Monsters in the Dark
There are sheep deep in a dream.
They'll awake in cotton seams.
Can't sleep, can't make a sound, watching sheep go round and round.
- When Swindlers Start Laughing by Hatsune Miku
XXXX
"Ivan! Oh Ivan! Our precious son."
With a sickening crunching sound, the boulder closes behind him and effectively tras a large, frightened Ivan in total darkness. He screeches something violent, but it is utterly lost in the echoing darkness. Realising his fate, he soon begins to claw at the large rock that bars his way to freedom.
He keeps away at that rock until his fingernails start to pour out blood. Even so, he pushes at the boulder until his fingers ache and the blood pours down the wall in a shameful trail of his failure. Eventually, the boy falls to his knees and rests his head against the barrier to his freedom; unable to cry, unable to continue.
His head spins and their words continue to rip away at his skin.
They had mocked him; had thrown things; had called him names. Ivan, Ivan, son of the damned! They had danced around him with flailing arms and cheering voices, calling out his name over and over again until he himself sickened of the accursed word.
"Son of the General! Son of the General! How doth thou fare?"
They sung and sung until their voices cracked, and still perused on at the small boy's expense. They had mocked him for simply being Ivan – but then again, wasn't it Ivan who was cursed? The cursed boy with the violet eyes and the hair of snow, who towers over the rest of his age and punishes them all with his bad luck.
Poor, poor Ivan, they had jeered. Poor, poor son of Winter.
Of course, he had no idea. Poor Ivan hadn't a clue what they were talking about. He didn't want to know either. They were cruel people with not a good word for another word but themselves. Ivan is just a playtoy for them whose silver strings had yet to break.
And so they sneer and taunt all the more. mocking what he had built himself from. They had mocked Ivan for all that he was – mocked him for being the broken little boy with violet eyes and no home.
"Son of the General! Son of the General! How doth thou fare?"
When he did not answer, they had thrown stones at him. He couldn't fight back and flew for cover. The virgin snow does nothing to cover his tracks and he's chased down like a dog. Ivan ran. Ivan ran like the coward he is; cursing them to the fiery pits of a world opposite of theirs.
He hates them. He hates them. He hates them all. They had pranced around him, singing their songs of hatred and his lunacy. Oh, to them, Ivan was a madboy. He had been driven mad long ago by the coming moon and the icy walls of a forgotten cage.
Ivan did not deserve life.
And so, the accursed little boy would die.
Oh, he would die.
"Ivan! Oh Ivan! Our precious son."
Cursed full of hatred and spite, the accursed little boy would die with no one to mourn his passing except for the silver moon.
Ivan struggles to his knees for a moment, using the craggy wall to keep himself from tipping over. He shakes his pale hair free of the dust it has accumulated before deciding a harrowing fate.
He would have to walk through the cave.
So sighing, he begins to walk.
He hates caves. He especially hates this one.
There's an old legend that a monster still lives in this very cage. That is why no one is allowed near it. It's cursed, ancient, and home to a being that no one can save.
Ivan knows better though. Ivan knows that there is still a monster in this cave.
He can hear it scream.
"Child of Winter! Child of Winter! Oh how does something wicked come this way."
As Ivan walks on, the long, stretching corridor of craggy rock and stone begins to taper away as he continues on his way into the centre of the cave. The walls close uncomfortably in on him and the air becomes thick with dust and the almost overbearing smell of the earth. Darkness swoops down upon him like a monster, filling up his lungs and his nose and his ears.
Suddenly, it is darkness. And suddenly, it is all he knows. It is all he knows.
He struggles to breathe as darkness greedily rushes in to fill his lungs; struggles to remain upright as the ceiling slopes even more hopelessly downward; struggles to keep his wide, aching shoulders from brushing against the rough walls and tearing his thin clothing to mere shreds.
Ivan struggles to remain alive. He struggles to keep his head above this ocean of obsidian blackness.
He's at a mere crawl now and his head pounds with a blearing pain. It's as if a thousand rocks are being thrown at his head and the chickens of the far away farm are screaming away their cries of ignorance. It's a pain he's never felt before and it becomes even harder to deal with it as he crawls on. His pants are torn, his hands are scraped, and he struggles even worse than before to gain precious air.
And then as a whooshing nauseating feeling overcomes him, he reaches out to keep himself from collapsing and touches something he is certain that is not the craggy, rocky wall his shoulders have come to know so well.
Ivan probes around for a moment, wondering if he's come at a dead end. In his palm, he suddenly feels cool glass. He curls his fat fingers around it, twisting the precious thing in his worn hands. At the slightest pressure, it twists and pushes open with ease. He tumbles out from the tunnel, falling only a few feet and down a set of stone steps. His ribs ache as he hits the ground, but he staggers to his feet nonetheless.
And when his eyes adjust to the sudden light, they widen impeccably. A grand hallway is spread out before him with not a single sloping arch of ceiling or thinning walls. The walls are still covered in the hardened spikes of Earth, but this time – they're covered in objects and paintings.
Spreading up the walls like a poisonous ivy are paintings of places he's never seen, places he'll never see. Mountains covered in pure snow, valleys that stretched for miles, rivers that ran madly without a care in the world, rolling plains!
They are beautiful places. His heart aches for them.
He wants to climb the mountains of foreign lands, run through rolling plains of a young country and feel for its growing pride, and ride a raging river knowing that he'll die.
He wants to fight on a magnificent steed – to ride into battle covered in unbreakable steel and strike down his enemy in a storm of blood and severed flesh.
He does not want to be Ivan.
"Where's your papa now?"
