"Incomplete. . . No."

He awoke in the darkness with a sudden gasp that wracked his whole body. Disoriented, it took a few moments for his body to slow its shuddery heaving. His insides felt weak and sick, so he clutched his gut tight with interlocked fists, as if he could press the bad feeling to the very bottom of his body.

When his breaths began to calm, he tried breathing through his nose for the first time and was met with the strong smell of flesh. . . Was that him?

A small moan left his mouth as he slowly lifted his forehead from the cold stone beneath him and drew up onto his knees, wobbling from side to side. Eyes drifting open, he flinched them back shut for a moment, bringing an arm up to block his face and almost toppling over in the process. What was rocking the room? No… no, he had no balance.

Slowly letting his eyes open, he saw small dancing lights around him, one in each direction, each one glowing yellow and close to the ground. His head was still spinning and so he brought his… his hands up to it to try to hold it still.

Hands…

He let out another noise, this one more distressed as he tried to get up and fell straight back down, some of the lights promptly going out. He heard a low cracked hiss from in front of him and raised his head up to try to detect the source.

Squinting and feeling around, he got onto his knees, wobbling and falling onto his back once more. Why couldn't he get up? What kept giving out beneath him? Opening his eyes and looking at his own body to see what on earth was wrong with him, he found two legs. He had legs… and… and arms. He looked at himself for a moment in quiet contemplation, spreading and unspreading his fingers several times. He touched his chest curiously, then put his finger inside a small dip on his tummy with mild amusement. He spread his legs apart clumsily, poking around. Belly-button, hip, knee. He was brand new!

He was wonderful and strong, and his skin was red and glowing. As soon as he made note of that, there was another quiet whimper and the glow died down. The color began to drain out of him and he was hit with another wave of sickness and badness, and he flopped to the floor again, putting another light out.

When he rolled over and sat up once more, looking at himself again, he found that he was a. . . beige color. This... this was new... and wrong.

He should get up and look around. He should prepare. Placing one foot on the ground awkwardly, he slowly pushed himself to an upright kneeling position, crawling forward outside of the circle of glowing white nubs and the red pattern smeared underneath where he'd been sitting.

He stood up on wobbly legs, swaying one way and then the other, but he didn't fall. When he tried to look around and stopped staring at his feet, he promptly fell on his butt, and it took another minute or so for him to pull himself back up. When he did, he held his arms out for balance and looked around.

He was in a room.

Noting this with mild surprise, he noticed stone walls and that he was not alone. Mounds and mounds of them were around him, piled up against the walls, accounting for the wonderful putrid smell. Fresh, very fresh. There were big ones and small; he'd never seen so many in one place. He'd, he'd never seen.

A very very little one hung by its legs, opened up from its belly and still dripping. He held a hand out underneath its small head, letting the wet hair dangle above his palm. . .

Drip, drip, drip.

'Warm,' he thought, almost startling himself with it. He hadn't known… God, he'd never known.

He could move and think and feel. Well, sort of. . . What else could he do?

Looking down at his hands once again and then around the room, he took a few glances back and forth. These things had hands like him. Or rather, he had hands like them.

What are they?

He looked at another one more closely and touched a lock of hair very carefully, then reaching up blindly to his own head. . . nothing. He had no face either; if he did, he'd be able to see it, just as he could see the rest of his body. These things had faces though.

They were very quiet and still. What were they doing here? ... What was he doing here?

'What. . . what am I?'

A weak wispy sound came from in front of him, and it registered as the same as his own shuddery breath. He turned to the noise, growing alert, pupils narrowing, everything inside him quieting down.

There. Movement. He was not alone.

"Master," he found himself saying. He hadn't known he could do that either, the noise almost startling him, but he didn't pay attention to that revelation now because for the first time since he'd awoken, everything seemed to make sense. This was what he was supposed to do with this strong body and simple mind. He was meant to serve.

He got to his feet immediately with no trouble at all and walked forward the few steps, then dropping into a graceful kneel. He lifted the hem of their dress and kissed it, then setting it back down. "Master," he repeated stupidly with eagerness, body tense and at attention.

'Oh…'

It was strewn across the floor, limbs in all directions, one limp hand outstretched towards where he'd woken up. A frail creature, tall but very thin, curved but wasted away. The face was pale and beautiful, one small drop on the left cheek, which rolled down and made a red streak as he watched.

He remained genuflecting, waiting for something to happen, waiting for purpose, for compelling order, but none came – only forced raspy breaths that erratically moved the slender torso splayed in front of him.

A soft navy cloak, the hood over the face, long long brown hair, dark brown eyes. He felt so proud, elated even. Beautiful, they were beautiful.

But, there was one thing. . . The head was cracked right open, and the mess was all over. He looked on blandly at the wall behind, seeing a crack in the stone and a dark stain.

There came another raspy breath and he felt a spike of... of bad along with the sound, unbearable prickling badness in his neck and head. Dismayed by the lack of orders and the bad feeling rather than the sight of crushed skull, he frowned harshly and reached out to touch.

He took both slim shoulders and lifted them up easily, and the head hung back, limp, baring the throat. Frowning and blinking down at them, he lowered them back down slowly, brow creasing. Somewhat disturbed by their silence since he could feel the fluttering heartbeat and the slowing thrum of blood inside of them, he prompted, "Master, I obey," once more.

". . ." A small erratic gasp, a heaving chest, twitching fingers. He reached out and placed a hand on their arm, fiddling around, frowning petulantly. He let his hand nudge against their cheek in a desperate call for attention, and then it became clear.

