the two of you. Get a house, maybe start a family if you wanted that too.

He hoped you did. He’d be content either way, but he wanted a big family. His growing up was much less than ideal and it was just him and his sister. He loved the idea of a bigger family. He loved the image of having a house that was loud in a different way than what he grew up in. He often worried if he’d be a good father, but he never once doubted how excellent of a mother you would be if you wanted.

The only thing he wanted in his future was you, and everything else would be a blissful bonus of things he also doesn’t deserve. But to him you deserved the world and he simultaneously wanted to give you everything but then at the same time he felt like he would hold you back. You were young and had so many good years ahead of you. He couldn’t imagine you’d want to waste the rest of your life or even the rest of your twenties with him.

You could get a job doing anything you wanted and he could run for Sheriff in the new town maybe, or he could do something else. It didn’t matter to him anymore really. The time he’s been with you has really helped him see what is actually important. It was the only thing he wanted. He wanted to be able to give you that because he knew that you deserved it and more than he’d ever be able to give you.

Laying in bed with you on this lazy morning, reminded him of the last time he was there when you were still bartending. It was the first time that pesky day dream of his started. It was something a lot bigger now than it was then. He loved you, and he was relieved he could say it to you now, and he wanted to settle down. This backwards way the two of you got together was a mess but it was yours. He wouldn’t trade it for anything, but he knew he needed to make things right.

He had been so blind, for so long, and he finally started to feel like he could be someone he actually wanted to be.

All he needed was time and he could set it all straight.

***

Arrest of Pimp in Knockemstiff, Ohio Reveals Corruption of Town Sheriff

By: Henry Curtis

Sheriff of Ross County, Lee Bodecker, has been allegedly involved in the coverup of a local brothel, run by Leroy Brown. Brown and several of his associates were arrested on Wednesday night by local police for drug possession and possession of illegal firearms. As the group resisted arrest, there was a shoot out at a small bar in Meade, which was revealed to serve as a front for their operation. Seven men, including Brown, were arrested Wednesday night for questioning by the local police.

While giving his statement, Brown confessed to the charges and in hopes of a lesser sentence, cooperated with police and provided names of all involved in the underground prostitution ring. He provided the police with twelve names, including that of the local Sheriff Lee Bodecker and his sister Sandy Henderson, who has since also been apprehended by the local authorities.

Sandy Henderson was apprehended on Thursday morning, and made bail for $500 that Saturday. Henderson and her husband, both denied an opportunity to provide a statement. The pair only stated they will be promptly returning home and want to put this behind them.

Although there has been no release of his official statement as of yet regarding this alleged involvement, Bodecker was taken into custody the next morning, apprehended by his deputies from his home. Deputy Bill Thomas has since announced that the Sheriff will be subject to a trial in the near future, and for now faces an indefinite suspension from his post until his innocence has been proven. Deputy Thomas has also said that regardless of the outcome of the trial, Bodecker will be unable to run for reelection next term.

With this new development, it is also worth noting that the Sheriff is a tenant of (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the daughter of Estelle (Y/L/N)-Tucker who is currently wanted by law enforcement for embezzling thousands from her husband Harvey Tucker’s company, Tucker Brokerage, and then fleeing with her sixteen-year-old son. When police arrived at her home Thursday morning to apprehend the Sheriff, deputies on scene took an official statement from (Y/L/N), where she denied knowledge of the Sheriff’s involvement in any of the alleged criminal activities nor any knowledge regarding her mother or brother’s whereabouts.

Woman Wanted for Embezzling Funds from Tucker Brokerage Arrested in Indiana

By: Henry Curtis

Former resident of Knockemstiff, Ohio, Estelle (Y/L/N)-Tucker was arrested in South Bend, Indiana yesterday morning before dawn. Being able to identify her as a wanted person, Este and Harold Turner, owners of the Sunnyside Motel where (Y/L/N)-Tucker had been staying for about three days prior to the arrest, notified the local authorities she was staying in one of their rooms. She also was accompanied by her sixteen-year-old son.

The boy’s older sister has now become the boy’s sole guardian and he has since returned to his hometown. According to the police, the boy was completely cooperative and they believe he had no knowledge of his mother’s crimes. In a statement given the night of the arrest, the boy told police he believed they were running from his step-father, as his mother insinuated, she had been a victim of domestic abuse. There is no evidence yet as to whether her statement is true, but there will be an investigation of husband, Harvey Tucker, to discover if this claim is true.

Both children of Estelle (Y/L/N)-Tucker have not agreed to speak about their mother or the situation to anyone except police. Daughter, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), said when she arrived in Indiana to pick up her brother, seemed to only care about getting her brother home safely. Locals report she never asked to see her mother, and only focused on her brother.

As of now, (Y/L/N)-Tucker will remain in the custody of the South Bend Police until they are ready to transport her to Columbus, Ohio where she will face jail time and then eventually a trial.

Corruption in Knockemstiff High School Staff, Principal Arrested for Illegal Distilling- Sheriff Involved in Cover Up

By: Henry Curtis

Principal of local high school, Mark Cunningham, was arrested today after local police discover an illegal distillery on his residence. Police had retrieved a warrant to search Cunningham’s land after receiving an anonymous tip from a source close to the Principal.

Following his arrest, Cunningham admitted to the felony, but also claimed Ross County’s previous Sherriff, Lee Bodecker, had prior knowledge of the still, and in exchange for his silence, he demanded Cunningham offer a secretarial job at the high school to his landlord, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), who is the daughter of Estelle (Y/L/N)-Tucker, who recently was tried for embezzlement.

The vice-principal of the high school, Meredith Lively, has stepped forth as interim principal until the position can be filled, and ensured the press (Y/L/N) had been fired effective immediately, despite her claims of being unaware any such deal had conspired. Police have found no evidence to contradict (Y/L/N)’s statement, and in an official statement taken from Bodecker, he confirmed that it was part of the deal she not be made aware of the circumstances.

New Sheriff Elected to Ross County

By: Henry Curtis

Former Deputy Bill Thomas has been elected Sheriff of Ross County. Following the trial of former Sheriff Lee Bodecker, who had been found guilty of all charges, Bodecker was barred from office, and given a five-year sentence.

Deputy Thomas in an acceptance speech during a recent town hall meeting, ensured residents of Knockemstiff that “one bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch” and the Sheriff’s department under new control will keep the town safe, and clean of crime and corruption. When asked by reporters how he felt about Bodecker, Thomas only described his situation as “unfortunate.”

There has been no other evidence of corruption within Ross County Sheriff’s Department although the investigation is still ongoing. When asked during his trial if he received any corroboration from any other law officials, Bodecker stated he never involved other members of the force with his wrongdoings.

REAL ESTATE

Room Available for Rent in Knockemstiff, Ohio

$50 monthly rent (utilities included)

1 Bedroom (250 sq. ft.), furnished

Private bathroom with shower

4 Birch Street

Knockemstiff, Ohio

Please call the following number with serious offers. Price negotiable.

PART EIGHT

Taglist

@scar-is-bi @jiminlife2k18 @asylummaniac01 @rosalynshields @charmed-asylum @jamesbuchananbuckybarnes1917 @alexandrathegreat3 @hersilencedscreams @malar-region @purplerain85 @vesper852 @smilewolfdolan @softshell-taco @champagnebucky @lilacmeadows @mollygetssherlockcoffee

383 notes · View notes

thesalemsaga · 4 years

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𝟭 — 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿

— 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙢 𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙖.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 : 6.8k words

𝙨 : salem, the mistress of evil, has been made aware of a resistance group being made within the walls of the empire academy, valhalla. meanwhile, young seren has a bit of an epiphany.

the most unfortunate thing about the mistress’s palace, is that nobody will ever hear you scream.

in the black mountain, the darkness hardly distinguishes day from night. and they say that after losing a track of time, of days, going on without gazing at a clock or a calendar or even getting a peek at the stars, can drive a person to mere insanity. that was what many claimed happened to the witch when she was confined into this palace and was left to her own accord.

although light never shone once through those tainted, ebony windows, life still continued within the monolith. although not the healthy life that one might expect, not the life with clear morals or allowing a faith to carry you through your good doings, not even that flicker of passion towards pass-times and careers that keep you up and moving, nothing of the sort was ever seen in these walls. rather, it seemed like everything about humanity had abandoned the creatures from within.

the seemingly natural and human way of living had been lost within their countless decades here. time was not even a concept, they weren’t sure what use it was to count the hours and days and years you spend there, you’d just make it worse for yourself within the hope that tomorrow you will escape. and if not tomorrow, then in a week. and if not in a week, then in a month, two months, three. upon realizing that time might never come, you peer at those tallies drawn on the dark cobble walls and sneer and scream into an empty vacuum of space where nobody will hear you and save you.

it’s no use getting out either, not without the witch’s permission.

but even if you go out and are asked to return, you must pray to whatever deity remains on this cracked crater of a planet, in hopes that you return with good news. if not good news, decent news. but never bad news. bad news like, the fact that soldiers from the empire front seemed to have located the traces of one of salem’s henchmen.

yeah, good luck getting out of something like that.

inside one of the many halls of the dead palace, a sudden sound erupted. the scout wheezed and coughed as his head was lifted from the pool of water. tangled through raven locks and pulling and yanking, the gloved hands of the witch minded him like a puppet. they leaned over what could have been a pool, but the water was far from pristine or blue, it was a sea-weed green and at certain times, you might just spot a fin breaking through the surface before submerging once more.

this had been going on for nearly five minutes, but it felt like hours. having your head being forced down this certain pool would attract something ugly that lies in the deep end, the mere scent of your blood will put you in danger. but one could hardly care for the life of a mere scout when the mistress of evil has some minor, and by that, major problems on her hands.

“ m-my lady, please, show mercy! ”.

when she forced his head back down, salem’s eyes appeared fit to kill. two vermilion spots lacking any source of previous humanity, but even with the eyes, you wouldn’t take her for having been once a beautiful woman. the horns on her head were curled with ends as sharp as a double edged sword. her complexion was as lifeless as ash clouds summoned by an erupting volcano. salem hardly looked like a witch, she seemed fit to be a demon, a horned one, at that. and perhaps a part of her had some relation to the beings dwelling in the fiery pits below, especially once glancing at the limits of her ire.

minutes prior to this, the same scout she had sent out with about a dozen goblins had returned with news she had not been expecting. news regarding the empire, the people who have tried to take her down for the past two decades. there had been no success although salem was hardly an idiot, she was not one to underestimate the passion of vengeful humans, she was a vengeful human herself. it wouldn’t be long before they charged in with torches and pitch-forks to burn the witch.

resistance groups were growing within the walls, according to the chatter of some military men wandering between the boarder of what was the ukraine. the scout, a good fighter as well as an idiot, could have escaped without alerting the men of his presence and that of the dozen goblins he had brought with him, but he did not. the mere rustle in the bushes alerted the soldiers of a darker presence listening into their banter, and although killing was not on salem’s demand, it had to be done.

what could have been tyrants avoiding giving their status and identity away instead became an altercation that left one soldier cubed to pieces whilst the other fled, and to add salt to the wound, a stupid goblin who went after him was seen by the patrol ship they had parked in the area. checkmate for the empire soldiers.

to make a long story short, salem was fucked.

salem’s berserk force yanked the man’s head out from the mermaid pit and just a small flicker of pleasure manifested in those dead eyes. if there was one thing that she did love doing ( and she doesn’t love many things ) it was ensuing a well-taught lesson on consequences. and she was a rather strict teacher when it came to that.