Then as his eyes travel down, paintings seem to grow out from the flesh of the wall. They were much bigger than the others, about three feet in height and wider than Ivan is. They were of people. And of course, they were of people he had never seen before.
He has not seen many things.
The first is of a man who smiles as if the world is his, but there's a madness in his eye he's seen before in dying animals who are fighting for their last. His hair is unruly, he's naked from the waist up and utterly riddled with scars and his golden eyes glitter with a lunacy that frightens the boy to the bone.
The next one is long haired and blonde with a face seemed to have been chiselled from stone. There is no emotion is his eyes, but his poise and stance makes him to be a great warrior.
Next are dark haired twins similar to the first man. They've begun to fade out and a faded crack splits the two apart. One is smiling with his eyes shut and the other is frowning as if the whole world could go to hell.
Almost though, when he tilts his head a way, it looks as if they're holding the world and themselves together.
He notices different features about them as he slowly makes his way down the grand hallway. They're not all the same person. They're different, foreign. All of these people were beautiful and poor Ivan felt so plain, so ugly in comparison! They're so beautiful and he is so ugly. Though, there is something about them that does not sit right with them.
They aren't happy portraits.
They're sad portraits. There is a feeling of eternal sadness lingering at the edges of the canvases. It makes him angry to think that. So utterly graceful in their moments frozen forever in time! And yet – they dare to be sad. He's so overcome by jealously at the thought they could even dare to be sad in such exquisite lives.
Each one of them is different. Each one is beautiful, dark, mystifying and glorious, but yet they all hold that tinge of sadness that lurks painfully on the edges of their painted faces. It lurks on the edges of their carved eyes, lingers in the curves of their ancient mouths, echoes in the flowing weaves of their exotic fabric.
He continues on, studying each portrait inquisitively. They're all different. There's not one the same! One is tall and tanned with green eyes, armed dangerously with a massive battleaxe and sheer happiness present on his face. Another is short and Asian with soulless brown eyes, but connected to a body which reeked of unrelenting emotions that demanded to be released. Soon though, the many different forms and faces blend into a mix of sadness and hopeleessness
Some of them express no emotion. Some of them are smiling as if the world is theirs.
Soon, he eventually comes upon the last three on the wall.
A chill settles in his stomach. He doesn't want to look at these. Something tells him not to. Something pulls and grasps at his tender skin, crawling up his legs and arms towards his tiny ears. Something whispers in his pale ear not to look at these portraits.
Curiously, he peers at their bottoms. There are three names that stand out from the dark edge of their frames. Had there been names before?
The first one is François Bonnofois, the second an Arthur Kirkland, and the third a Mattieu Williams.
A sudden draft chills him to the bone and he steps away quietly, careful not to lift his eyes.
"Ivan, oh Ivan, how doth one kill sleep?"
He needs to find a door.
Only after a few minutes does he find one. It's at the end of the giant room. He strides over to it, reading to brace himself for perhaps another impromptu fall. Only though as his fingers graze the doorknob does he see what's hanging on the door itself.
It's another portrait.
Immediately, he rips his eyes away from it. He won't look at it! He won't, he won't, he won't!
This portrait is bad. It's horrible. It's terrible.
Anguish rolls off in waves, prodding and poking at him with various different edges. The portrait cries out to be heard, to be seen, and not to be this accursed, foul, monstrous beast it is currently.
"Murder! He says. Oh child of the damned!"
It screams at him.
It screams just like the monster.
Hopelessness.
We are damned, we are cursed, oh how very well damned we are.
And then, he realises as his fingers draw away from their grasp on the doorknob, that he wants to do the unthinkable.
He wants to touch this one.
He wants to stroke the sun-kissed cheek of this one, hoping to find real skin beneath it and not the rough edge of canvas.
But he won't.
For Ivan is too unclean. He is too ugly, too poor, too Ivan to even be this close to the beauty.
And he is cursed as it is.
"Ivan, oh Ivan, how doth one kill sleep?"
He breaks free of his endless rut and draws his hand back to the doorknob. He slips his fat fingers around the knob and shoves it open, awaiting what he hopes just might be his doom.
A massive room spreads out before him. There is a high, arching ceiling held high by ivory pillars covered in sprawling ivy and vines. Decorating the bottom of the pillars are the skeletons of small things – children most likely if the rumours are true.
He gulps and inspects the rest of the room. The walls of the room were fashioned not from craggy rock, but a pure white material that he can't identify. It's too bright though.
In the centre of the room, there is a massive ornate table. With gilded edges and carved from the finest wood, the table excluded an arrogance of craftsmanship and luxury. As he carefully walks closer, he realises it is lined with food. All sorts of delicious things – borchst, blini, salads, chicken, pig...! There is stuff on the table he's never even seen before!
The sudden need to turn around to strikes him, but his knees are shaking too horribly to do nothing. Within moments, he's walking forward again. He can't move back the way he had come – only forward.
His stomach grumbles with pain. A hole is forming in his stomach. He hasn't eaten for hours.
A small thought enters his head. It is a small thought, just a bit of dust, but then it runs rampant through his mind. The thought evolves into a dream and the dream turns into an idea. The idea churns only for moments before his limbs are moving and an action is formed.
Sequence. Dust, thought, dream, idea, action.
"Pity! He says! Only the dead dare to think."
Just a snack...Just a small snack. A grape or two and he would be on his way – sprinting towards the exit he could see over in the corner of the room.
His legs move forward, as if on their own.
Ivan eventually reaches the table and his fingers feel the odd fabric that has been set down on the table. Eventually, his hands dance across the tabletop and reach a massive bowl where the odd fruits had been stored. They look shiny and fresh and foreign. Has he even had these before?