They weren't warm… They were… they felt like the stone on the ground under his feet.

"No," he whispered, his throat becoming tight, and something inside him quickened and felt sick. "No, wait. . ."

"... hh-"

The cold hand with the slim elegant fingers raised up to his face and ran over his cheek lovingly. He could feel the slight scrape of long nails but found no comfort. Looking back down upon that lovely face, his mouth drew into a ghastly expression of woe, throat constricting further.

"Master, I offer you my blood," he said desperately, holding his wrists forward as if begging them to take him, to take him instead. Not this, please not this.

There was a small smile, so pretty but so sad. "Don't go, please. . . I, I need you. . ." The fingers began to shake, the thumb stroking over his cheek. Another stuttering gasp for air, so so weak. Oh please, not this. Anything but this.

"Who am I? I have to know, please tell me," he begged, for without them, he was nothing and no one. What was this bad feeling building up within him. . . Was this what they called pain? Fear?

. . . Doubt?

Before... before it hadn't mattered that he hadn't known anything. Before, he hadn't felt this bad bad pain, and he hadn't worried, he hadn't worried for himself or anything. He'd been newly created and freshly born just a moment ago. The world had been wonderful and new, unmarred by bias or experience for a few glorious minutes, but now his everything, his reason for being here was slipping away. What would he do? What would he do on his own?

He loved his master. He loved them, they were the most beautiful, the most skilled, the smartest, the best of any to ever exist, and he would throw himself on a sword for them, he'd crawl across the desert, he'd lay down his life. He lived for the sole purpose of carrying out their will. Who was he without them? What... what was he for? What was he meant to do? If they were to leave, he had to know.

His lip quivered as he begged on an unsure and shaky breath, terrified.

"Who... who am I?"

As he moved to hold their hand to his cheek, it fell from his face and hit the stone floor, bouncing once and then moving no more. He stared for a long long time as the eyes unfocused, and then there was horrible silence. There was no heartbeat, no blood rushing, nothing, just an absolute and deafening silence.

With a horrified wail of abject despair, he realized that they were dead. Master was dead. He was dead.

He should be.

He grit his teeth with another quieter cry as tears ran from his squinting eyes. The grief was agony on its own, but apart from that, he felt as though he was being torn apart in a quite literal sense. He clutched himself and stumbled to his feet, burning all over.

He held his neck, rasping uselessly. He needed… oh, he needed something, but what was it?

Scrabbling at his throat for air, he took shuddering gasps, stepping forward once, then once more, finally crashing to his knees. The pain, oh the pain. He needed.

Blinded by tears and searching for comfort, he rubbed his hands around in the blood on the floor until it congealed. No, it was not enough. Then staggering towards a particularly large slain body, he desperately grasped at the largest gaping wound and thrust his hands inside. He grasped at rib cages and nearly severed limbs and ripped and tore and fisted his hands around organs, smearing the blood along the walls and the skin, all with a tense concerned countenance. He tried and tried, but it was not helping. She was gone. Master was dead and he was alone.

He let his hands fall limp to the floor, brokenly grasping at nothing as he stared at them, letting them rest in a sticky heap. He knelt there for a moment, staring and staring, body sinking into an absolute state of shock and uselessness.

Maybe if these people had been alive when he'd woken up, they could've helped him.

Letting his gaze drift to the side, his eyes lingered on a small shoe and foot, a sock that was now brown with dried blood. He gently pulled the little dress down over the skinny speckled legs and stroked them twice, blinking blankly.

He stood up, shaking all over, realizing dully that he was alone. They were here, but they were gone like Master. He was all by his lonesome. He didn't know where he was, and he was alone. He didn't know where he should go, or even if he should go. He didn't know where he was. What he was. Who he was. How he was here.

Nothing made any sense. Nothing was right. What he knew didn't make sense and what he didn't know seemed much more important. If Master were here, he would know then, he'd know what to do, what he was… what he was for.

He hurt, he hurt all over and he needed help, he needed answers. He ached for purpose.

He should not still be here. Master. . . She was gone, and he should not be here. He should be gone with her. He should be with her now. A sob crawled up out of him, a hysterical sad noise that echoed and died. In the ensuing silence, the badness and pain became unbearable, hot and agonizing.

Something began to speed up inside him, and he felt the urge to flee, to flee the hexagram and the candles and the sacrifices and the shrine. He had to run, he had to get out of here and find someone to put out this fire.

Pausing next to Master, he knelt down beside her one more time, staring for a long long time. Then he reached out with a shaking hand, hovering it over her motionless chest. He squatted there frozen for who knows how long. Finally, he gently turned her cloak around and covered her with it, unable to bear the thought of someone else looking upon her lovely cold face. He ran his hand through her long hair, straightening it beneath her before laying her back down. Then he ran, a hand over his face as he tried and failed at muffling a scared sob.

Where was he to go now?

He stumbled and hit himself against the wall several times, still getting the hang of bipedal motion as he wandered down a hallway that kept turning back and forth. He went in circles inside a larger room until he accidentally diverted paths and found himself outside.

There were no walls out here. There was… there was a silver coin in the sky. The air was cold and smelled like moss.

Shaking everywhere and hunching slightly, holding his stomach, he took a few unsure steps away from the doorway. Suddenly he pitched forward with a yelp, tumbling down stone stairs onto the ground, cracking some tiles.