“ listen to me, you filthy pig ”, she spat, sneering as the man found to catch his breath. her grip on his hair only tightened. “ you had clear instructions. you had them fucking written down, i even took some remorse since you have a god-awful memory and you want to tell me to have mercy, when you just fucking gave a major clue away to those empire fuckers?! ”.

the man continued to cough and wheeze as salem’s spat pure venom, “ what is it with you men, huh? can’t take orders from a woman? is your superiority alarm blaring so hard that you just won’t adhere to the fucking orders because a woman gave them to you? answer me, you pig! ”. he couldn’t. “ d-do you know how fucked i am? well not in the best way, i’ll tell you that. all of my efforts to make my location have gone to shit because you couldn’t keep your lousy ass out of trouble for five minutes. five years! five years stuck in this cold shithole and you gave it all away, you filthy animal. oh, i’m not going to show any mercy at all. ”

although the currents were disturbed by the abuse brought upon the scout, the waves did not fail to suddenly grow rampant, as if enraged. and around the same time, salem shoved his head down far enough for the water to engulf his shoulders. and it was not her who pushed him into the water, rather it was an unseen force yanking him into the depths.

as the witch rose and paid one last glance at the pool over her shoulder, she took note of a red hue that rose to the surface. after that, silence.

elsewhere . . .

principal arthur armsend was a man of honor.

being a principal and leader to a new era of the world, leading boys and girls and what lies in between into a new age, a renaissance period that would take the world from being a dark and bleak place that they were no longer familiar with, into the peaceful planet they had known it to be a hundred years ago. and he did so by a sharp discipline he gave to all of his students.

classes started at eight o’clock and go on until about four, and every day, something new is taught. from alchemy and martial arts, to care of mythical creatures and history. three meals were held every day at the immense cafeteria, free time started after classes in which students were able to enjoy the open-air yards of this floating monolith in the sky. in fact, they were so high up that you might reach over the edge and touch a cloud.

as opposed to many schools, the academy of valhalla was not one to waste time fooling around. third-year students and first-year students alike worked around the clock in order to harness the best skills in their arsenal in case the possibility of being sent out into missions came. and usually, when you were prepared, you might end up having the best results. students were told to be precise, to never make foolish mistakes, and to always remember why they were here.

although, nobody got it as bad as the principal’s daughter.

you’d expect the privilege to be very obvious; the ability to skip classes, to get out of trouble, to be an immediate social magnet, to be allowed out of the school and into the city to enjoy what it means to be young. any good parent with a somewhat loose way of raising their kids would spoil their child when they had the position they had. but for her, it was anything but that.

“ back straight, seren! ”.

she’s been at this for three hours. not joining her peers in the usual classes would mean that she would have to be doing something a little more different, a little more suited for her, and whilst many might role her eyes, they’d feel their stomach drop when they see the state that seren armsend is reduced to when brought into these private lessons.

at this point, her knees scrapped and legs clearly trembling, fatigued to the core, anyone could tell that seren was going through hell. these lessons tended to last three to four hours, but every time she so dared to look at the digital clock on the wall, her tutor would threaten to extend the time to fifteen minutes. ‘you wouldn’t take your eyes off your target in a real fight to see how long you’ve been at it’, he had said many times. and although it pained her, she had to agree.

her tutor, however, was none other than her old man. at the age of fifty, arthur still managed to maintain a certain posture to his stand whilst in battle that would trick anyone into aging him down a couple of years. he was a petite man, shorter than his daughter by two inches, and that most definitely did not stop him from butchering his daughter and bringing her to her limits in these training lessons.

how many times would seren have to be here a week, you ask? five times. fridays were generally the days in which she would have two of these sessions, one in the morning and the other placed right after lunch and she would only be back in her dorm at seven o’clock in order to crash, rest, and prepare for more lessons on a saturday morning.

iron thorn was clasped in her hand, arms tensing and aching to rest, her entire body ready to collapse the mere snap of the man’s fingers when he allowed her to rest but it wouldn’t be anytime soon. her training gear made her feel ten times heavier, and it was hot, boiling hot. but an armsend does not show struggle in the midst of a duel, they prefer to keep their enemies unsure of their condition to scare them or taunt them. you could only collapse once you’d finished what you started.

privilege, my ass. this is torture.

the clock was ticking towards the final bell which would dismiss all students but the ones in detention, and seren. “ finish what you started, come on. gaze up, for god’s sake fix that shoulder, and stop shaking your leg, you’ll stumble as soon as you lunge forward ”, she was used to receiving these comments, and she would take the feedback in an instant, because she knew arthur armsend when he was angry, a burden she shared in being his daughter.

iron thorn gave a minor whistle as she prepared to lunge once more, no essences were allowed to be used for the time being. if she did use something, the room might collapse. but she was tempted, oh young seren was tempted on pulling the trigger against the handle of her rapier and bring the ceiling to the ground. it would give her at least a minute to escape through the debris and run.

even upon lunging with a perfect posture and speed, the blade clashed against the cane her father wielded. stabbing, withdrawing, lunging, withdrawing, flicking and withdrawing. each set of movement took a mere second because of her semblance, yet her father caught everything and she was beginning to grow slightly discouraged. although not as many could fight as well as him, she knew that there would be someone out there who could. one person. and if she were to cross paths with that person, she cannot steer to being passive. even though it was meagre simulation of a fight, seren was asked to treat it like a reality. and that, she did.

arthur bore a sudden attack that left seren scrambling to get out of her thoughts, darting in withdrawal with a backwards somersault and landing clumsily on her feet, her legs nearly rendering her weak enough to collapse yet she still had a bit of sharpness left in her to know that landing on your ass would certainly mean a scolding from your father later.

this time, however, she did not have energy to raise her weapon to him as he pointed the end of his cane against her neck. she merely lifted her head and glanced upon his gaze that seemed rid of any emotion, meaning he was thinking, analyzing, arthur just wasn’t the type of man to wear his feelings on his face. he knew better than that.

seren didn’t. “ what was with that frown i saw? you know how many times i’ve taught you not to make your thoughts and emotions obvious on your face, your face has to be a blank canvas ”, he went on to say, lowering his cane and pressing the end against the ground. his posture straightened and he seemed to have dropped his defenses. she was not going to attack, however. “ seren. ”

“ m-my apologies, father ”, the girl gasped softly and blinked, verging dangerously close to the point of collapsing. something kept her awake, a part of her subconscious that wanted to keep her alive, her fight response. if not for it, then she would have perhaps been disowned or sent away just like her older sister.

now the only capable of heir in the family with the ripe age of eighteen, soon graduating from the academy, seren would have to carry the legacy of the cold armsend women who never once brought themselves close to failure. she would have to probably join the military route upon parting ways from valhalla, leading young soldiers to restore their lost land. although, if you ask her, if she had the choice, she would have picked the exploration route. unfortunately, being born in this family means that your fate is already decided for you from the moment your presence in your mother’s belly is announced.

needless to say, you have to stay on the route of perfection.

arthur sighed, it was clear he wasn’t happy. “ we’ll cut the lesson short today. you will make up for it with an extra hour tomorrow after class ”, he decided, and in order to avoid angering the man, the girl pursed her lips together and nodded. if one stared for just a moment, they would notice the trepidation in her eyes.

her tutor, father, and principal turned and left the training chamber they had been in for the past four hours. now vacant, the only sound echoing being the pants emanating from her cracked lips and although she wanted nothing more but to lay down on the floor, seren only averted her tired gaze to the immense windows giving her perhaps the best view she’s had of the world outside in a while.

although the empire had seen better days, the mountain of crete was a good place to re-build a city and make the public feel safer inside the walls. there weren’t many who wanted to venture out, probably because they had everything they could ever want in here. technology meant that they could produce food by cloning and distributing it to millions, money never seemed to be an issue as there were jobs for everyone, though it was said that there lived some people outside of the walls, in mainland greece who took care of farms and cattle and had a somewhat older way of living that would have been seen in the medieval times. they were closer to the truth of the world, and the fact that at least a dozen would apply annually to move within the walls said something.

but the talk of the wild never petrified seren as it did to others. they had returned to a time where they believed society was safer, and as soon as you stepped into a zone with no laws or mentions of morals, you’d be in danger. yet she’s read stories of people who lived just fine in these conditions, monsters or no monsters. and though she shared some fears with the general public, the wild was not one of them.

if anything, seren was infatuated with the idea of going outside, of seeing the world for what it was and not for what others claimed it to be. they hardly showed images captured by the military when they leave the walls and attend an expedition, only returning in a week after taking geographical calculations and hurriedly leaving. hardly the military you want protecting you.

seren claimed that with her father in line, things would change. the third year graduates from the year before had gotten good results, one of them had succeeded in establishing a base in almost every continent that remained. and although hardly anyone visited those bases, they were there in case you found yourself lost and in serious need of help. many other alumni valhalla students made technological advancements towards transport and population control, others went more of a political way and started working alongside governors to change the shape of their monarchy.

it was almost a guarantee that those who leave valhalla are destined for good things, but it felt as if seren would not be able to join her peers in that sense and it pained her to such an extreme where she wanted to jump out from those balconies, land in cold water and swim her way out of the city. yet she would have to return at some point, there is always a way back home after an adventure, even if it’s a short one.

seren looked down at her sword and tapped the floor with the tip for a moment, the blade had never once been blunt and yet it seemed like it was in desperate need of a recovery. it must have been caused by the countless daily training that hardly left her any time to catch up with her other subjects. her father was tempted on making a fighting machine out of her, and although she loved a good duel, seren was not a natural fighter. she was more of a diplomat, if you ask her.

lost in her thoughts, seren didn’t exactly hear the beeping sounds emitting from the door of the training chamber until it had come to her side and then began to feel a sensation against her leg. upon looking down, her frown disappeared and her eyes turned to crescents.

“ hi, ted. “

valhalla was known for having ‘familiars’, little creatures often used to advise students and although you couldn’t own them, you could befriend them. seren had known ted since he was made, which was roughly twelve years ago. he has been her friend long before he got signed up to be a companion to her school. at the age of six, ted was the robot she played with when she was alone.

smart, short and oh so adorable, ted-ee 012 mostly helped doctor lin with matters in computing lessons for those who lean more towards the technology route. but he was far from the war machine the school fabricated and more of a health robot, charged by water and able to detect sadness from students. it was probably why he had approached seren to begin with, pulling at her leg with his small hands.

he let out a happy beep as he waved at her, his eyes as pleasant and polite as always. “ i wasn’t sad, you know, i was just thinking ”, she said, crouching to his level. he stared at her, blinking for a couple of seconds with a disapproving sound. “ what, don’t believe me? ”. and then it clicked. “ oh, you got upgraded, didn’t you? ”.

ted hardly got any enhancements done to his figure, as he didn’t really have any flaws and his feedback from the students was always exemplar. but this time around, it was useful. because the upgrade enabled him to tell whether people were lying or not and it worked well during exam season where many would be asked whether they cheated or not.

seren let out a minor chuckle and shook her head, “ well there’s no point lying to you. but you never tell anyone, so i suppose it’s fine. ” she patted the top of his smooth head and then stood, holding iron thorn to her and then tucking it back into its sheath. “ care to get some fresh air? ”. on a happy note, seren left the chamber, ted hovering after her.

the halls of valhalla would usually be empty after classes were over, most students tended to flee outside and look for something fun to do, which was mostly seen in throwing frisbees, playing chess, going sunbathing. some returned to the lounge and played games or watched movies. others returned to their dorms to rest, and a small percentage fled to the library for some extra time studying.

a part of seren was almost glad that there weren’t many people to see her tired state. ted had offered her a mirror through his digital face and she was quick enough to adjust her cotton candy hair and adjust the blue bow pushing the locks of her hair back. she was boiling under this training gear, but she would be out of it sooner as her lesson was cut short, but it was clear she was going to owe her father an apology afterwards for her wandering mind. little things upset her father, but what majorly puts him off is when seren is not focused. it was the reason for most of their arguments and disagreements.

the dorms were in the lower parts of valhalla though the girl took a small detour outside to catch her breath. in the midst of a sunny afternoon, the sky was beginning to turn into hues of pink, purples and oranges as the sun thought about setting. the wind batting against her skin was all that she needed, especially as she neared to the open air yards with artificial grass, smooth concrete paths leading students around the perimeter of the entire yard that seemed to go on for miles and miles. some benches and picnic tables were scattered, mostly occupied by first years who wanted to catch up after their lessons.

seren hardly steps outside, held inside by her tasks, but stepping outside was a freeing sensation, her arms folded and rested against the balcony railings, the wind was best from where she stood and she could have stood there for hours if she didn’t keep telling herself to return to her dorm and get as much rest as she could.

out of everything that caught seren’s attention, a game of football stole it in the end. most of the boys tended to be relatively active and sporty, that was a given as they had to be active if they wanted to carry heaven guns or broadswords with them in battle. seren became immersed in it for a moment, not the type of person to find kicking a ball around for ninety minutes particularly interesting but this time around, she couldn’t really help it.

