A.N.: I started rereading this story a little while ago, and I've decided that someone must have died as I was writing the first chapter. Seriously, just skimming it made me depressed! I can't understand how any of you actually stuck with me. I was choking on the angst, and it's my fic!

To make a long story longer, I've tried to lighten it up a bit…or at least make it feel less like a very wordy eulogy. I don't know if I succeeded—if I took out all the angst, there'd be nothing left!—but I tried. Hopefully, future chapters won't be so…ugh. And I realize that this chapter is slow, but I only had so much to work with. The next chapters should be better.

Oh, and I didn't bother my beta with this--I'm saving her for the next real chapter--so if there are errors, it's entirely my fault.

Edited December 2007


"The Burden of Eternity"


Chapter One: Storms


He shouldn't have gone to the attic.

It was the last place to be, in a storm like this. The old house was all but shaking as wind and rain swept across loose shutters and under shingles, as it rattled against the ancient walls. Will closed his eyes, no fear at all in his face as the house shuddered around him, though he did wonder, absently, if the walls would hold. He knew how much damage a storm could do, and this would hardly be the first time these flimsy wooden barriers had failed him.

Then again, as bad as the storm was—the worst one in nearly seven years, according to the local weather people—the maelstrom outside was not the reason Will should have avoided the attic on a night like this. Thin and ancient as the walls might be, the grey-eyed young man had more to fear from the ghosts than the storm—for ghosts did walk here, though only Will could have seen them, and then only because his memories had created them. They'd haunted his every waking moment and tormented his dreams for years, had plagued him every time he entered this attic bedroom of his, and they disturbed him far more than any storm ever could.

Perhaps he should have been used to them by now. He'd spent so much time in this room, brooding with only those specters for company, but nights like this one gave them power they simply didn't have at any other time. Too many of his worst memories had been formed on nights just like this, or at least when storms of a different sort had raged around him, and what could give his ghosts more power than that which had created them in the first place?

And the attic was dangerous for other reasons. The ghosts aside, everything had started here. Or maybe it had really begun with a couple of scared rabbits and some radio static, but this was where he'd been when he'd finally begun to understand who he was and what he'd stood to lose.

And, oh, how much he'd stood to lose.

This was also as much of a stronghold as he'd ever have. He'd made it so, over the years, though his defenses wouldn't have seemed like such to anyone else. Sprigs of holly, strangely vibrant for all that they were a little out of season, hung in bunches over the windows and door, and on a shelf against the far wall lay a battered and ancient hunting horn that only Will could value. Most importantly of all, a well-loved and equally well-feared carnival mask resided on the floor beneath the horn, its yellow eyes occasionally gleaming even in the storm-brought darkness.

They brought their own memories, these relics of Will's impossible past, and they certainly brought their own ghosts, though he'd almost learned to live with them. They were all he had left, really, and at least the horn and the carnival head gave him something tangible to protect.

Will sighed and forced himself to open his eyes, though his face remained impassive as he stared out the window and into the rain. The sun had gone down long ago, but if his eyes saw farther than they should have on this overcast night, it no longer mattered.

Six years, he thought. Six years since the end of a war that had lasted for millennia, six years since his masters had abandoned him in a world grown suddenly empty. They'd been…long, those years, eternities in themselves, but he'd never asked himself if it'd been worth it, this price he'd had to pay. He knew it was. He knew it had to be.

And if those years had been lonely and his life would only become lonelier still, what of that? As hard as his solitude was, Will knew he didn't have any right to want anything more. He had a job to do, and if that job would take a lot longer than he'd initially expected, well, wasn't it his turn to make the sacrifices? He needed to stop wallowing in self-pity and just get on with it.

Will snorted suddenly, an inelegant sound truly befitting one who had technically spent only eighteen years in mortality. His lips twisted in an astringent frown, though his eyes remained as carefully blank as always. I'm being childish again, he thought, and even in his own mind, the words were heavy with self-derision. It's a good thing that Merriman can't see how pathetic I've become. He'd have a few choice words for me, that's for sure.

Will frowned at his reflection in the glass, unclasping the hands that had remained, motionless, behind his back until this moment. He rubbed absently at one temple, still fighting both his irritation with himself and the migraine that had been steadily increasing the entire afternoon. The pain lanced persistently through his head, and only the intensity of his training kept his expression clear of any reaction. Even now, even to this, he would not—could not—lose control.

Light flared in the darkness outside, and Will turned aloof grey eyes down to the driveway beneath his window. His mother's old van was sliding to a halt on the gravel below him, and Will could just make out the sound of the dying engine over the rain. An instant later, all three of the doors slid open, and more than half a dozen people piled from the car. They were shrieking with laughter as the rain struck their faces, as they tried to protect their purchases from the downpour. They ran for the house, barely remembering to shut the car doors behind them as they fled the elements.

Will turned from his window, the tiniest of smiles curving his sculpted lips as he moved across his attic bedroom and made his way to the stairs. He was just human enough to be amused by the fact that his siblings were undoubtedly soaked to the bone, and while he shouldn't have been able to hear their laughter from here, he was simply glad to hear it at all. It'd been too long since his siblings had come home.