Getting back up and looking around, he saw rows of spears, no… cast-iron gates left ajar, moving in the wind. There were black oily beasts with sharp faces staring at him, screeching at random; bats with quills. All around there was mist above the ground and large trees with large trunks and dry dry wood.

Looking behind him, he put one hand out towards the arch of the door, noticing a large stone box lifted out of the ground next to it. Walking towards it, he saw carvings and put his fingers on the lines, leaving behind red smudges. The wind was quickly drying his wet hands.

These looked like runes, like insignias. He absently brushed his chest, tracing out a pattern that he just. . . couldn't pin down. It felt like they'd been there only a short time ago.

She… She was gone. She was not coming back. He was alone.

He grit his teeth as that pain came back, sharp and hot, and it hurt. He did not like this. He was afraid and alone and in pain, and didn't know where to go, so he just started stomping away, occasionally pushing himself off of tree trunks to change direction.

He needed something. No, he needed to swallow. He was… he was thirsty, that was it.

Falling to his knees, small white insects fluttering away in the tall damp grass, he bent to a scummy puddle and dunked his head in. He found he could not breathe and that it was not quenching the thirst.

No, this was no good.

He got up and coughed and dripped and trudged on through the mire. He tried again at a crumbling old well almost covered by brambles, and again at a pond, even from mud, and by then he was almost running, gasping for breath.

He didn't know what he was, but some part of him inherently knew that he had never been meant to hurt, or be afraid, or doubt anything he did, and yet here he was, being consumed, all because his master was gone and he had no one to be brave and strong and obedient for. He was being punished for letting Master die, and he was going to keep burning and burning until he atoned for his sins. He needed help, he needed someone to stop this.

He was desperate.

When he saw a light up in the distance, he shied away slightly but then found he did not care for the consequences and headed towards it. Someone had lit that light, and if he went there, then he wouldn't be alone. The woods around him seemed to howl and tear at itself as he ran and ran. He collapsed at the doorstep of a cabin and slumped against it, too tired to even knock, using the impact of his fall to alert whoever was inside that he was here.

He hurt so badly. Oh, he hurt, but not from any of the scratches or falls he'd had. He didn't even feel those at all. The pain of being torn in half, as though his heart was missing a chunk and the nerves were being twinged with each pulsation – that was too much to let him pay attention to anything else.

Humans though, humans were inherently good, weren't they? That is why their blood was used to balance out demon's blood, which was inherently evil. A human would help him. A human lived here surely, and if they came out here, they would help him.

"Let me in," he called weakly, his fist hitting the wood and sliding down. Not long after, he could hear footsteps, and he struggled to get up, to kneel and bow his head for when they opened the door.

The door opened, and he could see feet. However, the door slammed nearly shut again, almost immediately, and he looked up in surprise at the harsh noise. There was only enough space to let one eye peek out to stare at him. "Help," he gasped, reaching for the gap, wanting to come inside.

There was a vicious hiss then, "What happened to your clothes? Why are you naked?" That word meant nothing to him and he didn't know how to answer. . . Should he have clothing?... He looked at himself for a moment, and then, suddenly self-aware, covered himself with his hands.

There was a quiet moment, and then the eye seemed to become less harsh, but still untrusting. "Was it cultists?"

"What? No." He shook his head, finding it hard to find words. "Help me," he begged, reaching out to them in a prayer gesture. They merely recoiled, closing the door to a mere crack with a noise of disgust.

"Oh, uhk- you're…" There was clear revulsion in that voice, which he accepted mildly, keeping his head humbly to the ground. "What are you doing here? Who are you?"

"I… I don't know." He pleaded for help then, begging and begging. The door opened slightly wider, revealing that there was no light within the house. He had no idea why he thought he'd seen a light in the window earlier. It was completely dark, and all he could see was the slight glint of that silver coin reflecting off the eyes of this person. . . bright intense eyes.

He stared, mouth hanging open for a moment, and then reached out to them again like he hoped they would pick him up.

"I have no time for this," they snarled cruelly, pushing him over with their foot. Forever disoriented, even the small nudge sent him rolling onto his back in the dirt. "Leave now. You are not welcome here." He shrunk in on himself, discouraged, but not willing to give up. He had no one and nothing in this plane of existence.

"Don't force me to resort to violence," came the high and authoritative threat, as if they clearly saw that he would not be turned away easily. "That wouldn't be good for either of us."

"Please, I… I am lost," he tried to explain, but how could he explain something he didn't understand himself? He tried to say that he didn't know where to go or what to do, but he was having a very hard time speaking, struggling over his words.

"Be gone," they hissed harshly. "Get back to who you belong to. I don't need them coming after me."

"No one will come! I promise!" he cried, huffing a dry sob, "Please, oh please!" He looked into their face for compassion, for desire he could fulfill, but found none. They seemed to find something on his face that was satisfactory however, because the door opened then.

Tall and blade thin, lithe and dangerous seeming, they stood there with their arms crossed, staring down at him. He bowed hurriedly, forehead on the ground, letting his fingers brush the toes of their boots. He was kicked off with a disgusted noise.

He clasped his hands and raised them slightly in hope.

There was a long moment of silence that was then broken by a distant howling.

"Very well," they said, throwing one arm to the side to gesture him into the house. "Enter." He looked up in surprise to them, still unable to see their face. "Well? Get in!" they snapped, jabbing him in the side with their foot.

He stumbled to his feet and got himself inside onto the floor, which he stepped over very carefully, as if it would break under him at any moment. It felt like slats under his soles, and they creaked each time he moved.