what mostly caught her attention was one of the boys playing, and as far as she was concerned, she knew who he was. not the person to read the ranks too deeply, seren would only glance at the names and the pictures and this one was one she recognized. kailen cassius, rank number six, an archer. perhaps the most remarkable thing about him, however, what his height.

he had an air to him, though, that of someone who could handle things himself but also relied on teamwork and seemed to be about unity and working things out in a more collective fashion rather than being selfish all the time. he seemed like a good person, she thought. someone she’d definitely befriend and would be able to trust when faced with danger, but being alone didn’t permit her to join any teams. her father said that the only time she’d ever really join her peers in something of the sort was if she served as a tutor.

seeing as how so many of the students were set into groups, she wandered whether being in one would ensure that she would leave and tread beyond the walls, but she doubted anyone would really want to be in a team with her unless if they wanted extra credit or wanted to dump all the work onto her. and since seren wasn’t one to say no to people so easily, she might have to deal with being the one carrying all the work since she had the skills and smile as everyone got the best results despite having done nothing. it happened once in her primary school, and it was what shaped her into the timid, goody-two-shoes of a person that she is.

but say if she were to tutor a group. she’s seen third-year students do it mostly with second-year students who needed some help, but it would work and be the only time where seren might be able to use her position to get what she wants. it might make her father trust her just a tiny bit more, but she never knew exactly when it came to arthur armsend, he wasn’t one to be pleased so easily.

still, she was willing to give it a go.

when ted suddenly beeped, seren was drawn out of her thoughts once more only to realize that she had potentially been staring at kailen based on the way that well, he was looking right back at her. she had totally zoned out and had not managed to snap out of it when she felt the confused gaze of the boy on her. thank god for ted, otherwise she would have made much more of a fool of herself than she already had.

seren blinked and leaned away from the railings as soon as she began to feel her ears and cheeks burning pink. ted let out a confused noise, “ why didn’t you snap me out of it as soon as i started staring? ”. the robot tilted his head to the side with a level of confusion. “ he probably thinks i’m a total weirdo now! ”.

when ted let out an apologetic sound, seren sighed and risked a look back at the boy who had returned to his game, seeming more carefree but not before their eyes locked for a moment and she felt a wave of realization.

seren is hardly one to have an epiphany, but what she will tell you is that the feeling cannot easily be described. connecting the dots, her blank expression was replaced by that of surprise as her eyes grew in size and her pursed lips parted only for her to turn on her heel and start pacing quickly back inside, ted following in suit with some confused beeps.

the top six students are all third-years, and although the top student was often taken out of lessons to engage in more practical work outside of valhalla, that still left five people who were very capable of what she had in mind. she thought the tutoring idea would be pointless, but after her thoughts rang in that training chamber, after she stepped outside and looked towards the walls, after realizing that the world might end up caving in on itself if nothing was done, after such an epiphany, she couldn’t possibly sit there and do nothing.

seren knew her father would never let her out to do something like this on her own, but she knew she could perhaps impose an idea he could not deny. he wanted a daughter that would make changes, and after the death of one possible heir and the marriage of another, the fate settled on seren when she did not wish for it. but she could not change this about herself. but she knew that if good results came out of this, if her epiphany was right and she had perhaps hit the gold mine, that the world would somehow improve. and that was something she was taught from a young age.

her mother left when she was eight but the moral lessons stuck with her for ten years and it is probably why her thirst for knowledge of the outside world and the drive to better things was not leaving her anytime soon. the action of doing good things was deeply embedded into her, perhaps it was a genetic thing or the way her mother shortly raised her. she was a rebel without a cause, a woman who ventured out and never cared for the warnings she got or the many injuries she returned with. because at least she was helping.

so perhaps it was time to start being a little selfish on her end. seren knew her father wouldn’t be in the best of moods after their lesson that afternoon, yet her blood remained boiling, adrenaline causing her heart to race after and her steps to quicken until ted stopped following her and let her run off on her own.

her father’s office was at the top floor, and after a long elevator ride to the top, seren stumbled into the room.

the porcelain tiles she stepped in were drawn with art she had never quite been able to name before. perhaps it was a renaissance-style painting, what with the figures and halos and clouds. every time she entered her father’s room, it felt like entering a museum. he was an archaic man with older, more traditional principles despite being inclusive. but he was one to separate his inclusiveness from his professional way of working, because no matter what you were, he still extended a hero out of you.

the mahogany desk was usually empty as he would have meetings on a friday evening but she had caught him seemingly before he could prepare for said meeting. he seemed to have turned on his record player, appearing blissful whilst listening to an opera piece seren has heard all too many times. the china cup in his gloved hands saw steam rising from what seemed to be his usual chamomile tea. three cubes of sugar, no less.

the minor ding of the elevator made him raise his head when seren approached his desk. he paid her a mere glance, raising a brow. “ why are you not changed? i thought we’d be having dinner together ”, he stated, blowing the steam from his cup gently. “ don’t waste time, seren. ”

“ i need your permission for something, father. ”

arthur let out a sigh. when seren approaches him with a request as such, he often knows what it will be. permission to head to town for the weekend, permission to continue her tap lessons, permission to head to the beach. almost all of those requests were never really granted for the mere reason that he did not want her attention diverting to something else when so much had to be done. but he seemed to sense something was different, he knew his daughter well known and one thing he was unfamiliar with was the glistening pair of eyes like his wife’s staring back at him.

“ although i may be only seven in the ranks, i feel like . . . i-i feel like i know what i want to do before i graduate ”. she quickly took her seat in one of the chairs facing him across his desk. she took notice of his cane resting on the side and gulped.

days ago, he had mentioned that her older sister had one final act as a valhalla student that marked her as a significant alumni. although she married shortly after, she still made history by being the student who uncovered many lost articles and items in other continents, items rich in cultural value as they carried history of their dying planet. and she had done this before graduating. arthur imposed the idea that seren should do something similar.

seren proceeded, “ might i suggest gathering the top five students and allowing me to tutor them? ”.

“ seren. ”

“ let me finish, p-please! ”.

the girl clasped her hands together and forced a meek gaze down, “ i have all these skills in my arsenal and i highly doubt i’ll ever be able to use them because i can’t apply them to the world outside like the others. but perhaps i can let someone else take the lead for me. i-i could teach them what i’ve been taught and hope that they’ll carry it on, l-like a legacy if they choose to step outside of the walls. ”

arthur put his cup down, clearing his throat. “ is this just a reason for you to step outside? you know what i’m going to say, seren ”, his tone appeared highly disinterested, but she was not going to be discouraged this time around.

“ father . . . you and i both know that we have the people needed to do something about what’s happening to the world outside ”, she inquired, still no response. silence lingered until the apprehension faded. “ you found salem’s whereabouts, did you not? ”.

the principal, although he didn’t appear shocked, gave it all away through the way he dropped his spoon into his cup. he rose his gave with a clenched jaw and peered at her, possibly questioning how she’d come to such a conclusion. but it was no rumor, it was true. the general said the men found one of her scouts spying on them near the ukraine, meaning she couldn’t be too far. five years of hunting salem after her escape, only to finally discover the continent she hid in.

“ seren, listen to me closely ”, he warned, leaning over his desk slightly with a grave tone. “ i understand you wish to be a hero. but you will not be the hero who died trying to kill the witch that brought the world to its end. no daughter of mine will do something of the sort. ”

seren continued to fight back, “ but i won’t be the one doing it, it’ll be five qualified people doing it on my behalf because i taught them what other teachers do not. ”

“ seren. ”

“ and you act as if the years of training has been for no reason. what, am i just going to have these skills at my disposal and never use them? did i just waste nearly sixteen years of my life being taught something in case there’s a war? ”, she spat. she had never spoken to her father like this, and in a dark corner of her mostly innocent mind, she was enjoying it. she felt like her mother. “ father, there will be a war regardless. especially if we stick around doing nothing about the clear danger. i’m going to have to use these skills but i could also use them to prevent it all. ”

the man grew quiet. somewhere in his mind, he probably felt something similar. she had heard the stories, her father wanted to be the valiant one in his family to carry the armsend name, but he was the one who deeply injured himself to the point where he had to give up his heroic hopes and let it become mere fable. he didn’t want the same thing happening to seren, but he knew that this time, matters would be different. she would have help.

and sending your kid into a world that is unknown to even the smartest men in the world was a horrifying thought, but it is in like every tale, the one holding the hero back will always have to let them go. that is how the best heroes are made, the ones who were given the chance to chase after their happy ending, not he ones ho were held back. what good is a sheltered hero?

besides, she might end up finding the worthy opponent she had always dreamed of meeting. and if it was salem, so be it. call her reckless or obsessed with heroism, but seren knew she wouldn’t be able to stay within these walls for much longer.

her father knew this as well, even if it was clear he didn’t want to.

“ are you certain about this, seren? ”.

no, she wanted to say. she had hardly given any logic aside from her own hopes and expectations which could be mistaken as mere childish fantasy and desperation to be outside, but it is better not to ask her how she knew it would work out. she just knew.

“ yes ”, the girl breathed and bit her lip slightly. “ i think mother would have wanted to me to do this. i’m an explorer just like her, father. you know that very well. ”

arthur chortled, glancing bitterly at his cup of tea. “ i wish you weren’t. i wish you were more like your older sister, at least you’d stay out of trouble. but you’re the only heir. after ophelia, i’m highly uncertain that there’ll be anyone else ”, he spoke. she felt her blood run cold. but when he looked up at her, he grunted. “ but you don’t have a single cowardly bone in your body. you’re not like isabella and not like me. you’re an explorer, as you’ve stated. ”

“ father . . . ”.

arthur rose a hand and stood, cup in hand and cane in another. he brought himself up from his chair and moved steadily towards the tinted windows, peering outside into a twilight sky. “ you ask a lot of me, seren. not only might i lose my daughter, but i might also lose five innocent lives if all of this goes wrong. and i will not let it be for your fantasy and mere childish heroism. and yet, a part of me knows that soon, salem is going to find a way to harm everyone . . .”

the indecisiveness from the man was making the girl think much more deeply about the matter than she was intending. if someone got hurt, it would be her fault mainly for putting them in danger, but that was why she planned on training them. they were capable fighters, whoever they were. it was a matter of luck and precision, two opposing forces that might have to work together to make all of this work.

“ seren. ”

the girl lifted her gaze to see the man she so dearly admired and loved, the father who was a professor as well as a friend and a leader. she loved him so dearly that she would not think to ask something like this unless if she one hundred percent meant it. and she did.

“ if you can convince them to join you, i will grant your request. but be weary of the time, because it has become of the essence.”

and so, her adventure begins.

#chapter one #original writing #fantasy #magic #futuristic #dystopian

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triptripletrolls · 5 years

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The Two Schools of Thought for Fiction and my thoughts, the realization, and the journey that I will forever be on

“Fiction =/= Real Life” vs “Fiction Impacts the Real World”

Those are the two arguments that I kept seeing popping up every once in a while. I was on the side of the “Fiction =/= Real Life” and I didn’t understand how any fictional media can be bad in real life. After all, we all have heard of parents blaming games for turning their kids bad, movies creating evil people, books causing women to run from their husband, blah blah blah blah blah. I was kind of exaggerating there but I’m sure people have seen those kinds of arguments before. The blame on fiction, to me, was silly. The stories I heard with these arguments usually have an underlying human problem that needed to be solved, but instead of realizing the actual problem of that person's trouble they use fiction as a scapegoat. Shifting blame is, after all, easier than owning up to one's fault.

Another reason why I heavily supported the "Fiction =/= Real Life" side and did not understand the other side of the fiction argument was because of the victims of abuse and how some of them would use fictions to cope with their past. Let me be brief about this point for a moment and come back to this later. I was sympathetic to the victim and tried to be empathetic to their past pain and to the pain that they may feel at present. Who am I to say that they cannot do this or that when their life was already once controlled by another person, in bad hands. They (the victims) have a fucked up life, so let them be and let them cope with their trauma however they can. That was what I thought.

For me personally, fiction was a means of escape from my own head where I thought I was rotted alive and crippled from depression. Yes, that was a pretty dramatic description of what my past mental state was, but that was the feeling I remember and I have not forgotten that feeling so that I may tap into it and empathize with others now that I have grown. The dark thought still lingers to this day, but I think life is nice and I like to think that I have moved past the thought of wanting to kill myself. That sentiment is something I want everyone to have and sometimes I wanna help that in others, as draining as it is.