He's never seen them before, but he has not seen many things.
He brings one to his lips and groans as a euphoria of sweet taste explodes in his mouth. They are delicious! He can never remember such a sweet fruit. He puts the second one in without hesitation and chews slowly – this time savouring the taste of the fruit. He licks his lips at the sweet taste and turns to leave.
And that is his mistake.
A slow rasping, rattling begins behind him.
It sounds like rattling metal, pipes of age banging and banging against one another madly. It slows and slows to a near silence, the last of its rattling just fading before it is utter silence.
A deep gasp echoes. They draw air like a dying man for minutes.
And then.
It speaks.
Something is rasped quietly in a foreign tongue and the sound freezes Ivan to the very bone. A groan echoes behind him and something, something unhuman chuckles.
"How absolutely ironic."
"Child of Winter. Child of Winter."
The foreign voice pierces Ivan's concentration and freezes him to the bone. The boy turns, utterly horrified, to see the sitting man he had not seen before have lifted his head from his silent prayer.
He is a pretty man – he is too pretty for a monster. He has such precious skin more so than the prettiest of women and his hands are gorgeous and elegant with an edge of roughness that are politely folded before him.
He is dressed like a gentleman. No, this man is a king! His clothing is elegant, he is nothing but grace!
Then, he soon realises as his eyes trail past the blue of his coat and the gold of his lapels and makes it past the perfect curve of his pink lips why the man is a monster.
Beneath the dark, dirty-blond hair, underneath an odd metal contraption, where a pair of even more beautiful eyes should lay set like a pair of glittering jewels are two massive, black holes.
"How ironic," He repeats as if Ivan had not heard him the first time. " How ironic, my friend, how ironic indeed. The white seed of winter, the son of the general – hated by all and untouched by Siberian frost – has come to die!"
Every word is pronounced with an air of excitement; put off only slightly by the rasping of the monster's voice. The voice is too pretty, it is too elegant even with his rasp – this man cannot be a monster. He simply cannot. But yet, the eyeless face and the horrible violet eyes sitting on the creature's dinner-plate only silently stare at him.
"Who are you?"
"Alfred."
There is no hesitation, no heeding laughter. The monster's head turns where Ivan is standing. It grins and suddenly, the monster's hands shift. The hands slip up and their bones crack in protest. He moves his fingers and each bone shifts and shutters back into place. Back and forth, back and forth, his fingers crick and crack with the nastiest groan.
His hands look still so elegant, so kind and so soft and only hardened slightly, but then they shift towards him and he must stifle his gasp of surprise and disgust. Alfred brings his arms closer to him and crosses them at the wrist, resting his hands by the sides of his face. They bend towards his face, curl slightly and crack before rolling up, settling straight with long fingers spread, by the side of Alfred's perfect, beautiful face.
His hands, once seemingly perfect, are marred by large strips of black in his hand. Stitched in the dark holes are Alfred's eyes. Bright, blue, sparkling like a distant sky and glittering like the rarest of gems he had expected, those eyes only further made him realise the actuality of the monster standing before him. A demon, disguised in beauty, had ventured into his path.
And Ivan could not run.
Oh, he would never run again.
"Come meet your fate. It's your only last choice."
Ivan meets the monster's eyes for only a moment and it has the audacity to smile.
"I am Alfred." He repeats. "Or at least, I believe myself to be. I believe myself to be Alfred, bane of the Russian man, the pain of the whole western world. I believe myself to be a monster. How do you believe yourself to be, son of Winter? For we are all something indeed."
"I am Ivan." He answers quietly and with a fierce look in his eye, stares at the monster out of the corner of his eye. "And I am no one."
Alfred barks a laugh. "Are you really so sure, son of the damned?"
Ivan smirks. "I am sure as you are ugly."
At that, Alfred's friendliness fades into a stony silence. The monster tilts his hand and his hands creak and crack disturbingly. He twists them at the wrist back and forth while Ivan struggles not to look and stare at the dark holes of Alfred's face.
Because that is how it got you.
"As if you're one for looks, Ivan." The name curls off Alfred's lip with a sneer. "What is this sudden courage you show?"
"I don't fear you."
"Yeah you do." His words betray a sort of humanity for a moment, but the disgusting sight of Alfred bending his hands for a moment wipes away any trace of humanity. "You fear me as all the others do. For what else is there to fear in your tiny world, Ivan? General Winter, the damnation of summer, and myself. But then again, don't they fear you Ivan? Ivan, tell me, do you fear yourself?"
Ivan does not reply for a moment. After an endless moment of agony, he trusts himself to speak. "No."
"Mmm. You're rather cocky."
"I don't fear you."
"A rare fuckin' thing too!" Alfred snorts. "Why do you think people fear me, Ivan?"
Is this a game to him? Feeling like a child, Ivan gives him his honest answer.
"You're the bad guy."
"Everyone fears me. They think I'll take their precious souls! What idiots. Do they think I have nothing better to do than covet their precious life source? Humans pride themselves as being the cream of the crop. They pride themselves to better than all else and the loved ones of all! Nothing but foolish assumptions! What fuckin' idiots."
He chuckles, but it's fake.
Just like everything else.
"But then what..."
"'Then what do I eat?' Not this filth of course." With a wave of his cricking bones, he flourishingly points to the extravagant food before him and it wilts within moments. Ivan only watches.
The once exotic, mesmerising food had grown cold and wilted into nothing but dust and fool's gold. The ache in his stomach goes flat at the thought that he had eaten that.