As he stepped past the threshold, he heard a sudden rustle and turned towards his kind, kind savior-human. They had stiffened up and were standing absolutely still. Their eyes were glowing somewhat in the dark, locked directly onto him, wide as they could go. They put a hand over their mouth and nose and stared at him, seeming horrified and frozen.

He just stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists nervously, then continued looking around, taking another few cautious steps around the room. "It's dark," he noted.

They didn't move other than throwing one arm out to shut the door and then do the latch. Only then did they move towards the far wall and make a light. He watched with amazement as the whole room flickered with an orange glow.

Simple furniture, knickknacks, a column in the wall with square red stones, boards for the floor, a plain door set in the corner of the back wall - it was a small cabin.

They turned back to him and then he could see it was a young man with dark hair. He was being stared at voraciously, and they kept rubbing at their nose quite roughly. Their face was so smooth and youthful, just like hers. No one was more beautiful than she was, of course, but she was gone, and this man was here.

He took a step closer, reaching a hand out, perhaps compulsively trying to touch them, but the man held up a hand sharply to halt him. "Stay right there." He stopped in his tracks, holding absolutely still, not even bringing his arm back down. He didn't even breathe.

The young man ran a hand through his hair and then covered his mouth and nose again with his fingers, staring at him contemplatively for a long long time. "Turn around," he said then. "Look at the mirror." He obeyed and breathed again, turning around towards the mirror, a full-length that was leaned against a wall.

"Oh," he said softly, it taking a moment to register that he was looking at himself, not fully capable of that level of self-awareness. "It's red." He looked at himself in the glass for a long time. "I'm red," he corrected himself. He began smiling at his reflection and looked down at his arms.

"You are drenched in the stuff."

"Oh," he repeated, face falling in disappointment. Things were not all right again. She was dead. He would never be truly red again… Not without her.

"What happened?"

"I tried to…" He paused then, shaking his head. He didn't remember. "I don't know."

The man let the matter drop then, still staring at him with a piercing gaze - not at his face though; further down. He looked down at his belly to try to see what the man was looking at, confused. Becoming distracted, he touched his bellybutton again, humming. He had the feeling that it wasn't supposed to be there.

There came another noise of disgust, causing him to look up.

"You're going to wash and put on clothes, and then you're going to leave," the man said, walking past him with his hand tightly clamped on his face. "You hear me? You're going to go away from here and not come back. Yes?"

"Yes," he parroted obediently, just standing there, still slightly hunched, knees a little bent. He still didn't know if he liked this body. His throat still hurt and he was still scared, but it wasn't hurting as badly now and he felt much safer.

He looked back at the mirror curiously and brought a red hand up to his head, pleased to see the mirror-man do the same. Oh, look, he had a face after all. Just look at him. . . He smiled at himself, showing his teeth. He slowly explored, grunting occasionally, clumsily feeling and playing with his ears, then looking at his eyes.

'Red. . .'

He raised two fingers and went to poke the red spots, and then startled himself, screwing his eyes shut at the sudden jab. Blinking rapidly, he grunted again, losing interest and then going on to pinch his nose and bend it to each side. He then opened his mouth on reflex when he could not breathe.

"Oh Akarat, deliver me," came a low irritated grumble, drawing his attention away from the glass. He found that the man was looking at him still, and as he turned towards him, they gave a twisted sneer.

"Gods, you're horrendous," the man griped as he dragged a wooden barrel towards the middle of the room and then started another few lights along the wall. Then he pumped water into the barrel. "I can't even look at you. You're hurting my eyes."

Glancing back to the mirror questioningly once and then thinking over the words, he slowly looked down at his hand and then back to the man. Then he raised his hands to cover his own eyes, his sticky red palms blocking out the light. He could hear the man pause in what he was doing.

"Wh-" came the exasperated breath, "I can still see you, you fool. Why would doing that help?" He then peeked out from between his fingers slightly, frowning a little.

"Stupid lummox," the man muttered, and he felt something inside him hurt. He felt… smaller.

He watched as the man wandered over to a chest and open a drawer, laying some clothes out on a table and then wrapping an extra shirt around his own face and tying it there. His big eyes were free and staring at him again with contempt, the rest of his face covered up. With only the eyes there, it occurred to him that the gaze was hateful.

This… this human didn't like him. They were unhappy that he was here. The sudden realization was unsettling. He was. . . he was horrendous? How did he stop?

"Well? Get in."

He started slightly, blinking and seeing that the man was holding his hand towards the barrel, which was really more of a wooden bucket big enough to get inside of. He stepped over to it and stared at it for a moment, and then tried lifting his leg, almost falling right over.

"Are you mad? Get in! Stop flopping about!" He tried again, not self-aware enough to be embarrassed by his helplessness, but displeased that he should fail. He tried once more, but to the same result. "Rrgh, why do I have to-" With a huff, the man took a grip around his back, snaking an arm under both of his and holding him steady as he got in. Then he lowered him down, rolling his eyes.

He sat in the water, looking up and waiting for further instructions.

"Oh, you are hopeless. Like a useless delayed child," the man muttered, grumbling and grabbing something off a shelf and coming towards him, glaring.

He was rubbed roughly with a lump that felt like wax, and then he jolted and gasped like a fish when a bowl of water was scooped up and dumped over his head. "Be still," the man snapped, so he just coughed with his mouth closed and sat there passively.