Fiction was not the only help I had with depression, of course, but it did play a role. Fiction kept my brain thinking of worlds fantastical than my own. Imagination was fun; I could be anyone and do anything I like. I've enjoyed fiction by myself for a long time, but when I realized that I can have fun with others who also like make-believe. It was like a whole new world for me. So my thought at that point was “How could fiction that did so good to me be bad and have real-world consequences outside of my head?”

My view shifted recently when I was able to connect the argument for “Fiction Impacts the Real World” to me personally, outside of my head in a real tangible example. I am a Korean born in Canada. Growing up Asian in a North American society, representation of my race was lacklustre or very stereotypical. Of course, I had the Korean media to turn to, but I identify myself as a Canadian more than a Korean and I grew-up all before the Korean Wave became a phenomenon in North America. When the wave did hit my city, it hit hard, but by then I was already in High School and I thought that all of this hype was overrated and just a fab. Just because I am a Korean, it didn't mean that I would suddenly embrace the Korean wave into my life. But now that I think about it, representations and fiction were two key thoughts that I need to start understanding the “Fiction Impacts the Real World”.

There was a podcast that I was listening to sometime this Spring, and the topic was about Asian representation in the mainstream media in America. My memories have yet again failed to remember what the exact podcast I was listening to but the people talking were all Asian Americans. Regular people just like me. They were talking casually, about the recent movies, like Crazy Rich Asians, and TV shows, like Fresh Off The Boat. The group of people that I was listening to expressed their amazement in these movies and shows in present times when they were growing up there really wasn't any movies and shows that had this many Asians. This is an expression I can relate to. At some point in the podcast, someone mentioned that in order for Asians to continue to get good representation in media, we need good stories that we can fill. Stories, as in fiction, and that was when it clicked.

There is still a lot of things in this world that I have yet to experience and I have a lot to learn even though I'm in my late 20s. I still think that being an adult is hard, a thought that I think many adults can relate to. Accepting new things is a process and while I still lean towards the “Fiction =/= Real Life,” I now know better. I know that fiction is important not only in the mind but also in the real world. It took an embarrassingly long time for me to come to this conclusion but hey, I'm glad I'm at this place now. Go me :p

Now here is the topic that I said I'll come back to. I know that this particular subject is really controversial in this community but I cannot ignore the consequences that this topic had on the community that I so love and to the friendships I once had.

Let me be very clear. There is no argument that CP is very bad. The sexual act against children no matter their age by an adult is despicable. CP in its nature is the exploitation of vulnerable children whose innocence of life and wonders are ripped away from selfish adults who are just thinking with their dicks, literal and metaphorical dicks. Adults are supposed to be protecting children. Adults are supposed to nurture and be a role model, but these vile sex offenders used their adult status for their own greed. CP is bad and this what I truly believe for a long time, even before any drama that has happened in this community.

What I did not know, or even thought of until reading ladytrollfishes' addition to glowtroll's post, is that there are adults who would actively expose pedophilic fiction to the children in order to do harm. This was huge news for me. I was enraged when I first read that and that could actually happen, How dare they taint the fiction I love and use it to manipulate the impressionable minds. I was aware of the pedophilic ships when I was consuming a large amount of anime as a child but those ships weren't my thing and I never thought anything of it. In all honesty, there were actually a couple of ships in animation between a child and adult that I thought was cute when I saw pretty fanart of it. However, after the epiphany of adults exposing children to problematic ships with the goal of real life CP, I am distraught by my own previous thought and grossed out by those adults.

When I said that I sympathize with victims of abuse, I still believe that I should give the victims my compassion. I understand the need to express the inexplicable pain that the victim may be feeling. To validate their own self and convince themselves that all is okay. However, like what ladytrollfishes said, there is an audience. The kind of adults I hate may use a victim's work of fiction feeding into the cycle of abuse. To sum up this particular subject of victims creating fiction as a coping mechanism, please do it privately and if you must share, do so with those you truly trust.

These are some of the thoughts that were plaguing my brain for a while. I usually don’t like sharing my personal baggage and thoughts like this, but this community has gone through a lot of drama and thoughts and opinions has been let loose. I didn’t really know where my head was, and with my own stuff going on around the same time, I think writing this out on paper and then having another thought during the typing, really has sorted out my thoughts. There are still a ton of other stuff that I want to let my feelings out, but right now, this is good for now.

#long text #cora #cora writes #aaaaaahhhhhhh #CP mentioned #just my own thoughts and stuffs #I just... aurrrg #I'm so tired #thinking is hard #writing is hard #why did i write so much for this #i hope this all makes sense #i don't have beta reader and ah it's been forever since i write something #never this much and of my personal thoughts though.... welll there was that one post not too long ago #actually writing and sorting out my thoughts letting it all out is nice #if anyone's actually reading this #I am an INFP Aries born in the year of the Rooster and because we are a part of the Homestuck my classpect is the Mage of Breath.#lmao this this actually had a very different approuch and while I untimately changed it i kinda liked that little bit. I'll add that #to my profile when i can.#mentioning of CP #should i trigger warn this? idk #past tense are hard #i perfer present tense #but i have no idea how to go about with the tenses here. like here i talk about my previous thoughts #and now i have a more broader thinking for a particular subject #the subject being this long post i wrote

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vitavitale · 3 years

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drabble IV — Nightmare (At His Core)

It took me over a year to write about V’s encounter with Nightmare and I will genuinely not understand why. In any case, I’ve finally gotten around to it. Remember that this is all headcanon-based since my V isn’t, you know, canon. Except in my heart. Beware of 13,038 words, whew. I tagged it as “coming of age” because that’s how I interpret this event even if it may not play out that way. For easier reading, find this on AO3.

Trial after trial, failure after failure were not sufficient deterrents to a man driven by a greed that was unbecoming of him. He had never been so fixated, so stubbornly determined, so mad while he dedicated almost all of his time to the study and practice of necromancy. To resurrect life from death was a risk, and a business few had the guts or the aptitude for. This was a craft better left untouched, but he trifled with tests and from each failure he learned, improved, and tried again. The cycle continued for many nights; between jobs he would make the time for study, and of time he had plenty to dedicate to his obsession. A desire for strength was born in him from his apparent lack thereof. To have tasted power, however, in the aid of his familiars was almost like poison to the mind, for he had seen within his new means a potential for invulnerability. The illusion of becoming untouchable, undaunted, and subsequently intimidating and dangerous was too powerful for him to dismiss. Rather, he indulged in fantasy. Griffon and Shadow protected him as they attacked for him, and while he loathed his reliance on others he saw the opportunities such help would yield for him, and he saw value in becoming as threatening to others as others had been to him. There was something like revenge in his fixation on power.

It was not only his familiars he'd gained from, but he had conjured demons in the space of a couple of years from whom he would make further gains, draining their diabolical energies to amplify his own. Rite after rite he performed, drawing a demon to the mortal plane only to take from it before returning it to its Hell—or to slay it entirely. This really did appear to work, and every success tainted his expectations for himself. He saw his potential grow, day by day, until an idea was born—and this, he thought, would be the thing to make him more frightening than any demon alive in Red Grave City. This he sought not out of malice, but for self-esteem. Pride, worth, a need to be useful and effective when he believed himself useless and weak.

Perhaps Griffon had been at fault for the decision his master made. Indeed, it was from Griffon's mouth that V had learned of the demons dwelling in the underworld, those that lived and even those that had died. Among the deceased was one so destructive, so terrifying that even its name told of the menace it posed: Nightmare. Once in service to a devil of an emperor, the beast was slain by a man with only half the blood of demons in him. But it was this creature that haunted the warlock's mind for many a night, so it might have been only inevitable that the idea was spawned to return to it life, to conjure it for his own, and to his body bind it as he did Shadow and Griffon. V was only a child when he first heard of Nightmare, and then took only superficial interest in it. Years down the road brought it back to memory, for better or worse, and it was at the age of one-and-twenty that he'd decided to resurrect the demon. Necromancy was necessary for this, a skill not known yet enthusiastically learned while upon the idea the young man brewed.

So it was many nights, many tries and many failures later when it seemed a breakthrough was at hand.

Neither Griffon nor Shadow held very much esteem for their master's plan. His descent into obsession concerned them, but it was his decision to conjure so formidable a demon that worried them above all. While V may not have noticed, his familiars certainly had: the forces with which he surrounded himself had been detrimental to his body. He was far more human than anything, and his human body could only take so much that was well beyond its capabilities. Forces of a supernatural nature were hard on any human's body and mind, but V had gone a step further with his exposure to them. He would have more than enough on him, only now he sought to add too much to the load all too quickly. He was already frail of health, but he saw fit to weaken his bones and muscles as well. He had begun tiring as of late, and he tended to chalk it up to overwork, sleeplessness, and an almost nonexistent diet. But his demons knew better, and ultimately so did he. Or, at the very least, he had a hunch—one he didn't heed. That was his first mistake, but V insisted on making another. Griffon let him know as much, arguing that V had no need to take pointless risks, but men like him were not easily swayed. There was some kind of art to stubbornness like his.

Oh, but to be so young and foolhardy! The boy knew so little of the world, yet he'd known that it was rife with all manner of peril. Two familiars were not enough. He would head out into the desolate country under the cover of night to practice his black craft. A sigil was drawn up for the purpose of conjuring, a symbol of the demon he hoped to bring forth. Night after night, he tried. Tried and failed. But a step he'd been missing for weeks became clear to him. Infernal or otherwise, the soul was intangible. Its body had been destroyed completely, and V would not have been content to conjure a ghost. With magics old and new would he craft a body, and it would be with or without his demons' help that he would conceive of a form he hoped the soul, if in existence at all, would inhabit. Born in the mind's eye, but taken form in the flesh. V would resurrect the demon he sought, believing firmly in strength of will and the blending of techniques.

“I think I have it,” he said when he had his next epiphany. He was all enthusiasm, eager in the eyes, jotting instructions down in a notepad in an effort to preserve what he'd learned before memory would lose it. These would be looked over and memorized. It was late into the night, and he had the audacity to wake his slumbering familiars for the news. “I've finally figured out how to reconstruct the body!”

Griffon awoke with a start, though held on to his perch on the sofa's backrest. “Huh? What?” Barely gotten his eyes open and already V strode to his side, pad in hands, noticeably excited given the tone of his voice. “The what now...?”

“Nightmare's body, for its soul.” It'd been all V would talk about the past several days. It surprised him that Griffon had forgotten so readily, but that was like him. V had left the lights on through the night for his work, and the yellow glow to the sitting room was bothersome enough for his drowsy familiar. Nevertheless, the warlock would pester him to open his eyes. “I've been going about it the wrong way, but I think I now know what I must do.” His eyes fell upon the page he'd scribbled on. “I have to create it, shape it, with my hands. You know how Jewish folklore tells of mystics imbuing golems with life? Think of it that way, only I'd be...borrowing that part of the process. Then...I should channel the soul to the new vessel during a rite of resurrection. If I'm right, the demon should accept it.”

“Never heard of that part before,” the demon mumbled.

“I'll be improvising.”

“Oh, so that's your big discovery? That you've gotta make it up as you go?” Griffon was being sarcastic with him, likely because he was chafed that he'd been woken up for no good reason.

“I'm at least one step closer.” V was resolute when he countered, frowning his disapproval at the demon who'd appeared to think so little of V's ambition. “You could be a little optimistic.”

“I don't see why I've gotta go along with this utter fuckery. You're only hurting yourself.”

V didn't want to hear that. It was fortunate that he'd stepped beside Shadow, who was not dead to them but ignored their discussion while she rested on the floor, with his back to Griffon by the time the criticism was delivered. He would not acknowledge it, not even Griffon, and it was to his detriment that he kept silent. Though he did not agree, he also did not argue, and that must have been the plainest evidence of his conscience weighing more heavily than he'd let on. But he did think of something to say, and with it stepped into his own bedroom after turning off the lights. “Good night.”

V would sleep as peacefully as his subconscious allowed, for the few hours that were left of the night. But the sun was set to rise before long, and soon he would resume his practice until night again would fall.