"Disgusting, isn't it? Nothing but a lure it is. Almost everyone is hungry by the time they finally reach me. I only eat the best things."
Like a king. Ivan's throat is suddenly dry. He suddenly wishes the water had not turned to ash with the rest of everything else. "And that is...?" The weakness in his voice is not lost on him. Alfred's grin only grow bigger.
"Why the only logical thing of course...The Souls of children."
Life suddenly flushes from the monster's voice, taking on a deep rasping sound. It's sudden a dry, hissing sound as if a serpent has fallen from its rock and begun to slither its way across the dusty, hardened ground of a dead cave.
Alfred then begins to laugh.
And his laugh is dead.
It's hollow and toneless, but reverberates across the room like a drum. It shakes his entire being, causes his bones to crack and creak like an ancient ship.
And it hurts. It hurts to listen. The laugh rips as his ears drums; pulls at the corners of his ears as if its threatening to rip them away. Ivan's heart thunders frightfully as the smoky tendrils of the dead make their way towards him, and curl around his legs and arms to keep him anchored.
"Scared yet, Vanya?"
A private name, a secret name, something always special to Ivan, and yet used so casually by this monster. It hurts even more so than usual. Because the monster doesn't even care about him.
"I'm not going to lie," the monsters shrugs. "I'm not going to spin faerietales for you. I'm not going to hide the truth either. I'm fashioned from the stuff that makes up nightmares – what more do expect from me? Children are my life source. I steal away the children that make themselves known to me. You're not the first, Ivan, and you certainly won't be my last."
Then, Alfred shifts and his bones creak again. A bone in the monster's neck bulges and strains underneath the pale skin before fading away with a crick as he turns his head from side to side. He stutters to a standing position, chirring like an ancient home that borders life and death. When he straightens almost completely – a slight slouch still present in his back – he draws his right hand over his eyes and the black, burnt flesh of the hole in the centre of his hand ripples as if its purring.
The blue eyes blink not once, but twice and dilate to a silm ring of blue.
It's fascinating and yet, utterly disturbing.
"Come meet your fate. Everyone wants you dead."
"Who...What are you?" His voice gains a sudden show of confidence, but his shaking legs give him almost immediately away.
"I'm many things." He answers with a grin. This is a game. This is a very deadly game.
"Tell me."
"Can you handle the truth, Vanya? Let's put it this way. I can be anything you want me to, Ivan."
"Don't play games!" Ivan snaps. "I want answers."
"I thought myself to be the very last." He begins off in a very out-of-sorts voice, as if he's in the middle of a day-dream. "And then you arrived, son of Winter. Oh what cruel irony. I am many things, Ivan. Many things. More than you might ever be able to handle! The devil, the immortal spawn, Thanatos, Alfred, even I have been compared to Chiron!" He takes a step forward and almost stumbles, but catches himself on the table next to him.
Easily, he straightens and laughs again.
"But you know don't you? You know who I am! But yet you refuse to admit it. Your village has told you all about me, haven't they? I am the Pale Man. And Ivan, my precious Ivan, I will devour your soul."
The truth is a slap to the face. Ivan freezes to his spot.
"You're different, Ivan. And that village tried to hide that from me – tried to hide you from me. That village is evil, Ivan."
He begins to step away from the monster, reaching out blindly behind him for some sort of weapon to fend for himself. He finds a golden knife and shoves it in his backpocket, almost nicking himself in the process. Before him, the monster takes a few steps towards him slowly as if the task of walking is immensely difficult. One long pale hand balances him on the table and it twitches with life.
"That village is evil." The monster murmurs more to himself than anyone else. "It is the very essence of deceit and betrayal. They don't even tell the story, do they? Nope, guess not. I guess they skip right to the part of Hey guys, he eats small children for breakfast because he's the bad guy. No explanation necessary. Well? Do you believe them, Ivan?"
Ivan looks down. He won't look at this man. "What does it matter to you?"
"You don't even know the story." He growls. "You automatically assumed me to be the bad guy! You know it too. I'm the bad guy because I eat the souls of small children. Guess what. Guess fuckin' what. I am what you made me! I am a monster because you refuse to see me past that! I'm not even the hero I was acclaimed to me – only the monster that lurks in the depths of a dead cave."
"You're a monster." Is that what you want to hear?
"That I am indeed. I won't lie. Do I look as if I play for the winning side? Oh Ivan. How little you understand."
"I understand everything," He sneers. "You trap small children in here to eat their precious souls! You're nothing but a monster! You're a lion wrapped in sheep's skin."
"Oh Ivan..."
"Don't say my name."
Alfred chuckles.
"You understand nothing. Those village idiots have brainwashed you! Can you be any more blind? They've told you nothing of me. You've heard my screams, haven't you? I've seen it in your eyes. You don't even know the story and yet you judge me! You've heard my screams – are those the screams of a monster?" Alfred demands, his low voice tapering off into a hysterical edge.
"Oh Ivan. Oh Ivan. How doth one kill sleep?"
"I don't know." He answers tersely.
"Exactly. You don't know. You will never know! You're a fool, Ivan! Nothing but a fucking fool!
Alfred creeps closer. "I'm not crazy, Ivan. I'm not crazy! I swear it!"
The stench of death has grown thicker. Once again, that dark feeling felt in that cave starts to descend upon him once more. Ivan only closes his eyes.
"Stay with me," the monsters prompts. "Stay with me and I'll show you the world. I can give everything to you Ivan! I can kill all those men, I can burn down their village! I can make them regret every breath they have ever taken with what they have done to you. Stay with me, son of the damned, and we'll take back Russia from your overbearing father."