Will moved silently down the stairs, his graceful, noiseless tread at odds with his sturdy body. He could hear one of his sisters giggling near the foot of the stairs, and when the giggle was followed by an indignant male cry, his smile widened into a genuine, rather relieved grin. Not quite so alone, after all, he thought.

He found his family in the bright, spotlessly clean kitchen of his home, most of his siblings still gathered in a chaotic mass in the doorway. Their laughter continued as they unburdened themselves of their purchases and simultaneously attempted to remove wet shoes and jackets. By the time Will had stepped fully into the kitchen, nearly a dozen raincoats had been draped over the coat rack, and Will's eldest sister was half-heartedly attempting to wipe away the puddles of water now gathered on the hardwood planks. She glanced up as Will came closer, and her quick, honest smile did more to lift Will's spirits than anything else might have. "Hallo, Will."

He merely grinned at her, no trace at all of his earlier loneliness in his eyes, but he didn't bother to answer. He merely nodded a greeting back at her, then automatically moved across the kitchen to stand at his mother's side. The Stanton matriarch was busy unloading groceries from far too many nondescript brown paper bags, and she, too, smiled at him as he reached for the nearest one and started to help.

Will kept his eyes turned from hers as he began pulling vegetables and frozen pizzas from the bags, though he knew his mother wouldn't expect much of a response from him anyway. Whatever he might have been in his childhood years, Will had grown into a rather solemn, quiet young man, and she'd become too accustomed to his silences. They all had, but Will, knowing what the future held and what he'd have to do to them one day, couldn't quite see that as a bad thing. Attention was the last thing he wanted, and he was actually glad that his presence didn't make more of an impact on them.

Still, for all that he'd accepted the necessity of his future, thought of it was sobering, and it was suddenly a little too difficult to maintain the cheerful façade. Will's happiness faded, his eyes became bleak once more, and he was absurdly grateful when his mother suddenly turned to him and informed him that they were a bag short. He glanced briefly at her, a false smile pasted to his lips, then turned away before she could see his eyes. "I'll go check the car," he told her, already stepping around the counter and heading for the door. "Maybe someone missed it in all the bedlam."

He kept his eyes down as he crossed the kitchen, though his siblings really didn't notice him as he grabbed his coat from its hook by the door. He slipped it over his shoulders, opened the door and stepped outside. The rain was still coming down in buckets, but the youngest Stanton didn't hesitate to move away from the safety of the porch and out into the storm. He was simply grateful for an excuse to get away, to compose himself before he had to return to his family and spend another night pretending to be human for them.

He'd pulled his coat tight around his neck, but the rain still found a way to slip beneath his collar and down his spine, and Will was glad to slide into the protection of the unlocked vehicle. He climbed into the car, slamming the door behind them. The rain sounded louder than ever on the metal roof of the van, but Will only shook his head, dog like, to free himself of the water still weighing down his brown hair. He rubbed a hand over his wet face, then began searching for the bag.

He found it on the back seat, the brown paper slightly wet from the trip between grocer and car, and Will absently wondered how any of his siblings could have missed it. He climbed over the middle bench, reached out with one strong hand to latch onto the errant sack.

And then he froze, his fingers outstretched and not quite touching the bag. Something, he suddenly realized, was…off. Dangerously so, and though he couldn't immediately pinpoint the source of his unease, his stomach muscles clenched with trepidation. His senses kicked into overdrive, the part of himself that was not an eighteen-year-old boy protesting the sudden wrongness filling the space around him. The Old One within was awakening with a vengeance, and he knew, without question, that touching the bag was the last thing he should do.

His hand jerked back to his side as swiftly as though he had grasped fire, his grey eyes widening with disbelief. Why now, after all this time? And how is it even possible?

He wasn't given a chance to collect himself. Before he could do more than blink in shock, a new sort of fear clutched at his heart. It was impossibly strong and horribly familiar, and he knew, without a doubt, that it didn't come from him. What the hell is in that bag?

A second wave of fear followed on the wings of the first, this one just as strong and unnatural, and Will gasped aloud with the agony of it. He fought to regain control of himself, to regain control of his own emotions long enough to force this debilitating fear from his mind. Whatever was in that paper bag, it shouldn't have been strong enough to make him lose control of himself like this, and Will could do nothing more than back away and hope his training as an Old One would protect his mind from the evil currently assailing him.


Venus Smurf's Thoughts of the Day:

I love being married--it's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy you for the rest of your life.

What's the difference between a menstruating woman and a terrorist? You can negotiate with the terrorist.

In a psychiatrist's waiting room, two patients are having a conversation. One says to the other, "Why are you here?"
The second answers, "I'm Napoleon, so the doctor told me to come here."
The first is curious and asks, "How do you know that you're Napoleon?"
The second responds, "God told me I was."
At this point, a patient on the other side of the room shouts, "NO, I DIDN'T!"