He'd fallen asleep fast, curled on his side as was his habit. His study had exhausted him, both physically and mentally, but that didn't stop memories from reshaping themselves, painting themselves in fresh colors, and stitching together pictures that the sleeper had no desire to see. Still, they would appear to his mind's eye and wrench his heart from its boney confinement and wring it dry. There suddenly was the face of a demon with rows of pointed teeth, a short, stout abomination snapping mad like a rabid piranha. He fled from it, the white of his hair blurring his vision as he scrambled from its wrath. He saw a broom closet, hid in it and held on to the door knob for dear life. In his panic he could not grip it firmly, and his soul quaked from the snarling and the thrashing and the clawing against the door. His whimpering barred any screams for help, but all the same he heard his mother's voice outside. A great dread sickened him but fear left him petrified. He could not understand her. The door was left alone, he heard part of his name called and the sounds of flesh tearing and a thud on the floor—and he awoke with so violent a start that his heart raced, he cried out when he shot right up, and he caught the first light of the morn peeking through his window. His chest heaved with every labored breath, and he felt his eyes wet with sorrow. Just like it'd been the first time, like it was new, like he didn't see it coming.

But with the memory he was intimately acquainted, frequently re-introduced to it, and was fast to realize that it was yet again a dream. One of several nightmares.

A nightmare.

It almost seemed a calling at this point, to obsess over a demon so appropriately named. V hated to cry, but here his psyche took advantage of his helplessness to draw the tears forth. He wiped them away, sniffled through a stuffed nose, and sat silently as sleep was as good as forgotten. No use in trying again; he preferred to set to work, do whatever he could to forget that which haunted him for seven years going. But loneliness was not his safe harbor now, for a shadow had crept into his room to observe. To find that he had suffered no physical harm, the demon took form and joined his side on the bed. Like a cat she purred her concern, her inquiry and her comfort. V was not surprised to see her, he knew this was her way. Like a pitiful child he pouted and shed his tears, looking at her with some reassurance behind a curtain of grief. Guilt was too strong for so wretched a youth, and here he was sick with it. Seven years was virtually the same as seven months. With Shadow offering her comfort like a parent, V could not help but appreciate her—and feed his misery with memories of feelings he'd had once before, before even the seven years. It was a double-edged blade but, all the same, he ran his fingers through her crown to comfort her in turn. He whimpered, “I'm fine,” sniffling still. And she knew he would be: she'd seen this too often to assume different.

V would get up after all and give himself a good wash. He didn't care for breakfast but forced himself to eat a single slice of toasted bread. Over his routine, thought of his nightmare and his mistakes diminished, and while they remained present, they'd at least lost enough intensity to allow him to get on with his work. He could think about his goal, his rite, his approach to it all and how he'd shape the demon's vessel. By noon, he was all but absorbed in his crafting of the thing. A very simple shape was drawn among his notes, which would serve as the foundation for the model he sought to shape from earth. So, he would go outside, look for mud or deliberately make it, and wear down his haunches as he crouched from his secret labor. No devil-hunting or charm-making today. As desperately as he needed income, he seemed to need a new familiar even more. But he was wise to hide himself from his neighbors and had gone a distance to where no man should eye him and peg him as an unstable eccentric. V did very well wear the look of a youth who was touched, his hands deep in wet soil and incidentally rubbing some on his face whenever he had an itch to scratch.

Now, it didn't take long to make mud. To craft from it, however, was the tricky bit. V had never played in the stuff before, he'd never known what it was like. He thought he hated it the moment his hands mixed water with soil; the sensation was cause for repulsion. He should have brought a pair of gloves with him... Alas, he wasn't the sort to think things through, though that didn't stop him from pushing on. He was quick to learn how much water to use for the softness of soil he required. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, he knelt on the grass to alleviate the aches in his joints, more or less settling to mold the form that would be his golem.

Griffon had peeled from his master's body to observe him, sat almost right beside him beneath the canopy of a thin tree. If he had any criticisms or advice, V would largely ignore them. The frown on his brow was hard and it drew clear shadows beneath the deeper wrinkles on a face too youthful for any grimace. V didn't need his notes to begin forming the soil; he'd had the image clear and ever present in his mind's eye, and guided by little else but that and his drive he pressed and pinched and rolled chunks of dampened soil, and dunked his hands into the pond he'd knelt beside to wet the earth even more. He needed it all to stick, and if it wouldn't then he'd spend the entire day, possibly even night, out on the desolate field. Fortunate that the week had been so rainy, but if showers should fall in the middle of his work he would be foiled. But, weather notwithstanding, he'd gotten his pieces to stick. Very nearly mud, the consistency, while solid enough to hold form. V's fingers would easily become difficult, caking in dirt as long as he'd work over the forming vessel. Bits would come off and others would stick where they shouldn't, and V had constantly to dip his hands in the water.

“V, why the hell are you going to all this trouble?” Griffon watched him toil away, unimpressed by the boy's wasted effort. He couldn't approve of the way that warlock was tiring himself out, testing the limits of his own patience, and running headlong toward ruin. Because that was all the good Griffon saw coming out of this wild goose chase: a pained, miserable, defeated V.

The young man on his knees saw different. He spared Griffon a sharp glance to communicate his feelings. However, when his eyes settled upon the amorphous lump in his hands, he felt his confidence shaken. He stood to relax his legs, staring at the unfinished vessel that was crumbling in places, losing form beneath the pressure of his fingers in others; and though his snowy-white hair fell to conceal one half of his face, he felt Griffon's several eyes on him anyway. He knew what that bird was thinking. Still, he stepped back and took a seat very near the trunk of the tree to shade himself beneath its leaves. Against it would his back rest as over the muddy object his eyes would rake. It was half formed, the top molded more completely than the bottom; legs were harder to build than he thought, and the arms...were not quite separate from the body yet. Frustration suddenly dawned on him as he realized this may well go nowhere. But he'd lost hope so fast, after only a few minutes at work.

He had one deep frown come upon his countenance before getting up from the grass. “This is stupid,” he relented at last, exhaling irritably as he stepped toward the pond to set aside his craft and rinse off his hands. Griffon must have believed he'd finally gotten through, because he'd begun assuaging V's concerns with useless, likely hollow words of solace. V was perhaps cruel to ignore him, but something like the devil was in him and he knew that, one way or another, he had to have the one called Nightmare.

With his hands soaked and as clean as he could get them, he shook the excess water away to grab the shapeless figure of dirt—but not before he stilled where he stood, examining the thing and thinking a little more about it. While his hands dripped, Griffon watched him, blinking his golden irises at the perplexity of man.

“Uh, V? You're awfully quiet.”

He was thinking.

“Don't tell me you're mad.”

Mad? Funny. He'd certainly felt mad, at times, and he supposed he was. A madman. But even a mind gone beyond earthly bounds had its plans to complete and successes to achieve. V was not finished here, not by any stretch. When gray began to creep beneath the sun to steal away the blue of the sky, he knew his dirt doll would turn to pure mud. He'd have no use for it if it could not keep its shape. Time was, however, still his to act upon, the heavens clear and peaceful, affording him the chance to make refinements. His own impatience would not best him. To be so young and pressed for time—an oxymoron in the flesh.

“V, come on, you're gonna get soaked out here. That lump of dirt ain't worth it. You don't even really know what you're doing.”

The warlock had picked it up after all. “I think,” he answered while rounding out the form, “it's worse if I don't try. If I fail, it should be because...this simply isn't the way. I...don't want to have put in so little and that be the reason for failure.”

“Why don't you not look for this demon? There are about a zillion others—”

“That,” he snapped to cut off his friend, “is not an option.” At least, not for now. V frowned at Griffon, but any inkling of anger was a hollow one. The boy was determined, not angry, and he'd made that plain with a wistful sort of tone and some distant, far-off pain in his eyes. Griffon had no further argument. The pair descended into silence; but nature would not leave well alone. More gray crawled overhead, eventually ushering in the first droplets of another summer shower. When they tapped on V's nape and sent a chill through his paper-thin body, he shivered instantly. The decision to retreat had come and Griffon was returned to the warlock's skin. With his prize, however misshapen and incomplete, in his hands he abandoned the little pond to hasten home. Maybe to build there.

It was only a drizzle that speckled his clothes and hair on his walk back. But upon returning to the sanctuary of his flat, a proper shower broke that kept him homebound. He had mud on his face, on the ends of his hair, stuck to the soles of his shoes, and entirely in his hands. With his familiars retiring to the small living space, V set about a thorough cleansing of his person. Before he'd known it, he spent his day at home when he should have been out in the field; but the day was gray, even with the rain having cleared, and it matched his mood. Somber, morose. He'd gotten a dish on which to place his vessel and stored it in the refrigerator to keep fresh. Meanwhile, his bedroom was where he isolated himself, well cut off from the raptor and the jaguar lazing the afternoon away. He supposed they could afford it: what else had they to do? They could be so much like pets, obligated to nothing and owing no one.

The grimoire had been opened to the last page, where the original content of the book ended and his own notes began. Several sheets and scraps of paper, that's all they were; but on each were written spells, instructions, all manner of information he would have needed on call. Among these were his latest notes, the ones on Nightmare, on necromancy, and on golems. It should have made sense, yet here was his brain revolving around things anyway. With the book laid out before him, his legs folded on the bed and his knuckles to his cheek, he thought about failure. He thought about what it would mean, since his vessel was shit, and he'd never conjured life from death, if he couldn't claim the demon he sought. It wasn't only a matter of principle—he could get over botching a rite. It had more to do with what it would entail, the fact that he'd have dashed his hopes for acquiring the power he believed he needed: the power to protect himself, to turn the tables and prove that he was not all prey but predator, too. He was easily intimidated, easy pickings, and he loathed that with a bitter passion. It was why he needed another demon. He needed the strength, he needed the confidence, even if it came from beyond himself, but he needed it. And he loathed also to be as needy as this. He loathed his weakness, his appearance to others and how he was regularly perceived by them. If he wasn't a freak for his white hair, he was effeminate for his body, childlike for his behavior, stupid—

Weak to demons. But...if he had a familiar like Nightmare, he didn't have to be any of those things anymore. Didn't he? Quarry and foe alike could no more undervalue him or judge him a creature too meek to take them on, or to take from them: because one of their own made of seemingly unstoppable force, a weapon of mass destruction itself, would be doubtlessly perceived by them; and, if necessary, would annihilate them. According to what V had heard, Nightmare was beyond any lesser demon he'd known of. Incomparable to even Griffon and Shadow, combined.

How he would ever subdue and tame such a beast was rightly beyond his imagining. The boy had gall to think that he could dare at all. Or maybe it was that he didn't think.

He still didn't, even poring over his notes and mentally constructing the outcomes on his bed, he didn't think far enough ahead. But if he did, he would only shake himself up at the size of the task, and he didn't need that. He had to enter the rite undaunted, possessed by conviction, and wrench the demon from its lifelessness with that same vigor he'd conjured Griffon and Shadow. So he mulled over other things, and briefly considered going out tonight if the weather permitted. Frankly, he wanted to. To delay was pointless. Ready or not, his vessel was finished—and so was he. To live this kind of life, in the kind of shape he was in, was not something he'd been looking forward to for however many years remained for him. Even if he would die by the conjured colossus' retaliation upon resurrection, he would at least go out in a way that would not leave him feeling unfulfilled. If lightning was to strike him squarely, in a month, it wouldn't happen until he'd had Nightmare spread across his body. It may have been more a matter of life and death than even the warlock realized. Regardless of the circumstances or the consequences, V was a man of a settled mind. Sitting as idly as he did, boring himself over the information that'd become monotonous to read so repeatedly—well, he supposed he'd made up his mind at some point.

Grays and yellows colored the sky when V bothered to peek out the window of his sitting room. He'd had a whole two of them, one by the front door and another in his bedroom; but the blinds to the latter were always kept shut. Privacy concerns, as he lived on the bottom level of his building where his neighbors and his absent landlord would walk about. Birds drawn by the rainfall called out on the rooftops, among the trees beyond the property, and on the street. While the bulk of the shower had passed, still heard was the pitter-patter of rain drops just beyond the glass. The weather was clearing, the sun shining like a hunk of polished citrine behind the scattered cloud cover, bidding its radiant goodbye to the day that closed. The moon chased it not far behind, nightfall near.

Griffon and Shadow were at as much peace as afforded by the event-free afternoon, and they appeared dead to their master's arrival. When he turned from the window to get a look at them, he could only think that they were sweet to snooze on the sofa—one taking up all the seat, the other perched atop the backrest cushions. Such a shame that they were so against his endeavor.