"General Winter is not my father."
"You are Russia." Alfred smiles. "And I am no one. You can take back your world from the humans just at the flick of the rest! You can free me!"
"Free? To be free, is all that you wish?"
"I am a free soul. I am meant to be free. But I was tricked. I was tricked by that damn Arthur because he fucked up to begin with! And now, I'm stuck in this decaying body forever."
"I don't care!" And suddenly, he feels every nerve within him alive with anger. It festers inside his body like a fire. He's an endless current. The bloodlust within him has begun to rear its ugly head once more. He tries pushing it away, but it only grins its bloody teeth at Alfred. He's never felt this way before.
And he's not scared.
"You care, Ivan. You care because we're birds of a feather! Man, we're too alike for you to deny it. Don't even try. You are too caring. You are too kind. Oh son of the damned, how do you expect yourself to ever survive?"
"Foul –"
"Or is it that you don't? You don't expect yourself to survive in this cruel world."
"I–"
"I move the stars for no one, Ivan. Best remind yourself of that."
Alfred creeps closer and closer with every passing step. He can smell death rolling off of the man in waves – like an endless, toxic smell that burns his nose his every passing second. Alfred is a monster. He's in a trap and he needs to escape. Alfred is a monster! Why won't his legs move? Why won't he run–
"I love you." Those bony hands suddenly enfold over both his wrists, locking him in place with an iron grip. "I love you. That's what you want to hear, isn't it? I love you, Ivan. I love you–"
The words chill him to the very bone. This creature, this monster stitched together from the fears of small children and lost souls, did not love him.
No one loved him.
The thought stings, but it's truth. It's a reality in which Ivan faced at every waking moment of his miserable life.
"We can be together forever." Alfred whispers, bending down low to reach his pale ear. Stale air tickles his hair. "I can give you everything you've never had!"
This creature, this monstrous fool, is just starved for affection and attention as he is. They were alike – two halves of a broken mirror. They were far too alike and that scared him.
"Stay with me, Ivan. That's all I ask. Love me. Love me! I'll be everything you've ever wanted! Just say the words! Just say 'em and the world will be yours."
"I can't."
His words freeze Alfred. "Who in their right mind would love me?" Ivan asks. "I'm worthless. I am an orphan with no home! I am the accursed son of the General Winter, who treats me with no better respect than anyone else. I am hated, not loved. Hate is all I have ever known. You don't love me."
Alfred falters and Ivan inwardly grins.
He's won. He's won the game! He's fooled this monster in his own tricks! What a fool–
Then, he is screaming.
He is screaming before he even realises it. A burning, aching, horrible feeling thrums in his left wrist. In the mind-numbing echo of pain, he realises Alfred has shattered his wrist like one would a glass doll.
Weak, his mind whispers traitorously. You are nothing but weak.
"Did that hurt?" Alfred's sardonic voice is almost lost in the endless buzzing present in his ears. His right wrist suddenly burns with fire and is still locked in place in Alfred's iron grasp. He's twisting the skin of limb like rope, and the pale skin turns darker and darker with red at every minute.
"Stop it." He grits out. I will make you pay.
"Make me! I've offered you the world – nothing short of nearly the whole universe. Let me love you. Don't you feel the pain? Let me put it all away. I don't want to hurt you."
He can feel the lie festering in Alfred's voice.
He's warm all over though; his pale cheeks he can feel alive with heat.
Through the haze, he can almost see a normalcy in Alfred. Blue eyes, a genuine smile, unruly hair. And of course, the craving for affection.
Burning deep beneath the pale skin endlessly like the core of a sun was Alfred's desire. It's very much like his own though...different. Ivan wants affection, Alfred wants recognition. They want love. They want to be adored – not feared. Two halves of a broken mirror.
Then, his wrist aches and he's reminded of the monster before him. The human in Alfred washes away like a picture drawn in the sand.
"If you loved me, you would let me go."
Alfred's hands drop his immediately. Ivan feels a sudden surge of control.
"If you loved me, you would have never hurt me." Ivan quietly eyes the monster before him, waiting for a reaction. Alfred's shoulders only slump.
"You had to listen." Alfred whispers. "No one listens to me! They see me as a child – especially that damned Arthur! I'm better than him. I'm the hero. He tricked me into taking his place. That fucking bastard. You have to listen to me Ivan! You are special. You are special. Why won't you listen to me? You had to listen to me."
"Why?"
"I can give you the world, Ivan! I can kill them all!"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Ivan, you have to understand. I have to! You're the one! I love you, Ivan. Stay with me. Stay with me forever."
Ivan opens his lips to answer, but then something in his wrist cricks. He braces for the oncoming echo of pain, but it never comes. He looks down to see his left wrist completely smooth and remarkably healed. He flexes his fingers. It feels stronger than before.
"I was right."
Ivan looks up and takes a step back. Alfred smiles madly and claps his scarred hands together. He begins to walk towards Ivan slowly and didn't misstep once. His bones no longer creak. He chuckles and stares down at the boy with eye-less sockets.
"I was right! You're the one! Ivan, you healed. Oh precious Ivan – don't you know what this means?"
Ivan begins to back up. He reaches behind him to securely grasp the knife.
"What are you planning? Why am I of all accursed people so damned special to you?"
"You're mine." Alfred answers simply. "You've been mine from the start! You have to stay with me, Ivan. You've gotta! You've got no choice. Your father sold your soul to me from the beginning. Your precious soul is mine."
"Lies. Those are nothing but lies! I have no father! My soul belongs to no one."
