A/N: I recently went back and read one of my older works: Lord of Horses and Insanity. I decided to rewrite it because I felt that the writing was nowhere near as good as my other stories, despite this being one of the oldest "fanfictions" that I've come up with. The writing was pretty bad in my opinion, but I liked the story and didn't want to abandon it so here it is: the rewrite anyway. I hope everyone likes the new version as much or even better than the original. It needed a revamp. REMEMBER: READ, REVIEW, REPEAT! I have other works in need of love too.
Prologue
He remembered hearing once that darkness was the element to be feared, that shadows would swallow him up in nightmares and terrors unimaginable. They would curl around his ankles and drag him back into the dark, his body reeking of sweat and slick with fear. The gloom would cover his eyes, fill his mouth and his nose, plugging his ears until all of his senses were dulled. He was supposed to fear the dark. It was where monsters and thieves and demons lived.
Darkness, however, had become his closest friend since then. He relished in it, sighing with relief whenever the shade of anything, even a hulking figure towering over him, covered his thin and shaking body. It relaxed him and calmed his wildly beating heart, despite the pain that often followed.
Light made him jittery and wary. It illuminated the scars on his body, the emaciated quality of his tiny figure. It highlighted the dull eyes and the wild hair, signaling to everyone what kind of a child he was. It made the red scabs that covered his healing cuts ache and the white patches of rough skin on his legs burn even harsher than they had when the ugly wounds had blistered into existence.
No, light was the thing to be feared. Shadows could hide anything that was ugly, repugnant, or wished to be forgotten. Light didn't allow for that. It was open and harsh, critical and dangerous. It exposed him and that was not something he liked at all.
He knew that he hadn't seen more than a few slivers of light for a while. The exact time was lost on him, but he believed it to be about ten days or so. Hiding in the shadows did not help him keep time, a concept that he also hated. Time was directed by the giant ball of fire in the sky, the greatest source of the great traitor that was light.
Shifting where he lay against the white wall, he groaned quietly. Every movement he made caused a sharp pain to run through his thin frame, although the origin was often lost on him. Everything seemed to hurt. His body was sore and the welts on his back were still healing, the scabs having partially rubbed off during his last stint of sleep. The skin on his right side was chapped and raw from the rough texture of the carpet under him and the red blood that it was soaked in. His soles of his feet, hardened by calluses somehow ached despite the fact that he hadn't walked in what was probably days.
Be careful, a voice whispered in his ear.
Slowly, he lifted a hand to trace the ugly burn that wrapped around the front of his neck, the abused skin blistering with pain as the hard pad of his finger touched it. He hissed softly and let his hand drop again to the carpet, letting out a sigh.
His breath was labored, the skin seeming to sink between his ribs every time that he took a breath. The air around him was thick and heavy, full of sweat that somehow continued to pour from his tired body. He could practically feel the water in the air as he breathed in, the liquid nearly condensing in his throat as the air slid into his hurting lungs.
Somehow though, the waterlogged air was a comfort to him. The smell was sickening and the atmosphere seemed to be trying to choke him, but he understood it. There were no secrets that he didn't know, no surprises, and full of pain. While he didn't enjoy the pain, at least he knew what it was.
Suddenly, a sound broke through the silence and he let his eyes snap open. Without moving any part of his body, he glanced across the room and through the open archway to the slightly lightened living room beyond. A few thin slices of light drifted across the floor in the other room, giving him just enough light to see by.
The sound came again, a loud creaking. He cringed and pulled his legs up tightly against his chest, his body protesting loudly. Thin bones rattled as he forced the tendons in his legs to move, his entire form shaking from the exertion. As the creaking of wood continued, he tucked his chin into his chest and covered his ears with his hands, trying with all of his might to block out the sound.
He knew what was happening. Someone was trying to get inside the house, pulling at the wooden boards that he knew probably blocked the front door. A shudder ran through him as he heard the wood snap, followed by a muffled shout.
They're coming.
Someone was coming. Someone was going to let the light in. Someone was going to disturb the dark house that he had chosen to die in.
Tears dripped from his eyes as he focused entirely on that one train of thought, gripping it as tightly as he could. A sob caught in his throat and vibrated through his calcium-deprived bones, his chest, heart and lungs clenching. If he'd had the energy, he would have clenched his hands into tight fists.
Stay still.
The snapping of wood filled the air and finally, the loud smash of the door being kicked in. He huddled in his dark corner, hoping to hide. His ears filled with the sound of heavy boots clacking across the slate floor in the entry, following the narrow hallway that led into the main part of the house. When the footsteps stopped, he held his breath.
They were at the stairs.
The footsteps began again, fewer this time. They had split up probably, a few of them moving to check out the rooms downstairs. He could hear them throwing open doors, the click of the latches that kept them closed trembling in the thick air. There was rustling, although he couldn't tell what it was from. Where they moving the couches in the den downstairs? Where they moving the curtains that covered the new steel door that led to the four-season porch?
Next came a loud scraping sound, a horrid wail of something being moved across the slate floor. Was that the table in the front entry?
He stilled when he heard the signature creak of the first step, his heart hammering in his chest. The tears that had been trickling from his wide eyes grew in number, falling faster. Lifting his hand away from his ear, he bit down on it to stifle a soft cry.
Quiet, the ghostly voice whispered.