V had his supper early and offered to his familiars scraps of old cold cuts he didn't want. It was clear to them that he'd intended to do something, because he was all astir in his bedroom as he'd dressed himself for the night. Only, he was donning not sleeping clothes but something else entirely. On his legs were a pair of utility pants, slim, and a belt around the waistband; a wallet chain consisting of skulls of a silver tone; on his feet were gladiator sandals with straps that were thin along the length of his feet, and bore buckles at the ankles; leather cuffs adorned his left wrist, an unconventionally long, silver-plated signet ring the middle finger; a fingerless leather glove covered his right hand; and, in a daring move, he chose to garb the upper half of his body with a sleeveless, knee-length coat held together only by laces affixed to the garment's inner lining across the abdomen. No shirt, no nothing underneath all that leather: only his skin and the tattoos that adorned it. It was brave of him, to cover so little of himself—he partly regretted it already, looking himself over in the bathroom mirror—but people would change, and tastes would evolve, and V was just another one of the many young adults on the Earth who would experiment with fashion. Still, he'd never before worn anything so revealing, and his chosen outfit was quite modest in that as it stood, but it felt comfortable and that had to be the most important thing when it came to clothing. His qualms notwithstanding, he thought he liked the way he looked. His signature choker remained where he'd always worn it. His hair was the only contrast to all the black he'd dressed himself in. Every single article was black, as was the string of his choker, but his hair seemed to...set things askew, a little. So white like freshly fallen snow while all the rest of him could easily blend into shadow. Well, that wouldn't be a great issue tonight: he sought to walk out the door under the cover of darkness. He wasn't sure he'd wear such a get-up during the day.

When he emerged from the bathroom and walked into the sitting room, Griffon was the first (and, in fact, only) to voice his impression of the night-clad youth.

“Whoa-ho! What the hell is all that?” For the sake of a better look, the hellion descended from the sofa to hop right up to V, and eyed him up and down in a very rare moment of silence. “You gonna go out slumming or what? You look like hell in those rags.”

“Don't we already live in one?” V reminded, bored with his critique. He was messing with his collar, undecided whether to flatten it down or wear it upturned.

“Not only that, but don't you think you're gonna catch a cold walking around with your, uh, chest out?”

“It–it is not,” V argued bashfully, suddenly tugging on his lapels. “You can hardly see it.”

“No, I see it. Think I see your nipples too—”

“No you don't!”

“Oh! So I guess all six of my eyes are wrong. Am I wrong about that thing being too big on you, too? I think you gotta tighten those laces, kid.”

“Are you finished?” V was completely flustered when he had no need to be. Suddenly, the styling of his collar was unimportant. He had a blush he fought hard to suppress tinting his face, and he thought he would resent Griffon for the rest of his life for spoiling what little confidence he'd managed to scrounge. If Griffon could see such unflattering things, others were likely to see the same. But V wasn't about to change his clothes. Night had fallen, he had no time to waste now before the sun was up again.

Out of sheer defiance, the warlock marched to the kitchenette. His treasure of dirt had been taken from the fridge and given some water to keep from crumbling some little while ago. He hadn't needed the thing too fresh; he would water it like a plant, only with drizzles and drops intermittently. To little effect, however, as it would, as if out of spite, continually chip away regardless of his efforts. Looking at it again made his subconscious frown. He still hated it. Maybe he hated it more than he did at the start. He hated himself for being impatient enough to hasten his work on it. It could have turned out better if he'd learned, gone through trial and error, in due time; but he felt he didn't have that same time to lose. The impetuousness of youth, the desire for instant gratification—it ruined him thus far. But he needed supplies, and he at least had the wisdom to gather them beforehand. Even if Griffon had utter shit to say, V would walk all around him and dodge his bullets.

Thankfully, the raptor did not moan for long. He was left to loiter in the center of the room, watching V dart in and out. Shadow couldn't have cared one way or another; or, perhaps, she was wiser to simply let the boy be. Lounging on the sofa suited her. Ruby-red eyes blinked every so often. V had made a little pile of materials by the front door: a lantern, a canister of salt, five wax candles, a matchbox, a vial of ritual oil, an athame, and of course the grimoire.

Oh, and the vessel in its dish. It was the final item V had retrieved, and with it collected he was prepared to head out. Ultimately, he didn't give a damn about the state he was in, his appearance to demons either allies or foes. It was not his dress that would determine his success but himself: spirit, drive, skill, smarts. All materials minus the dish were placed in a rucksack. V slung it over his shoulder and carried the dish in both hands the minute he'd locked the door to his flat, familiars dissolving into soot-like particles and attaching to the warlock's body as if ink. He wore his coat's collar upturned after all.

A terribly long walk would see him to his destination. It was the same spot he'd been going to for the past fortnight, every night he wanted to try to conjure Nightmare. He'd memorized the path by now, and he would always go in shadow, at night. The poor, unfit thing would have to trek from beyond property grounds to a hilly area backed by a meager woodland out onto the fringes of town. The border, as it were, between named places. Red Grave City was one, to which V lived closest, but the means to move cities were not his. It was always a long walk anywhere for him. Tonight, he would benefit from clear skies and quiet townsfolk. While midnight had not yet struck, the residents around here were generally of mild manner and disinterested in goings on. They would be in their homes, doing as country families do. If they should spy a lanky young man traversing beyond their overgrown yards and vacant lots, they wouldn't give it a second thought. V realized he went through a lot of trouble for a whim, but what was one more night to try?

It might not have been midnight when he set off, but once he'd arrived at the designated spot he was certain that it could not have been earlier than eleven. The exertion tired him out, so all he took was a short breather with his eyes full on the patch of dirt and grass on which he'd made his previous attempts at summoning. He could certainly recognize it under the cover of night; but of course he'd been here countless times already. He remembered where, upon the hill, he would stand, and where the forested wall opened to the east. He remembered the trampled grass underfoot made by his coming and going, and the placement of lit windows in the town in the far distance.

Surrounded by such perfect seclusion, Griffon and Shadow could emerge from their hideaway. Of Griffon this was expected, but not so of Shadow: she was not in the habit of being present during her master's rites, and for her to suddenly sit beside her infernal comrade was a genuine surprise to the young warlock. Her reason was understood, however, and it filled him with some palpable regret. Shadow may not have been as vehement in opposition as Griffon was toward his goal, but her feelings were the same, and still she would let him know with scarcity and subtlety. As evidenced by his being here, he was not swayed by their shared concerns. For her, more so than for Griffon, V had a look of nigh-unreadable apology. In the darkness, her eyes were almost luminous rubies. A contrast to his dimmed peridots.

The dish was placed on the ground by his own trodden path. He fetched the lantern from the sack and switched it on—nothing quite so archaic as an oil lamp, but battery-powered for ease. The rest of his materials were laid out before him; and taking the dagger and lantern, he stepped carefully about the area to find the precise spot where he'd cast his prior circles. They were not hard to find, the etching in the soil still visible even after days of rainfall. V cleared away any debris that'd fallen during the day before setting the lantern between both the circle of summons and the circle of protection. He didn't want to think about the potential pitfalls he'd encounter once the rite would begin, but he would call himself a liar if he'd ever claim he wasn't nervous. He had never before practiced necromancy and there were about a dozen ways his inexperience—along with his deliberate improvisations—would foil him. This was not merely a game of chance he was playing, but one that involved real risk to his flesh and soul. He may not have anticipated failure, but he did fear from it nevertheless.

All those other instances when he'd failed to conjure the demon were failures only because the demon was deceased, and had no physical form with which to manifest. But now V would provide one for the spirit to inhabit, and that was entirely new to him. What's more, he hadn't bothered to practice at any point prior to tonight. His first shot at necromancy would also come as the real thing.

He didn't think about much, as a matter of fact, apart from the steps he was to take and the outcome he so desired. It was his intent that he should, and would, focus on, with nothing more to distract him. So, he cast his circle with salt before casting that of the demon, using his athame to carve the circle in the soil, its blade lightly coated with the necessary oil. It also carved an inverse pentagram within the circle, and the five candles were then arranged to sit on each point of the pentagram. The wax was dabbed with oil as well, and the candles were thus lit. Before the young sorcerer would enter his circle, he set what he'd need within it, and his familiars were wise to sit by the rest that was unnecessary so as not to interfere with the rite and its air. A strange stillness came upon the three, the wind dead and not one of them uttering a sound. Perhaps they knew it: what was about to take place would either ruin him or free him from his obsession.

It was also possible that such freedom could ruin him. Maybe he didn't consider that, but the raptor and the shapeshifter did. They watched their master outfit his circle, blade and oil left of center, grimoire and dish right. The vessel he'd prepared was taken into his hands, its dish abandoned beyond the circles as he had every intention of needing the molded dirt no longer after tonight. If the rite didn't work, he'd try another way. He was already decided on that.

Before V would step into his circle, he gave the lump of soil his final attentions. It wasn't like mud anymore, and it hadn't ever been since he'd brought it home; he knew that was the first mistake, remembering that golems took life from mud or clay—but both came of the Earth, were earth, and V would believe that plain soil would serve its intended purpose. So, he was satisfied before long with what little he'd managed to do with it and gently placed it in the middle of the inverted pentagram. Hands were wiped off, he took in a long breath, and entered his own circle at last.

“V.” Griffon.

“What?”

“Just... Watch yourself with all that, all right? We're right here if shit goes to shit.”

Gratitude needn't come across verbally. V felt it, his familiars knew it without knowing it, and nothing else was said between them. Eyes closed and incantation in mind, palms turned upward at his sides, he steeled himself and spoke words which were new. The candle flames did not waver, and neither did V. “To the lords of Hell and its kings and masters, I ask that a soul stripped of form and life hear my voice, and I implore unto thee, most fair and wise and powerful, with all of my humility, to send unto me thy lost and lifeless kin: that which is singularly named and so bears the name of Nightmare, once brought into being and commanded also by thine banished emperor-kin Mundus; and to this soul I offer life from death, death to rebirth, all powers and wisdom restored, and a vessel for its material form, and every liberty to refuse my supplication.”

His voice was loud and clear, firm and mature; he thought he felt electricity round his fingers. The young man did not yet open his eyes as he honed on the name, the image of the demon in his mind's eye, and the essence of the very thing he wished to will into being. His body was numb to the world around him, his mind ignorant of all things in existence apart from himself and the vessel, and the demon to inhabit it. Not a draft caused the grass to stir or the trees to wave their limbs, not a part of his body seemed alive but the easy rise and fall of his chest. But something had changed, something between the circles, and V felt it like a great oppressive eye, watchful from above. He did not lose his nerve to it but remained focused, knowing and feeling the adjudicators who had come to assess the sorcerer. From the very outset he sought permission to restore one of their fallen. He'd come to learn that it was sound practice to offer every respect to the forces he'd bargained with, and to resurrect an infernal spirit was no different. If V should open his eyes, he would find the flames twitching in the deadened night. But with his body so faintly tingling now, shoulders to waist, he knew it right, only then, to put into sweet, soothing words more of his modest, magic, flattering intent; and for this, he spoke gently as a poet recites to one who is beloved.

“How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.

“For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.”

He meant himself the shepherd, the demon he sought his flock—or a member of it, and while he was aware of the religious symbolism loaded into Blake's poem, he hadn't a fear of dashing his hopes as he had used these very words to summon in his presence a score of other, lesser demons. He needn't his grimoire to check his memory: he remembered every line, every foot, syllable for syllable. In this, V was experienced. He had come to learn that infernal creatures quite enjoyed poetry, often as much as he.

If the demons were decided in his favor, the spirit of the deceased should find its way to the proposed vessel. But V need only open his eyes if he wished to spy weird, dark miasma twist and dance about the earthen offering; and if he had, he'd have disrupted the flow of things and his concentration would break. That which went unseen was surely felt, however. In the subconscious were sensations translated into images before the mind's eye, sufficient communication that informed the sorcerer of what went on around him. He could feel the darkness, the infernal curiosity and diabolical greed filling the space within the summoning circle. While it was all aware of him, he'd protected himself expertly to allow no evil thing any passage through his barrier. The anticipation was beginning to find room in his mind, and that was a flaw to be entirely avoided. But while he tamed his own spirit, focusing on his intent and his breathing, the energies swirling above the dirt vessel were joined by another. A faintly thing to V's tuned senses, and when left alone it was far weaker than anything he'd sensed before. Lifelessness!