He flinched a little as he was touched, but found that… it was pleasant. He was being scrubbed and scrubbed, splashed and splashed, and the red was indeed coming off. The more he was touched and moved around, the less loathsome he felt. Perhaps he had never felt nice before if this was such a new sensation, but this touch was nice and good and he supposed he liked it, even if his red was going away. "You filthy disgusting horrid thing," the man spat abusively, and he didn't say anything in reply.

There was a wet cloth in there now that the man was using to clean him. It was being put on his face and wiped around, water trickling into his eyes and nose. He snorted a couple times, but didn't move to rub it out of his eyes, holding still for the man. The scrubbing at the corners of his eyes was very rough, nearly grinding the skin away, but he stayed still, expression very mild. The movements slowed suddenly, the wiping becoming tender, and there was a quiet moment when he found that their eyes were meeting and holding there, big beautiful eyes, open and free, seeming thoughtful.

". . . Violet," he said stupidly, ending the silent moment, whatever it had been.

"Oh!" came the mortified gasp, "You are just awful!" the man shrieked in offense, boxing his ear, but he just let him and didn't respond, blankly staring where those eyes had been a moment before, replaying the way they had gone wide and then enraged. "Don't say another word," the man hissed.

He didn't, allowing the man to keep scrubbing him. He offered one leg and then the other for inspection. There were continuous comments about how he was bloody and muddy and ugly and horrible, but he didn't say anything, the words going in one ear and out the other. They didn't mean much to him. What was anything when you didn't know who you were?

What he did know was that his throat still hurt. He'd taken several bad falls and he could see areas of damage on his body, but he didn't even feel them, though from the looks of it, he should. He hadn't felt that blow to the head just now, he hadn't felt the way his skin had been rubbed raw by that towel. He felt no pain there whatsoever. The only thing that hurt was his throat. He was still so thirsty.

He absently leaned forward and put his chin and mouth into the murky pink-grey water and took a big gulp, and oh, it… it was…

It was actually soothing.

He looked down at it for no more than a moment before he took a big scoop of the water in his hands and drank and drank, slurping it into his mouth and swallowing, tasting sweet relief.

"Stop that!" the man snapped, smacking him right on the mouth, and he let his hands drop into the water with a plop, startled, just staring forward in surprise for a moment. Then he ducked his head slightly, perhaps in shame, not moving anymore unless he was told to lift his arms or stand or turn around.

"Put some strength in your legs, you heavy beast," the man ordered, hooking his hands under his slick armpits and hefting him to a standing position. Water ran off his body in rivulets as the man shook him a few times. "One foot out. Yes. The other now."

He stood on the floor, dripping, and found that his body was shaking, shaking, shaking hard. What was this? It was not quite a burning feeling, but it was intense, making his skin prickle. It felt like the stone floor from that room. It was... oh, he didn't like it.

"Stay right there, don't move," the man said, and he stopped shaking and stood still. He watched as the man slowly dragged the barrel towards the door and then outside, dumping it some ways away in the darkness and then leaving it out there. He came back inside and locked the door again, coming back over to him.

"Put these on now and leave, and do not come back," the man said nastily, taking the shirt off from around his face. Suddenly, his eyes softened somewhat and he took a long refreshing breath. "Do you need me to show you how? I'll help you."

He nodded a little and stood there awkwardly and let the man dry him and then move his body into the clothes. They didn't feel good on his skin. He felt like he was in a cage. He felt like he had to... to hide himself. He felt embarrassed; he didn't want to be looked at like this.

"I don't like them," he said bluntly.

"I don't care," the man replied, raising his eyebrows. "You nasty things ought to wear clothes. It's cruel to make you all wander around without them, although I suppose it's impractical."

He frowned.

"I'll give you some directions so you can find your way back to your home, how's that?" the man said, "But you must go. You cannot stay. I'm sorry."

"Please, I will repay," he promised, struggling on his words, speaking very sluggishly, "I will repay your kindness. I can please stay here, I will repay."

"You cannot stay," the man repeated, "I'm very sorry. . ." He sighed then, looking down for a moment and then up again. "What a face you have."

He blinked and looked back at him for a moment. Then he watched as the man walked towards the door and opened it, pointing him out. "You must go."

"I-"

They both fell silent as they heard trudging footsteps. Suddenly a dark shape was in the doorway and he stumbled back, staring uncertainly between the two men. "You lit candles," a new voice noted, and a handsome man took off his hood and closed the door behind him.

"Hello," he was greeted, and then the newcomer turned to the first man and said suspiciously, "You hate visitors."

"I do," was the short reply, and pointed eyes were sent in the new man's direction.

He just watched silently, wringing his hands. Suddenly, the man who'd just told him he had to leave took his shoulder and brought him to the table and sat him down, patting his shoulder, telling him he'd fix a meal.

The newcomer had dark hair too, but it wasn't straight and smooth like the first man's. It was spiky. He had claw marks on his cheeks and kept staring at him, his gaze growing more and more shrewd. "What were you doing out so late that you caught his attention, eh?"

"I was lost," he replied, sitting awkwardly in the chair, not letting his back touch it, poised as if he was ready to get up at any moment. He felt like he was perpetually waiting for something, perhaps still hoping that she would be there to tell him what to do – and he would be ready to get up and heed her command.

"And your name? Where do you hail?"

"I… ah," he stuttered, stuck, not knowing what to say. The first man intervened then, and he noticed that there was a size difference between the two. Not much, but it was there. The second man was thin as well, but taller and with broader shoulders and stronger arms. Even so, the smaller of the two seemed in charge.