"Indeed it does. Indeed it does indeed. Oh Ivan, now we can have forever you know. We can wait forever."
"No."
"I don't think you understand."
"I understand quite fine."
"Do you? If you had any understanding, you would have realised that you're connected to me. I'm what keeps you alive. You're damned, Ivan. You're as damned as the rest of us. And best part? It doesn't end. You get to stay in this godforsaken cave for the rest of eternity! Welcome to Hell, where the party never fuckin' ends."
He grasps the knife even tighter behind him. "You're lying! You're nothing but a goddamned liar!"
"I only tell the truth and nothing but the truth. What reason would I have for lying?"
"You want my soul," Ivan sneers. "You want my precious life source. You want to boil me down and cook me alive. All you and your damned brethren want to see me suffer."
"Please. Ivan, what would I need to do that for? I already have yours."
"No, you don't. You'll never have it!"
"Too late! You're mine, kiddo. You're mine and mine and forever mine! Oh lovely Ivan, how little you actually understand. You'll understand soon enough."
He narrows his eyes. "What do you mean, you fool?"
"Why, you'll be taking over my spot of course. You'll understand soon enough."
Alfred darts forward suddenly and grabs Ivan roughly by the shoulders. He pulls him closer, slamming his body into his. Stale air ruffles his hair once more as Alfred breathes excitedly into his ear.
"Don't worry, Vanya. I love you. I love you and I will mourn you." How he would so indeed, but how could a being locked, so trapped, within themselves understand the thought of mourning? A false demon stood before Ivan, racked with madness and covered in a thin sheet of humanity.
It sometimes felt as if Ivan is the only human left in the sea of monsters.
Then, Alfred draws back only slightly. Something pink darts out in the corner of Ivan's eye and something wet touches his cheek. It takes only a moment to realise that the thing touching him is Alfred's tongue. He licks a path from the juncture of his ear to his chin, leaving behind a sticky trail of saliva that causes goosebumps to rise on his skin.
"You're delicious." He murmurs at his chin. He's so close, so near. The dark holes of Alfred's face are drawing him like vacuum and he feels compelled to jump in them. They're drawing him closer, pulling him closer to an unforgettable end. Ivan wants to look away, but he can't.
After a moment, Alfred begins his trail to the other-side of Ivan's face. He murmurs in delight when Ivan shutters at the cold air of the cave brushing against his wet face. "Hmmm...! I wonder...I wonder, my precious Vanya. Are you as sweet on the inside as you are on the outside?"
Ivan shutters.
"We're chosen." Alfred begins, his voice eerily floating up and out of the darkness. "We are chosen for our talents, some may presume, but that is a lie. There is nothing special about us. We were ordinary people that lived ordinary lives. But nonetheless, we were chosen."
He wants to talk, he wants to ask questions, he wants to breathe, but he doesn't dare.
"Chosen for what reason you ask? We're all different, you see. Different places, different lives. We lived normal lives for many years before we met our own fates. No one knows how it started really. I kind of want to know so I can punch the guy in the face. The first man was sought out and the curse began."
"Curse?"
"We are cursed, Ivan. We live a cursed existence. I am cursed. You cursed. You're the son of General Winter and I'm the son of a faraway deity. We're chosen by our land."
"The land chooses us. Are you expecting me to believe this?"
"Well, yeah it sound stupid. You're lucky that you didn't get stuck with the one who went on and on about how it's a sacred right of God and blahblahblah look at my expensive clothing blahblahblah and a whole other load of religious bull. The land chooses us – that is as much as I know. Your father chose you and my mother chose me. You're cursed, Ivan."
"Ah, ah, Child of winter, ah, ah."
"We're all cursed. It's a hard life, but in the end we get to live forever."
"You live...forever?" It sounds impossible. It sounds damned.
"At a price. We're immortal now, but we're trapped forever. We must all pay a price to live forever among the chosen ones."
"What is the price?"
"Carry on as the Bane of Man." The creature whispers. "The world cannot live without its fears. Humans must be scared always. The Pale Man does this for us. He scares humans back into their nest and out of the places they don't belong. We are the Pale Man. It is a heavy price, but it's a price needed to be paid.
Alfred sounds closer. A rotting tongue that long lost its pink darts out to his salty cheek.
"Why should I do this?" Ivan demands of the darkness where Alfred lurks like a filthy beast. "What you've described to me sounds quite frankly like Hell."
A hand descends upon his arm.
"Oh it is Hell, Ivan. Waiting and waiting forever for that next one to show up. Eating countless of disgusting children and being locked up for decades within the confines of your own mind! You lose function of your body – your bones become brittle, your skin dries, and you're slowly being devoured by the monster within you."
"I won't do it."
"You have to, Ivan! You have to! It is your duty, you fuckin' fatass. You can't ignore duty simply because you're a spoilt child."
Ivan glares.
"You know nothing of me, Alfred."
"And I'm glad that I don't because you sound like quite an asshole!"
He rips himself away from the creature and bolts off, shoulder clipping the edge of a shrinking hallway. Alfred laughs behind him, sounding always like a broken violin.
And then he hurls the golden knife straight into Alfred's empty eye-socket.
The sound Alfred makes is utterly inhuman – a deep roar that shifts into a rampant rattling that shakes Ivan's very bones. It echoes across the giant room like a siren call. He screams and screams; screaming off what seems to be an ancient tongue. Ivan bolts immediately away from the scene, knowing that death was imminent if he stuck around.
He goes for a door behind Alfred. It's unlocked. He runs through it, slams the door behind him, and hurls himself through the darkness. His lungs ache, his heart pounds away in his chest like an empty drum, and the darkness is closing in on him fast.