“The demon, Nightmare,” he acknowledged politely, “I bid thee come.” Truthfully, he couldn't have known what it was. The boy clearly was not beyond taking such liberties; but if he should be welcoming, peaceable, and respectful, the spirit should take to his voice—his vessel most importantly. His will remained strong, his intent clear, and with both combined he visualized with all of his psychic prowess the soul pouring into the desired golem. This, too, was new to him, but he sensed it came without challenge. Through mental murmurs he invited the soul to find its comfort and refuge within the earthen form. His hands had begun to move toward one another, palm to face palm but never joining when they hovered before the warlock's center. Calm as he could manage to be, now was when he opened his eyes. To his surprise, a diluted mist hovered above the crafted soil, black like smog but flecked as if with glitter of a violet hue. That was his own magic at work. A heartening sign.

His power, small as it was, had a color to it.

There was more to V's work than will. The closing of his hands was not plain pantomime. Envisioned between them was the soul and its designated vessel, and by drawing his palms closer together he suggested he'd been helping merge the two. The power of suggestion, backed by the power of will, could have been an unstoppable force if executed correctly. If V were any master sorcerer, he'd have doubtlessly infused the vessel with all of the demon's soul in less time than this. He could be patient when it mattered, however, and in this instance he was collected and determined not to fail. The oppressive air that'd permeated the environment amplified the nearer V's hands drew to one another, and there came a point when wind began to stir and blow against the warlock, pushing his hair from his face and disturbing his garments. This tipped him off against pushing any further: he remembered he had to be respectful, to allow the soul a chance to refuse him. He'd never forced his will upon the demons he wished for familiars, never felt it right, and he would not make that mistake now. Griffon and Shadow were his by choice, by mutual agreement, and they'd become friends, even like family for it. V remembered this, knew said friends' eyes were on him all through the rite, and he was prompt to correct himself—and thus the pressure was eased off the miserable spirit, as yet undecided about the offering of renewed life. Perhaps it wasn't impressed with its gifts, with him. That...had to be all right, to the conjurer. He'd have to accept that and let the spirit return to its plane, free.

With the slow separation of his hands, a curious shift in air tickled at his consciousness. He hadn't realized he'd been frowning, but the moment he did he softened immediately. The phantasmal wisps before his eyes, along with their violet glow, had begun to bleed into the misshapen vessel.

So...it had accepted! But of course, the allure of life was irresistible. V did not think for a moment, instead focused entirely on his work. He was absorbed by the sight of the soul feeding into the lump of earth, to fatten it up with life and grant it the gift of sentience. V's hands would come together only when the last of the entity entered the vessel, and this he did to signify the finalization of the first phase. He'd eased off on his psychic influence only for this step so that it would be Nightmare's decision to enter the vessel, not his. Once that was done, however, V would wait. To observe the outcome, to see what would go wrong. His hands rejoined his sides as he watched with, now, apprehension, the vessel illuminated only by the dancing candle light. As he understood it, he was not to engage yet, not until the demon was fully formed and in control of itself. Only then could he attempt to tame the beast, and then bind it to him through the awaited rite of bondage. His heart was as strong as he could have made it, but it still alarmed him to watch movement within the inverted pentagram. The soil once lifeless stirred and shifted, and before his very eyes began to deform itself. It was abrupt, violent, and it had stricken V with genuine nervousness with every motion across the ground, fidgeting left and jerking right, and sometimes nearly flipping itself over—and all the while changing shape, gaining mass, growing. The flames snapped wickedly in the air, and even V could feel it, a sudden explosion of demonic energy that flooded the circles and the area surrounding. It was smothering, but V held fast. He fought it like an ocean, as if wave after wave crashed down. If he'd lose his footing, he'd be pulled into the sea of darkness and potential malevolence, and forced to suffer the torment of a likely vengeful spirit. How was he to know that it was not already at peace, and that he'd come only to disturb its eternal slumber?

Uselessly, he put his arms up like a shield in front of his face as if that would have any effect over the whipping winds. Griffon and Shadow could only watch while on pins and needles, but they were in agreement that the second things turned south, they would charge in to his aid. That young man could get himself into such messes, but he hadn't quite learned to learn from that. One could call him stupid for it, but he preferred to think of it as drive. The grit to stand firm and unflinching was necessary in the face of adversity, and it was proven to him now that such a necessity came twice as strongly when dealing with a demon of so much size and power. Based on what he knew, Nightmare was built like a tank and commanded like one, an annihilating force V should have been wiser not to play with. And when he saw just how large it'd grown, taking on an amorphous form that exceeded even that of the vessel it claimed and turned inside-out to make it unlike any useless heap of anything he'd seen before—and when he realized it hadn't stopped expanding—he understood, finally, that he'd bitten off more than he could chew. And he paled a little at the sight of it now, beyond the obfuscation of his arms, stretching to a height far beyond his own and eclipsing the circle it should have fit into.

Large and bulbous, glossy and flowing as if wet, black as tar, no more resembling the dirt in which it was reborn. It claimed a human shape, as much of one as V could have crafted out of earth, but appeared to re-imagine itself of its own accord. Parts of it were not as V had built, but he didn't have a care for the shape. He supposed he never really did. He simply needed the thing alive, and here he'd achieved it. His golem, his golem, alive! And in the center, toward the top of its...whatever V would think was a head, glowed an orb like a great violet eye, and like an eye it darted in all directions as if it saw for the very first time. Like a human it stood upright on two legs, two disproportionately large arms hanging at its sides. No digits, but broad, round ends like clubs for “hands.” By the candle light, he could note several hooked claws protruding from the thing's arms. Parts of its body looked craggy, almost unnatural, as if shrapnel or rocks had wedged into its hide. This was the demon he'd brought to life from eternal death. This titan called Nightmare, a thing of destruction. It towered above the sorcerer, a dark and hulking thing that could easily snuff him out with its weight alone. His heart was fast in his chest.

It jumped at the sight of the demon's sudden movement and V felt he'd almost folded to the instinct to step back. Ungainly on its smaller legs, slow and heavy, the beast lumbered with every dragging step forward it took. Forward, unto the protective circle!

With its restless eye it perceived him, his body language and the demons not far from him. All things were new to it, like it had the whole of life to relearn. When V's arms came down and his eyes pierced the dark, it was perceived that there was no defense, no offense, and full attention. Ah, but here it seemed to remember—some memories had not gone, and with them had also come the memory of mercy. If Nightmare had remembered any more, it would have likely tried to kill him for his intent. But the demon was almost like a newborn: it knew too little of others, and itself, and regarded the black-clad warlock beneath it just as an infant would fix its indeterminable gaze on a thing of interest.

If V had had the opportunity to savor the success of his first resurrection, he might have. He might have patted himself on the back for once, admired the golem as a thing of beauty, but as he was uncertain and on high alert, he could not think of anything but the very real chance that the demon might retaliate after all—or go berserk. But he remained in the circle, watched the demon hesitate before the uppermost grains of salt on the ground, and felt his heart skip a beat. The demon stalled, right outside the protective circle, and stood motionless as its eye looked in all directions. Perhaps it wondered what stood in its way. V needed to find his nerve or he'd lose the demon to its untamed instincts: he could not afford complacency now that he'd gotten so close, with work still needing to be done in order to claim the demon for his own. So, he would appeal to it, with a voice that came across more meekly than he'd intended. “Nightmare...?”

His voice surely caught its attention. If only he knew it was perceived as only noise.

“Do you understand me?” he probed. “You are alive. You've come back from death.” That stirred nothing. “It was my voice you heard that guided you here. To me.” He was gentle with his words, cautious as he assessed how they'd affected the golem—but no indication of its awareness, of its comprehension, gave him next to no encouragement. He wondered if Nightmare had ever understood spoken language. But, if that hadn't gotten through to the demon, then he supposed something physical might. Much to the horror of his watchful familiars, V pushed himself forward to extend an arm, to reach out his bare hand, to...touch.

“V, what're you doin'?!” The raptor could not have left well enough alone.

Violet pulsated.

The small warlock had stepped beyond the perimeter of salt. He broke his protection and exposed his vulnerable soul to infernal powers for the sake of connection. And he sensed it. At the back of his mind, a tingle; at his fingertips, something sentient and...perceiving, at least, cool to the feather-light touch but so very warm with devil's blood at its core. The silence might have unnerved him, but to know that he was not dismissed gave him heart. “You can feel me?” he wondered with his eyes cast up, searching that deep and indecipherable purple for his answer. Whether or not it was a product of psychic communication, a sense of calm ran through his fingers, and comfort grazed at the very door to his mind. That dark and obsessive demon within him smothered itself the instant man touched demon, demon touched man, and in its place was born a tender affection. His hand was soft over Nightmare's arm and free from its claws.

Now...he admired it, just a little.

But if he could get inside that titan's mind, he'd know what he looked like to it. And to be acknowledged by the thing that gave it new life was new, also, in this way: because it was novel to feel warmth, respect, and to sense that no subjugation would come from the pale little hand that seemed also to lay claim. And it was a strange contradiction. Nightmare seemed to remember something familiar, something like dominion and disregard that came with a claim of its own over the newborn. But these impressions were faint and centuries distant, and Nightmare was not roused to belligerence by a perceived wrong but remained placid and curious before the human boy it almost, almost could have known as a father. It felt, it understood, in its own innocent way, and therefore it sought. But why, why did the black-and-white figure that so kindly welcomed it suddenly peel away in retreat? The demon only wanted to know him, experience him, and mimic his gesture with an arm of its own. It tried to graze him with the claws on its arm, but the human stepped back with a change in his demeanor. Was this rejection? Was this human false?

V's circle was breached by inhuman hands and feet, its protectiveness nullified when V had broken it. He found that his salt did not burn when the demon walked through it. He was swift in collecting his grimoire and scrambled out of the circle entirely, ignoring one familiar's calls to cease and desist as he still so stubbornly held his ground to win favor he didn't know he already had. “Nightmare!” he called with firmness, attempting to command its attention. He was so sure he'd angered it. The grimoire was opened to the page he needed and he, in utter darkness, recited more from memory than from print. “How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! / From the morn to the evening he strays; / He shall follow his sheep all the day, / And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.” He glanced to find Nightmare had stilled before him, within his broken circle. That's good. He inhaled a breath to steady himself, to soften, to finish. “For he hears the lamb's innocent call, / And he hears the ewe's tender reply; / He is watchful while they are in peace, / For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.” In a maddening mix of apprehension and anticipation, V watched the violet orb spin: the demon was thinking. Even if such a creature could not understand the human, artful tongue, he knew that a creature could still sense emotion, and from within words so delicately crafted and sweetly delivered, emotion was the only intent he'd meant to convey. Like music soothed savage beasts, poetry soothed soured demons.

Nightmare appeared to like the sound of those words. Its confusion was dashed for a moment, and now only watched V with its same curiosity. When a fleeting moment of broad silence passed, Nightmare wanted to inch closer to him—and was again stilled when another string of pretty words touched its consciousness. Was it meant to stand still when the human talked so affectionately? It decided not to move again.

And this, V determined, was a sign of domestication. He thought he'd tamed the beast, at least halfway, so quickly!

“V,” the raptor persisted, “I don't like this! That thing's an accident waiting to happen!”

“Quiet! I know...it knows.”

“It knows you're a chump—!”

“Shhh!” V pressed a finger to his lips when he'd turned to Griffon but donned a friendly, inviting air when again he faced the colossal golem. He smiled, his eyes glimmered, and he approached it with calm. “Nightmare,” he said quietly, intimately, “will you...be my demon? Will you bind to me?” Predictably, no response, so V reached his hand out again to connect—and tried again, focusing on intent rather than speech with a harder, genuine look over his countenance. “I need you, and I...hope...you need me, too. Will you be my familiar?” His palm was firmer on the demon's flesh this time, but not at all merciless or pressuring.

V never believed he was telepathic, but with Nightmare on the other end of the communication, he could have sworn his feelings had been answered. The demon stood still, as did he, and here he would perform the rite of bondage. His technique evolved, every time, and he'd come upon the simplest form of claiming a familiar to date. If magic was all about intent, then for ceremony there was little need. Through incantation and intent, and mutual agreement, the warlock would bind the demon to himself as effectively as he'd ever done. Griffon swallowed every last complaint to let his master be; Shadow had been wise from the start to observe.