"Shuuhei, you leave him be," was snapped as he rummaged around for plates. "I don't want to hear a word from you about this."

Whatever this Shuuhei seemed to have thought he'd seen had been confirmed by that statement, and he was outraged. "I thought it couldn't be true, but it is! What kind of disgusting sick filth is going through people's minds these days?"

"I know not."

"What on earth was going through your head, bringing it here?"

"I didn't bring him here. He appeared on the doorstep."

"And you didn't send it away?"

"He would not leave."

"And you let it in? Do you have a death wish?"

"Perhaps."

There was a lapse of silence after that, in which the two dark-haired men just stared at each other, each issuing a different type of challenge with their glare.

He just remained quiet at the table, not contributing, perhaps out of fear that they would turn on him rather than continue fighting about him. No. . . no, he was not afraid. Perhaps he just felt no motivation to do anything other than sit here and wait for a command. What reason did he have to be afraid, anyways?

With a long-suffering sigh, the newcomer groaned and tugged on his hair. "Of all the animals you've brought in, this by far is the worst," the man fretted, pacing wildly and glaring at him like he was something disgusting. He stared back, unblinking. The smaller man ignored them both for the most part, pouring wine into a glass and then drinking straight from the bottle, still rummaging and fixing some sort of meal.

"I don't care for your opinion on the matter. I'll do what I please." He took another gulp of wine. "You know better than most that I don't have to answer to the likes of you."

With a harrowed sigh, the scarred man dragged a gloved hand through his hair. "Well and good, but they're going to come for it, you know. What will you do then?"

"Kill them." The reply to that was a groan, which was staunchly ignored. "Then I'll be rid of them both in one fell swoop, and you will have to spend your nights with me again. Three birds and one stone. More of a boulder, really."

"And if they don't come? What, you're going to feed it?" was practically spat, "Forever? You can't live like that!" At that, a hysterical sounding laugh rose in the man's throat as he fisted a hand in his spiky hair, tugging on it.

"Maybe I will." The first man was dangerously and deceptively calm, which seemed to throw the other even further into irritation.

"Feeding it will just make things worse! You've even put clothes on it; it's a total waste, I tell you. It'll just cast them off once it goes back to where it belongs. This is a hopeless kindness. I don't know what you intend to accomplish other than assisted suicide."

The smaller man remained silent at that.

The scarred man sighed again, seeming more sympathetic and exhausted than before. "What did I tell you about taking in animals you don't intend to keep?"

The man turned then, slamming his hands down on the table, violet eyes glaring into that of the other man, who, from the sounds of it, seemed to live here too. "Speaking of animals, you smell like dog."

". . ." Shuuhei seemed uncomfortable then, and had no words to defend himself with. "Yumichika, come now..." he tried to apologize, reaching a hand out for his companion, but this Yumichika that had scrubbed him in the tub and given him clothing just smacked Shuuhei's arm off course and leaned further across the table.

He bared his teeth challengingly and hissed, "Get out of my sight," glaring at him dead on until he backed down. Shuuhei sighed, let his hand drop, and went into the other room, closing the door.

Yumichika seemed to slump then, collapsing in the chair opposite his visitor and putting his head on the table, arms around it. He simply watched, brow then crinkling slightly in concern when he heard a sniff. He'd made that sound too when she had died. 'Sadness,' he noted, blinking in surprise.

Should… should he…

He looked at his wrists and held them out unthinkingly, but there was no response for a long long moment. Yumichika didn't even lift his head to acknowledge his offering, so he retracted his arms and let them lay in his lap, not knowing what he'd been doing.

Finally Yumichika looked up, wiped his face once, and then got to his feet, continuing with what he'd been doing. His voice betrayed nothing, steady and cold as ever. "I apologize for the lack of decorum in this house… It's all to do with that wretched coven he's joined. It's no wonder he doesn't like to see something such as yourself here. You've put him at malcontent."

"He does not like me," he noted somewhat thoughtfully. Yumichika turned to him and rolled his eyes, seemingly with it being meant for Shuuhei. It became clear then that Yumichika was allowing him to stay, and it was out of pure spite for this Shuuhei person.

"You pay him no mind."

"He wants I should leave," he went on, paying it mind. He did not want that Yumichika should be unhappy. He did not know for what reason, but he held that desire that he should please Yumichika and ensure that he was not unhappy.

"He wants you should die," Yumichika said bluntly.

"I should," he said, tone ghastly. He dug his nails into the tabletop.

"Pay him no mind," Yumichika repeated firmly, putting a plate down in front of him. His fingers relaxed from the wood as he merely stared at the plate for a moment, then looking up to Yumichika's face.

Yumichika sat down across from him and poured himself another glass of wine, sipping and staring at him for a bit longer. "Well?" he prompted, "Are you going to eat?"

He looked down at the plate and the hunk of meat on it, not quite understanding, taking a moment to process it all.

"I ran out of wood before it was fully cooked, but it should be fine for you. Will you eat?" He was silent for a moment more, and Yumichika prompted him again to fill the quiet. "You do not have to, but I'd like you should try it at least. Go on and try it."

With that, he picked up a piece of it in his hands and raised it to his mouth. He looked to Yumichika for some sort of reassuring sign, but found nothing. He took a large bite, moisture gushing through his mouth as he dug his teeth in and tore a hunk off, then wolfing it down without hardly chewing.