And Alfred's screaming turns to laughter far behind him, but he can suddenly feel the cool voice of Alfred whisper in his ear as if he's right there.
"Run, Ivan, run! Enjoy your freedom while you can."
"Ah, ah, Child of winter, ah, ah."
XXXX
The Cave of the Pale Man is an endless puzzle of never-ending turns and deadends. The walls are always changing – always growing, always shrinking. The walls are rough and full of angles, the floors are riddled with holes and loose dirt, and there is no light. It's only slim darkness in this labryinth.
Monsters lurk at every edge. He can feel Alfred at his heels.
"Ivan! Don't you want to know why? Oh Ivan!"
He wants answers, but he isn't willing to die. He doesn't want to die.
"Your father is General Winter. Is that so hard to understand? Is it? God, you've got the worst case, I swear. Quit your bitching and get back here!"
He slips on another patch of loose dirt, but he's able to carefully get up and sprint down another hallway.
"Ivan! Come on! Quit dicking around!"
Ivan slams into a wall, but quickly turns around and heads down another hallways without much thought.
"Ivan, seriously. Stop. No seriously. Stop. I'm getting mad here."
Does this man never give up?
"Oh Ivan. Oh Ivan. How doth one kill sleep?"
"Envy! He says! Oh child give up your weak thoughts."
"I'll tell you everything! Just stop fucking running. Holy fuck I haven't moved for twenty or so years. I will tell you everything if you just stop running."
It isn't worth it. It isn't worth it.
He runs blindly through the corridors, feeling madly for rough edges and light. The darkness swoops down upon him like a bird of prey and he runs, knowing it is the only thing he has left.
"Ah, ah, son of winter, ah, ah."
The Cave of the Pale Man is a relentless place. It'll never let him escape. There's endless twisting corridors that swallow him up with every step. His only choice is to lose Alfred in the confines of the darkness – his only friend for now. He'll never see the light again.
"Death! He says. Oh it is the only way."
And then, Ivan turns another corridor and light, light precious light seeps out from some doorway.
"I wish Alfred would not do this."
An arrogant voice slices through the comforting light and Ivan freezes. His heart beats frightfully in his chest. He sidles across the wall, keeping himself braced to it. The voice is the voice of a grown man; accented with a tone he's never heard before.
"Don't we all?" The next voice is quiet and like a whisper as if it doesn't want to be overheard. Curiously, he peeks his head around the corner and almost falls back in surprise.
He doesn't believe it. He's never seen them, but he knows. He knows who they are.
Standing tall in an elegant room were the two figures. Pale, short and horribly graceful they were. One bore a disturbing accuracy to Alfred and it scares Ivan to even think about it. He is thin, his face is gaunt. The odd curl that strings out from his curtain of silky blond hair limpy hangs in-between his eyes which are a lilac colour.
It's needless to say that he's dressed like a king.
His companion is short as well and appears stern. The lines of his alabaster face are crinkled with disturbance. His eyes are a startlingly green – a beacon compared to the expanse of white that surrounds them. His hair is a sandy blond and above his eyes are two, thick eyebrows.
He's dressed as fancy as his companion, but while his friend's are almost hanging off of him – the man's fit so snug and well that it almost was a sin.
"We can't do anything, Matthew. You know where we stand."
The one named Matthew frowns. "I realise that, but perhaps this is the one! You saw his arm heal!"
"He is just another lost soul, Matthew. He will do nothing for us but slow us down."
"He's the one we want, Arthur. You know it. Or perhaps you don't want my brother back."
"Of course I don't want the git back. Besides, I'm not the one whose place he took."
"He would have never come if it hadn't been for you – don't even try, Arthur. Face your maker."
"Face it, shall I? Fine, fine. However, before we do that – Oh, Matthew, look, we have a guest. You might want to pick a better place to hide, boy."
Ivan stumbles from his place – ready to flee, ready to bolt. "No–"
But Matthew had already begun to fade out; his gaunt face one of utter surprise and joy. Only Arthur stands now.
"You're a lot younger," Arthur casually comments. "I wonder...May I see your wrist?"
Ivan backs away from the man who had begun to move closer. The man scowls and the brows on his forehead twist to meet in an angry black bar.
"Don't be daft. I'm not going to do anything. Unlike him, I'm rather rational and aware of my own strength. Now, come here."
He snatches Ivan's wrist with a surprising gentleness. The man prods and pokes at the pale limb, twisting it this way and that to see as if he could discover where Alfred had snapped it. On his other wrist, the bruises were gone. Soon though, Arthur's breath hitches as he turns the wrist for a last time. He looks down at Ivan and his green eyes are more serious than ever before.
"I can't believe it." He says to Ivan's face, as if Ivan is not there. "I cannot bloody fucking believe it!"
"Believe what?"
"Of all the people...! Of all the people...Oh that fool. Does he know what he's done...?"
"Done what...? What has he done?" He tries to yank his limb away, but Arthur holds fast.
"You need to run. Leave this corridor and take a left and don't stop. Don't ever stop! Don't look behind you either!"
"Why? You're not sending me off like a lamb!"
"He'll get you here. I can't protect you. You've been chosen, Ivan. You're next Ivan. You are his unless you can run for it."
"I am not the one he wants! I am no one!"
"And that's exactly what he needs. Get going now!" He shoves Ivan off in the direction he needed to go.
"Keep going, Ivan! Don't look behind you!" He yells after him as Ivan's body gets smaller in the distance. He watches the little boy sprint down the corridor and watches until he takes a left at the end and falls out of sight.