He would have nodded if he could. The ghost-like figure behind him was still, watchful. It crouched, hands splayed across the wet carpet just centimeters from his lower back. He couldn't feel the ghost's invisible breath. It couldn't touch him and he couldn't touch it.
His eyes squeezed shut when he saw a large form enter the living room, the image burned into his mind. It was a man, standing tall and proud. A handgun was stretched out in front of the man and the man's steps were quiet and cautious. The man looked around, the heavy vest bulking out the man's build to make it seem even larger than it really was. The man was more tall than wide, stringy, but strong. The man's hair was cropped short, surrounded by a faint halo of light that filtered in through the boarded windows.
He could hear more people moving further up the stairs, heading to the third floor. His eyes were closed as tightly as he could make them, his yellowed teeth biting down into the flesh of his hand. He tasted blood, but ignored the coppery tang of it. The man was moving into the dining room, the room he lay huddled in. He could hear the man's footsteps as he approached the table that was pushed into the corner, shadowing the small form hidden in the corner.
They aren't going to leave any time soon, the ghost whispered. They are going to find you.
He silently cursed the ghost behind him, fighting to ignore it. They couldn't find him. They wouldn't find him. He didn't want them to.
There was a soft creak and a click, followed by a gasp. The light burned his skin and he squeaked, curling up into an even tighter ball. All of his senses drove into overload. Every tiny pinprick of light that fell across his skin was painful to the touch, scorching the pale exterior that covered his bones and organs. The sounds that pounded into his ears grew in volume, rising up to a wail that was as loud as anything he'd ever heard before. The stench that hung in the air around him became as pungent as that of a dead body and his sight transformed from black to red as the light fell across his closed eyelids.
"Kiru, you'd better get up here! I found the kid!" a deep, resounding voice called, the sound echoing against his eardrums.
Told you so.
He heard the man move, his quiet steps across the carpet seeming as loud as when they had stormed across the slate downstairs. He felt the large body settle next to him, clicking off the flashlight as he recoiled away from it. There was a soft thud as the flashlight was dropped to the man's side and he could feel the warmth of the adult's body as he inched closer. He didn't hear anything that the man was saying, his ears blocking out the sounds. He tried to protest, but the ghostly figure at his back kept him silent.
He's going to get you out of here. You need to leave. It isn't time yet to die.
As the hot hand touched his shoulder, he jerked and let out a cry, his teeth releasing his bleeding hand. The man's hand twitched on his shoulder, but did not pull away, rubbing it calmly, softly, as though to comfort him. He felt an arm slowly slide under him, lifting his aching, bloodied side off of the carpet. A soft moan escaped him as the man slowly and carefully lifted him from the spot he had believed to be his future grave. The fabric of his ripped pants chafed against the ruined skin of his legs, but he ignored it.
Be calm. Be strong, the ghost murmured as the man settled his thin form in his arms. Now isn't the time to die.
He was about to reply to the ghost when the man stood, lifting his completely into the air. His grip tightened on the man's arm as he carried him away from that rank dining room. He heard a few voices, but their words were incomprehensible to him. All sound seemed to die and vanish, his senses dulling.
He could only feel the warmth of the arms carrying him.
It's time to live, the ghost whispered, following the man as they followed the steps down to the main hallway below.
A shiver ran through him as they approached the light beyond the door. Through his still-closed eyelids, he could sense the harsh light beyond. He squirmed slightly in the man's arms, but the man's grip on him only tightened. Relaxing against the heavy, bulletproof vest, he let out a sigh and let his hands rest in his lap. The man was saving him, even if he didn't want to be saved.
Everything will be better, the ghost said.
Maybe? Could it get better? Was it possible? His life had been darkness for the last few weeks and so bright and full of light before. As much as he hated to leave the dark shadows of the boarded-up house that he had been locked in, he had no choice.
A small smile jerked on his lips. Maybe it was possible. Maybe the ghost was right. The ghost was usually right anyway. Why wouldn't the ghost be right about this?
Finding his voice, he croaked, "What is your name?"
The man replied, but he paid no attention. He could feel the ghost's grin through the man's vest and chest, sensing it in the air around him.
You named me Ataullaha, remember? The Lord of Insanity, king of darkness and sweat and safety. I am your other half, everything that you lost in that prison of light.
"Am I safe?"
We are now. The shadows cannot protect us anymore, but this light isn't like the one before. It won't hurt us. We'll be back with those that care about us.
He rested his head against the man's chest, his smile calming into a content, relaxed look. Slowly, his dark eyes opened, the spark of life once again returning. Reaching up, he clutched at the man's vest, his thin fingers trying to dig into the rough fabric.
"Don't worry kid. You're safe now," the man said, his deep voice vibrating through the vest and into his fingers.
"How?" he asked.
Just trust me. I am Ataullaha, your protector, your guardian. The shadows let you create me from your soul, from your broken spirit. Just let me do my job and we'll be safe, the ghost said.
He didn't say anything else, listening to the shouts of the people around him. He kept his eyes closed, not daring to open them. The bright light of the sun would burn his eyes after so long in the dark. As much as he hated seeing it, he didn't want to become blind either. Ataullaha had said to trust him and he was going to do just that.
It couldn't get any worse, could it?
What do you guys think? Do you like the new prologue? I may rework some of the plot from the original story so don't freak out if things are changed. For instance, I introduced Ataullaha earlier than I did in the original, although I won't explain who he is until later. If this story is new to you, you can go back and read the original, but I wouldn't. It would ruin the surprise. Please REVIEW!