Deciding it was satisfactory and even pleasurable, he began gorging himself. Forgetting all else other than feeding, he used both hands to pick up meat and bring it to his mouth, cramming his cheeks full and nearly choking himself as he gulped the food down. As he did so, he made several unsavory noises and then sucked the red juice from the plate with relish. All throughout, Yumichika sat across from him with his fingertips together, smile growing wider and wider.

He set his plate down slowly then, his mental faculties returning at a slow pace as the haze of eating died away. The burn in his throat was all but gone, and if he didn't know better, he. . . Something felt different inside. There was just a shadow of understanding, just a small glimmer amongst the nothingness and purposelessness he felt within.

"Ikkaku," he suddenly said, the word coming out as uncontrollably as if he'd just vomited. He actually brought a hand up to feel his mouth, as if he could feel what had let that slip out. . .

What... What did that word mean?... It... It was on the tip of his tongue.

"What?" Yumichika replied, brow creasing in subdued alarm. It happened again. The answer just came out without any thought in response to the question.

"I am Ikkaku," Ikkaku said earnestly, and after the words came out, he'd never been more sure of anything.

Yumichika folded his hands then, setting them on the table, giving him an appraising look. "You have a name. How quaint." He appeared amused then, smirking slightly with an eyebrow raised. "Seems a waste of time, doesn't it? Who gave you that name?"

"Ah…" He thought for a moment, feeling somewhat dazed as he tried to recall why he was so sure that he was who he was now. Before, he'd been trapped in fog, unsure of his purpose, unsure of anything. He still didn't know where or who he was, but he was sure of his name. The only place he assumed it could've come from was his master, but she'd never spoken to him. She'd died before saying a single word to him.

So where had the name come from? She hadn't given it to him, had she.

Ikkaku blinked several more times, staring, his mouth and jaw still wet from his messy eating. "Well?" Roused, he looked up to Yumichika, still feeling somewhat dazed.

"Thank you for the meal," he said, suddenly feeling the ghost of compulsion within him, just a small whisper telling him what he was meant to be doing. He stood up from his chair and then bowed to Yumichika on one knee. "What would you have me do?"

He knelt there for a long long time with his head down. He didn't know what he'd expected to happen, but nothing was happening. He didn't feel fulfilled at all, and the longer Yumichika remained silent, the more lost he felt.

Finally he looked up, despairing somewhat, expression wretched. He felt compelled to cry out 'tell me what to do!' but nothing made it past his lips as his eyes searched Yumichika's expression.

Yumichika was giving him a spooked look, having gotten to his feet, standing in front of him in a stance that looked as though he were ready to flee. His purple eyes were searching him just as closely, his lips pressed together and his cheeks having gone pale. Dark hair spilled forward from where it had been curled behind one ear, adding to his haunted appearance. Finally he said slowly, as if the answer was imperative but also terrifying, "Just where does your allegiance lie?"

Ikkaku's mouth hung open as he looked up at Yumichika's face, hands dangling uselessly as his shoulders slumped. He… he didn't know what to say, or what to do… he just didn't know. He didn't know the answer, and... it wasn't coming out like those other responses had. What a question to ask, anyhow. How was he meant to answer a question such as that?

Yumichika seemed to take his silence as a sign that he had no answers and let the matter drop, crossing his arms. "I see. . ." He relaxed somewhat then. "We'll talk later. You've had a hellish day."

Then he walked past him and left Ikkaku kneeling there on the floor. He stared at the wall for a few moments in blank surprise before finding the strength to get up without an order. Standing there somewhat uselessly, not knowing what to do with himself, he watched as Yumichika pulled clothes and fur onto the floor and arranged it into what looked like… a nest.

"You may rest here," Yumichika finally said, going back for his wine and taking another long drag, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "In the morning, you're going to go back to where you came from."

Ikkaku was silent for a moment. Back to that room with the corpses? He didn't want to go there again. There was nothing there for him. No, he should stay here, here with Yumichika. Yumichika could tell him what to do. Yumichika could take care of him until he understood what to do with himself, until he realized what his purpose was among the humans.

He… he found he liked this one. He was bigger than Yumichika, and Yumichika wasn't very nice to him and didn't seem to like him much, but Ikkaku didn't want to leave. Yumichika was authoritative, and Ikkaku's needy soul desired that guidance, feeling that it gave him strength back.

He looked at Yumichika carefully for a long time as he came back and stood next to the table and tapped his foot. Yumichika then sat down again to rest and sipped his wine.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Yumichika pondered, gazing at him contemplatively. Ikkaku shook his head, clenching and unclenching his fists, still staring back mildly, taking in the whole of Yumichika's being for what it was. "Why not?"

"'Don't say another word,' you told me. I obey," Ikkaku repeated, the words just coming out with no thought once again. Yumichika looked uncomfortable then, but only just.

"Yes, but then how is it you've been replying to me since then?"

"Because I will not ignore a question," Ikkaku said somewhat curiously, wondering where these responses were even coming from. It wasn't as though he'd planned them, but they were coming out. Before, anything that had come from his mouth had sounded stupid and boorish, simple short sentences or single words that he'd have to truly think about for some time, but these were clearly enunciated replies that were escaping without conscious thought.

"But other than that, you're not going to speak?"

". . . No."

"But I'd like to know what you think." Ikkaku was silent. Yumichika tried again. "I'd rather you speak, Ikkaku. Speak to me. . ." Ikkaku stared, lips parting at the sound of his name. Yumichika urged him once more, "Will you speak?"