Nightmare was still as it watched the little creature who'd given it life. His words it understood vaguely, but his touch was the easiest language it'd ever known. The golem it came to be was nothing at all like the machine of chaos in its previous life. Whether or not that had something to do with the man who'd willed it into being would ever be a mystery. But it, like him, was calm and patient, and listened to a language it largely heard as noise. He uttered words on and on, and some were pretty while others were fair, and some were soft while others were hard; and when he would speak the same word, “Nightmare,” he was warm with his intonation. And the demon, within, felt a warmth as well that had come upon it quite suddenly. A whole change in the air confused it. But so long as the giver of life held his touch and gave it comfort, the golem would be peaceful in its trust.

Magic leaked into the air from his lips, every syllable of incantation imbuing the forces of life and nature, Earth and Hell, those that were human and diabolical—all, combined, alive with the distinctive violet hue of his art, would grant the warlock that which he sought in all fairness of practice. There was power in the atmosphere, a presence of miasma that was inherent in all demonic dealings, but V was no stranger to the forces whirling about his body or the sensations bouncing and dancing all across his skin. This was a power only he could wield, which only he understood in the way that was so personal and individual, his and his alone. His eyes had been closed for concentration; and as he felt the demon's spirit closer to his own, he bridged the gap by granting the demon knowledge of his sacred name. “My name is Vitale.”

Vitale, not V, who he really was, whom he would always be. All his familiars knew it, and now, too, did Nightmare. He'd forbidden anyone else the privilege—to such an extent that he would forget a moniker was only a moniker.

And maybe, with the bond formed and the final pledges made, he could be less of V, more of Vitale.

“Come, on wings of joy we’ll fly To where my bower hangs on high; Come, and make thy calm retreat, Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.”

It shot through him—power, life, trust, a connection. All of Nightmare, all at once, vanishing from sight as the finest black particles to join with its master on his body, new markings alongside those previous, fitting snugly between each one to fill more of his skin, claiming him for itself in so doing. But this demon took more than the warlock had counted on. It cloaked hair so white in its embrace and painted it black, a deep, true ebony that could have contested even the darkest of shadows. It startled him when his eyes opened, and he grabbed at the strands and his scalp as if to make sense of what had just happened. With the demon finally bound to him, the air fell flat. Magic, left; power, absorbed; spirits, gone. Only V now, and his familiars.

The changes in him were not only skin-deep. Somehow, in some way, he felt Nightmare's weight on him. He felt its strength, too, albeit faintly in his psyche; and he felt his strength, greater than it had been minutes ago, spiritually, but still quite subtle materially, in presence. It was like Griffon's or Shadow's, but Nightmare was a demon on an entirely elevated level. And it must have been for that sole reason that V could feel his body suddenly so tired—and this to such a degree that he slouched a little as a result. His two familiars neared him, relieved to see that he'd survived his experiment.

That's right... He'd succeeded. He hadn't even remembered what hell he'd put himself through for the past several weeks. It all paid off. But he didn't think of it. He used his foot to clear away the casting on the ground, the salt spread in all directions as it was rendered ineffective anyway. When he took one solitary step forward to pet his doting shapeshifter, he felt a weakness in the knees that nearly downed him. It was a stumble, that was all...! No one pointed it out to him, and he was thankful for that.

He'd never felt that before, not even when he'd run himself ragged.

“I gotta hand it to you, kid,” Griffon praised, “you stuck to your idiot guns and got what you wanted. You've gotta be feeling so good about yourself.”

V couldn't help answering distractedly. “Yeah.” He ran his hands through Shadow's fur all the while she circled him, offering fond nudges as though to comfort him. “It's...kind of strange.” He did not eye Griffon.

“What? Too much power for you?”

Was that it?

The answer had to wait as V spent a moment collecting the candles, pouring salt over the area, and defacing the inverted pentagram. This circle, too, was cleared away. But his silence often spoken volumes, so he did not doubt that his demons were already forming conclusions in their dark minds. Their eyes were certainly fixed on him as he had his back turned. When he should have been feeling joyous and fulfilled, he found that, instead, he was...undecided with his feelings, ultimately.

“What about your hair, anyway? I've never seen that happen before.”

“It's strange. I don't know if I'll get used to it,” the warlock admitted, knitting his brows as he caught sight of a strand of black hair falling in front of his eye. What a change—and now he was as if a perfect shadow, black on the bottom and black on top. God, that must have screamed something about him.

“It's not that bad on you, actually,” the chatty demon observed, his tone impressed. But he wanted to know about Nightmare, and he wanted to know that V was satisfied and had finally gotten over his obsession with it. “But we're avoiding the subject, aren't we? Tell us how you feel. I mean, after everything you went through, was it worth it after all? Sure, the big lummox agreed to entering the rite and all—and I'm still shocked it didn't go berserk on us—but it didn't exactly strike me as the intelligent kind. I'm not saying you gotta talk to be smart, but—”

“Sometimes talking less masks stupidity.” V flashed a fleeting smirk. “I guess...I feel all right. Exhausted, but...all right. I think the pressure's just finally catching up to me.” A soft breeze rustled the canopies some feet away. What time had it been? He packed up his materials as Griffon continued to talk his ear off. V blocked him out for the most part, concerned by the strange sensation in his legs. It wasn't tiredness, it wasn't pain. He knew the difference. Lacking a better idea, all he could compare it to was weakness; and all he could figure was that it was his fault in the end, because he'd been so desperate and power-starved that he threw all caution to the four winds for the sake of summoning a demon that was potentially out of his league. Maybe what Griffon had said, about “too much power,” was right. Maybe it had been too much for V, but he'd never given that the kind of thought it deserved. All he wanted was some semblance of self-reliance, the knowledge that he could really hold his own and fold in fear to no one, not man nor demon. It was all he wanted and he'd found it. He had it. Nightmare was his. A demon once under the command of an emperor was now in V's bony hands, and it should have gratified him more.

If anything, he came to realize that he was in error for believing that he could just take from demons as much as he'd wanted, without repercussions. The essence that was Nightmare's which he'd felt through his touch was felt in the back of his mind, only now it was perpetual, and he thought that demon might read what he was thinking, might even influence him if he was not careful.

Because he did, he did feel different. Physically and psychologically. He felt the weight on and the weakness in his body. He felt an intangible strength, and with it an unusual sway to his psyche. While his thoughts remained his own, and he felt himself his own man, he too sensed that there was suddenly more to him. In heart and mind where his inner demon dwelt, he felt it with more clarity than ever. All that was demonic in him, purely of him and from which he was born, seemed more alive now, so suddenly, after Nightmare joined with him to serve him as intended. But it was not Nightmare's doing: V knew, with every familiar claimed, that the demonic blood in him which was so diluted had gained some amplification; and after every demon bound to his skin, more and more of the devil liked to play. It was no wonder that he'd gotten so much more impertinent and stubborn and dark-humored, and that he more and more enjoyed slaying the infernal interlopers who had no place upon the Earth so long as they posed as threats to it. It was no wonder that V was more and more a devil in his own right. Puberty had brought that on, but surrounding himself with demons helped it along. And even that was no such concern for him, because he still believed he could stand a change in character. He hated his meekness.

Maybe there was something more to it all. A change in character would suit the change in his fashion—he'd forgotten he'd been wearing something new, and only when he slung his filled rucksack over his shoulder had he remembered that he'd not worn sleeves. He felt good in what he wore, and comfortable, and he liked that the loneliness of the field afforded him a peace of mind with which to walk freely. No one around to judge him, watch him, or try to break the ice with him. And even if there had been, he liked to believe that the devil inside shouldn't have to care anymore. When he used to be a boy who'd been too frightened to make decisions and take first steps, tonight he'd proven that he was dauntless and relentless, and impossible to sway when he'd had his mind set; and though he showed recklessness, he often paired that with a quick resourcefulness and the ability to rebound. In his teenage years he was too shy to function, but the coming of age brought about a kind of daring that was, more than anything, born from his own distaste toward himself and a desire to mature, evolve, improve. And he had. Every year that passed, he grew up a little more, learned better of the adult world, and adapted more nimbly to things that were outside of his control. And though he had still a ways to go, he was getting there. He was only twenty-one, still too naive and fresh-faced, inept and awkward with people, and continually healed where his trauma was concerned. Emotional scars ran deeply, and they hadn't quite closed. They didn't. That's why the young man, though still a boy for all intents and purposes, bled from his hidden wounds to the present day.

Perhaps there was something more to be gained from Nightmare than simply its alliance. V had finally realized that he'd met his goal—probably his hardest one to reach yet. He'd resurrected a demon from death! He formed a vessel for the spirit to inhabit, to use as its own body and reshape it as it pleased. He tamed the demon with the art of the spoken word, nothing more, and successfully bound it to him, himself to it. Things that he had not even practiced before had all worked on his very first attempt, and if that in itself was not a sign of growth and experience, then nothing else could be. Before his own eyes he improved upon his craft, gained a new skill while mastering older ones, and granted a second chance to a soul which, in its previous life, had been used as a tool only to be slain by its master's foe. That couldn't have been any kind of life to live and it certainly wasn't any kind of afterlife. Here, V showed he was merciful, too; and it may have been by sheer coincidence that things had turned out that way, his intent originally to bind the most powerful demon he could host on his body, but ever since he'd laid eyes on the thing—touched it with heart and soul—he felt differently. He wanted more than what he bargained for, and in several ways he'd gotten it. Nightmare was to be as much a friend to him as Griffon and Shadow, as much a part of their small family unit as anyone else in it. More than power and bravado, he wanted connection, and comfort, and someone more to trust, and someone to trust in him, to need him, to value him as he'd value them. And he found it in Nightmare. He found a lot in Nightmare. When the demon joined with his body and the cloud of maddened obsession lifted from his psyche, the warlock could finally see it all: his mistake, mistakes, his flaws and talents, his honest needs, what he was and who he thought he wanted to be, should be, and how he ought to be it. There was a truth revealed to him in bonding with Nightmare and in everything he'd done to get there in the first place. Everything from his devotion to his dress, from his guts to his tenderness.

V thought he'd found himself, through this. He'd found at least a part of Vitale—and he'd chip away at himself to find even more until he was all out in the open. Still so young, he had so much time for it.

As he walked back the path he'd taken, Shadow had melted to darken his form along with Griffon shortly after. There was no conversation to be had between man and devil; and V got away with leaving many of Griffons' questions unanswered. Fatigue, he'd explained. Partly true. Already was he tiring himself out, pushing more than he was used to just to keep on the path. If he expected to stand on his own two feet with his head held high, confidence on his brow and the steadfast backing of his infernal friends, he wouldn't do it looking and feeling so tuckered out. But he'd done wrong to reflect on it now. V had inevitably seen himself home.

Griffon and Shadow were freed to sleep where they pleased the moment V locked the door. Sleep was not often something that he looked forward to. Given the frequency of his nightmares, he would start in the middle of the night with his traumas and insecurities brought to the forefront of his mind as if he'd lived through every painful experience all over again. But he was too tired to care when he flung himself on his bed, and he likewise did not fight the fading of his consciousness when he slipped right off to sleep. He always would, and horror would reliably wake him. Only, tonight, it didn't. He didn't wake. He'd slept in unintentionally when dawn broke. It was strange to him that he'd felt mildly rested in the morning, when he would oft feel sleepy. He didn't remember any disturbance in his sleep. But the black of his hair made him wonder; and, still, the tiredness in his body hadn't left him. He would go to the same field that night in an attempt to call Nightmare from its hideaway for the first time, but the demon did not come. Try as he did, driven to worry and exasperation, thinking even that he'd betrayed his new friend in some irreversible manner, the familiar would not emerge. Griffon suggested a thousand things to try, and those that were sensible resulted in failure.

But...V did think of one thing before quitting for the night. He thought to be playful, as if coaxing a child from its hiding place, when he poured his will and his warmth into a snap of his fingers. From the sky came crashing down a meteorite, V's hair suddenly white.

Ah, so that's how it is.

#drabble ;#// I post this here because it's all a part of V's character development.#// I can't expect anyone to read it directly on my blog because. I mean really. 19 pages.#// After seven days I show signs of life on Tumblr omfg

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