Arthur smirks, running a hand through his hair. What a fool.
"Such a pity." Arthur mocks. "What a pity. I was honestly expecting him to make it. Oh what a naïve fool."
A hand ghosts his shoulder. Without a word, Arthur points down the corridor Ivan took. Alfred brushes past him silently without a word of thanks. He turns his head slowly to look back at Arthur, the hollows of his face doing little to disturb the other as it had done to so many, before taking off down the same hallway Ivan had taken.
"Run while you still can, son of winter – for the damned wait for no man."
XXXX
The corridor he sprints down is endless.
It does not take him long to discover that he's been tricked.
Too many curves, too many turns. Lefts and rights he'll never remember, patched floors with loose dirt, suddenly smooth walls. He's been tricked into an unending dead end. He'll die here now. He'll die a fool.
He could hear it.
"Ivaaaaaaaan..." The voice calls. "Come to me, Ivaaaaaaaaaan."
He never stops running.
"You're mine, Ivaaaaaaaaan. We can wait together forever, Ivaaaaan."
Forever is too long.
"Get back here!" He grows angry far too soon. "Ivan! Get your fat ass back here!"
Suddenly, Matthew appears. The man lunges for him and he dodges. He aims again for Ivan, but the boy knocks him off and runs off again.
And he keeps running. The thoughts, the dreams, the ideas, the actions. They run wildly in his head.
It hurts to think.
They are all dead.
Alfred is dead.
Ivan is dead
Even Arthur and Matthew – they're dead too.
They are no better than Alfred though. Their ghosts haunt the labyrinth like a bad stench. The two prowl the underground connection of tunnels and corridors with foul pleasure, even though they wish nothing more to be freed. They search endlessly for the one that will take Alfred's place. They are nothing more than Alfred's little spies; set in place only to tell the monster where his victims lie in wait.
He could see them all in the darkness he had run; their transparent faces leering at him from the stony walls of the cave and their mocking faces laughing at his upcoming destruction. They probably had not seen a case like Ivan in a long time. He is an amusement to them; a new upcoming. With him, there would be a new era.
Ivan could not bear the sight of them.
Just like he couldn't bear the sight of himself.
They're all mad. They're all dead. He's the only thing left with a beating heart. Supposedly.
He's cursed too! All by a man he's never met, never seen, only heard with the howling of the winter winds. He's cursed, he's cursed. He's as damned as them all!
Arthur had tricked him, Matthew needed him for his brother's survival, and Alfred is out for his soul.
And Ivan could weep. He could weep for everything at this point. But again they were only ghosts. Only ghosts with a vengeance. They wanted all others who disturbed Alfred from his eternal sleep to be hunted down like dogs – Ivan is not a special case in that sense.
They did not even want Ivan – they wanted his body. They wanted him to become the new Pale Man so Alfred could join the ranks of the chosen. Ivan would not join them. He would be killed and his body used to keep the Bane alive.
Afterwards, Alfred is to eat his soul and it would be complete.
"We'll be together, Ivan! You won't escape me! The damned never do."
He runs for what seems like hours, running into countless walls, brushing against angled walls and tripping over collapsing floors constantly. His lungs burn and he can't open his eyes. The dust seems to have welded them shut.
He wants to collapse, he wants to sit down. He wants to curl into a ball and get his fact straights.
When Alfred's voice grows silent at last, Ivan rounds another set of endless, lapping corridors and collapses against a wall.
Ivan is safe. He is safe for now. He is safe only for a moment, but that was quite fine with him. His body aches in places it never had before. He could jump for joy at the very thought of being safe from that horrible beast is only for a few more seconds.
He closed his eyes. Ivan is safe. He is sa–
Pale arms wrap around his waist and he's shoved back into a hard chest.
He's trapped.
"Death! He repeats. Oh how very wrong he is."
In a moment, Ivan felt the horrible man grin into his ear.
"Now we can wait together forever..."
His screams are never heard.
"Ah, ah, son of winter, ah, ah."
XXXX
With a sigh, Arthur carefully removes the large portrait from the wooden door and sets it down. His joints ache in a way they never have before, but he digresses his mortal pain and picks up the portrait. He nails it to the wall right next to Mattieu's before turning back to place the new one on the wall. He heaves it up there with a grunt and hangs it on the wall, straightening it mindlessly before stepping back to admire his handiwork.
Ivan, tall and regal, sits in the painting before them. He's a grown man now – no longer that boorish little boy that had stumbled his way in here only moments ago, inflicting the Hall with his outside world filth. His eyes are half-closed, a sliver of violet just noticeable among the pale, long lashes of his eyes. His lips are slightly parted and curved sinisterly at the edges. His expression is coy, mocking and dark – a far cry from his original form. He is a King in this portrait. A true monster.
Immortal, inhuman, damned, cursed.
A beast to a king within a day and the loss of soul he never needed were all the ingredients for a damned existence. Cursed in death, we starve for flesh! rings through his head like an echo, but it falls on deaf ears.
Arthur shakes his head and steps away.
And then in a rumbling chorus of exotic voices and accents, a single sentence is shouted out to the ceiling to be heard by no one and everyone.
"Ah, ah, son of winter, only the living dare to dream. Ah, ah."
A.N – Taken down originally because I decided it needed a little more meat. Happy New Years everyone! However, it seems that nothing I do will get this story not to be a ficlet held together by thin strings. I am sorry for the poor quality. I have written this again and again and nothing I do will get it to the degree I want it to be. I am very sorry. You guys are probably sick of seeing this, yeah?