"Yes," he acknowledged. Yumichika seemed satisfied with that and leaned his elbows on the table. Ikkaku remained standing there, watching him.

The little flickering lights were dancing upon Yumichika's face, and Ikkaku found he could not stop looking at him. His hair was dark and his eyes were such a rare color, that of which he'd never seen. Such an elegant slender body, and his voice, so smooth.

Ikkaku kept looking at his face, his head tilting to the side in wonder. "You're beautiful," he found himself saying, making the observation very simply and honestly.

Yumichika blinked, face going slack for a moment, but then he smiled, hands laced under his chin. "Hmm," he laughed, smiling as if he thought he was an adorable child, his eyes hooded.

The door in the corner, having opened a moment before, was sharply kicked ajar. Ikkaku turned his head at the noise, seeing Shuuhei standing there in the doorway, holding an axe, shaking. He looked angry, and was glaring at… at him.

He looked quite menacing, but Ikkaku simply stared at him blandly, noting that the man appeared violent.

"Shuuhei," Yumichika said warningly, but Shuuhei simply snarled, staring Ikkaku down.

"You dare," he growled, stepping forward, snapping the axe against the doorframe sharply and letting it stay stuck there, shaking the house's foundation. Yumichika jumped; Ikkaku did not. "You dare to… to-" His face was pink and furious. Ikkaku just looked at him. "You don't deserve to kiss his feet, let alone be so bold as to- . . . If you even think of touching him, I'll-"

Yumichika cut in then, "Shuuhei, really. I doubt that was his intent."

Shuuhei turned on him then. "Really, Yumichika. You're just gonna' let it talk to you like that? You'll let it think it's okay to address you directly and make advances? It's probably some sick message from whoever sent it here!"

"These things don't work that way and you know it," he replied, completely calm.

"I don't care, this is perverse, and you're mad if you think that- that it's charming or something for it to lust after you!" Shuuhei spat, then rounding on Ikkaku again.

"And you, you're gonna' catch hell, you sick thing, makin' eyes at him like you're on equal standing." Shuuhei strode over and cuffed Ikkaku upside the head, knocking it to the side. Ikkaku just looked at him once his brain stopped rattling around, not really feeling the blow or any desire to retaliate or shrink back. He just watched on almost curiously, as if he were an outside observer.

"If I see you looking at him again, I'm gonna' castrate you," Shuuhei hissed, yanking on his ear, looking truly menacing. Ikkaku blinked, eyes drifting towards Yumichika. Shuuhei grabbed his chin and dragged it towards him to make him look at him. "Do you understand me? I'll cut your balls off like an animal and send you away without them. See how happy whoever you serve is when they see that."

"Hisagi Shuuhei, that's enough," Yumichika said delicately, but with an undertone of violence. "You know well not to cause him harm. Let not a single drop of his blood be spilt."

Shuuhei looked at him for a moment, exasperated and enraged, "But-!" Yumichika's glare hardened, and it became clear to Ikkaku who the alpha was around here. The air was charged with it. Shuuhei swallowed and hunched his shoulders, backing down, giving Ikkaku one last shove as he released him. Ikkaku flopped onto the table, unbalanced, struggling to sit up straight again, still not saying a word. Yumichika and Shuuhei continued to stare each other down, the tension palpable, but it was clear who had won.

"Aye," Hisagi grit out, lurching forward and grabbing the plate Yumichika had made for him and then going to bed after he yanked the axe out of the doorframe and closed the door.

"You just pay him no mind," Yumichika said quietly, looking ten years older for a moment. "Don't be frightened."

Ikkaku nodded balefully. He wasn't. It occurred to him then that he should've been with that man in his face like a mad dog, but the reaction was delayed. Even being hit in the head, he hadn't felt a thing. He'd just known that Yumichika had let him stay and that this was where he was supposed to be, and no pain could reach him, nothing could strike fear into his heart of hearts. For today at least, he was sure that he was meant to be here, and there was nothing that could make him doubt that.

Yumichika put him in the bed on the floor and laid the covers on top of him. Ikkaku just stared up at him, not moving, watching him.

"Sleep now," Yumichika said softly. Ikkaku lay there for a while, blinking. "What, you can't sleep? Close your eyes." Ikkaku closed his eyes.

After what seemed like forever, Ikkaku spoke tentatively, "For how long?"

"Until morning. Until you fall asleep." Ikkaku didn't respond, closing his eyes again. Yumichika let out a little sigh and seemed to stand up and walk around him. Ikkaku heard a door open and opened his eyes to observe the noise, wanting to know where Yumichika was going.

Shuuhei was there in the doorway again, bare-chested, seeming to have been pacified from his earlier rage. Yumichika came towards him to pass by. "I don't like it," Shuuhei muttered, glancing towards Ikkaku a few times where he rested on the floor. Yumichika did not reply.

Then he sighed, chin dipping down slightly towards the smaller man. "My Yumichika, ever the bleeding heart," he said lowly with a bittersweet smile. Shuuhei then reached out for him as Yumichika attempted to pass by into the other room, clearly meaning to embrace him, but Yumichika just said 'don't touch me, please,' ever so quietly.

Ikkaku watched as Shuuhei's hands lingered in the air and then fell, his expression saddening as Yumichika walked by him without another glance. Shuuhei looked to him once and then frowned, shutting the door and leaving him in darkness.

He heard a creak in the other room and then stillness other than a far off howl. Then he closed his eyes and didn't open them again for a long long time.

We commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust.