Alternate ending for all my fellow 'darren-lovers' out there. Now, if I were you, I would not take that statement at face value. I've made a few changes to this story recently, made it a bit more interesting to read. Hope these changes are for the better.

Spoilers: No official spoilers, but I would recommend that you finish book 9 before you read this. This is all speculation and while it is not straightforward in its spoilers, I assure you, hints of them do exist.

Oh, how the mighty will fall.

Darkness lurks in the corners of the darkly lit cellar room; it cradles the crumpled figure in shadow like a surrogate child, unaware that it's clutching hands are much less of a comfort than a curse, and there is no room for daylight to reach him. The only light perceptible – the only thing that keeps the prisoner from knowing that he is already dead, tossed into the abyss that death will be – is the raw flickering of a fireplace slipping through the cracks in the wooden trapdoor above him. The warmth it might have brought is gone before it can reach the icy cellar floor, or the broken body sprawled across it.

Exhausted, bruised, and shattered, but boy is still very much alive.

He curses the vampire gods for this fate, because no one deserves as much.

His breath comes in shallow, quick spasms even in his trance (although the soreness of his chest is less an inspiration than the sickening fumes from his own waste eating at his lungs), and as he sleeps the tension in his body is clear, muscles lumping and deteriorating without relief or use for days; to Him, Darren is nothing more than a calf being softened to better the veal.

Beside him, a small mercy lurks – his hands are wrapped tightly in the cloth of a coarse red cloak, knuckles white with the effort – that is provided not out of benevolence so much as sadism. His dreams – if they can be called as much, and not simple hallucinations – are no more than memories that twist and distend into nightmares. As one of vivid visions begins, the torpid child shifts his weight (carefully because he is so well aware of the lacerations and bruises scattered across his skin) and manages to press his weight too heavily on an abused hip, pressing out a line of dull, watery scarlet fire. The pain pushes him to the brink of awareness, and finally he is forced to move. Slowly he rises, teeth gritted and eyes wet with protest.

These injuries are all gifts from the vampaneze who love him so well; those privileged few lucky enough to catch him on his way to their lord's chamber. At first their wrathful ministrations had been terrible, the agony unbearable, but eventually the pinches and punches faded into the background and, he remembers, the hazy darkness at the periphery of his vision that had pulled him in and held him close. The fallen prince was still able feel the suffocating sensation as he was dragged down the halls, to stubborn to comply with his enemies but too insipid to resist. And he had woken up here, where peace and light and security were only vaguely pleasant memories that had already become too faded to be comforting.

He raises himself to a semi-dignified crouch, still tightly tangled in the fabric of the cloak for its remaining vestiges of warmth and comfort. The man who wore it is dead now, (he is not sure for how long; hours? Days? Weeks? There is no means of keeping time beneath the floorboards, with only the dancing of distant flames for company) his body left charred and smoking in the depths of the sewers. The burial is incomplete, undignified and almost satirical. The very memory makes him want to laugh – but he cannot risk the attention it would bring, so he bites his lip until it bleeds and licks the blood away.

The taste is garish, strong enough to bring back memories. Darren's gut twists and drops as he dry heaves (a never-ending roller coaster of memories are still waiting in the cue) at the image of glowing, blackened flesh and the damnable smell of burning hair. The image remains as vivid and terrifying as ever - it has been searing on his mind for a while now, white-hot and nauseating. If he dies soon and never has to see this cruelty again, it will be a mercy.

Not long ago he would have been disgusted with his defeat and his compliant, fearful silence. The vampire half still writhes and fights inside him, urging him to snap his own neck or slit an artery, anything to go down with some part of his former dignity; but the shadow of humanity still hiding in the back of his mind will not allow it, because when everything crashes to the ground the only concern that remains is survival, and that overpowers every other duty, regardless. It does not matter how much his sense of dignity atrophies, or how much pain he is in. The nature of survival is a failsafe. It is not hope that he has – it is the carnal desire to live at all costs that makes the wheels continue to turn. They will continue their revolutions until his body senses the severity of the situation and decides that there is no option but to shut down, recycle itself, to consume what defined it once upon a time. The idea is revoltingly consoling.

Darren buries his face in his hands and lets his mind go white, trying to fall back into the abyss of nothingness that sometimes lets him forget, if only for a moment. His desire is fulfilled, but wishes never last.

…rope frays and he darts away from the edge of the platform; over the edge flies the vampaneze lord, hood inflating like some sort of demented parachute before he crashes to flames and the stakes below. The man is bellowing and yelping as his blood runs into the fire and he burns and shrieks and dies, shuddering with seizure-like tremors as life deserts him. Darren had watches the man die, feeling by extension the relief of all his allies – he expects an end to the commotion in the cavern, for Steve and Gannen to quiet and shrivel in defeat and retreat from the carved room with their brethren, heads drooping with desolation.

What he does not expect is the quiet, calculated laughter that caresses his ear as a knife - still warm with his own blood - presses against his collar bone and a hand weaves itself into his hair, pulling him into a larger, stronger body and wrenching his head back to expose the pulsing vein in his neck. He does not expect to feel Steve's warm breath on the nape of his neck, so he stiffens, eyes narrowing, wise enough to remain still and tense and not to struggle, even when he feels the knife draw a drop of blood. He feels distant eyes lock on him as Steve pushes him, steering him like a toy with the strength of only one hand, with an expression of unadulterated ecstasy. His voice drips with it, contrasting against the disillusionment of the milling mass of vampaneze below, who have broken off their fighting and moved to the edge of the pit to mourn the loss of their lord in silence.

"Well, well, look at what we have here! Didn't Creepy ever teach you not to turn your back on your challenger until he's nice and dead?"

Darren stiffens, knowing very well that this mistake has the potential to cost him his life. Fear begins to rise in his throat. The boy twitches as he feels a breeze; Gannen is rushing forward, whispering with as much force as his hierarchal politesse will allow.

"Steve, no!"

The half-vampaneze's head turns a degree, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. "Don't tell me what to do, idiot! I'll decide when I want to tell him, and I want to do it now."

Below, a voice breaks the silence. It is strong, low, and self-assured, but beneath the velvet he can hear the something else, gawky and weak, exposed as a newborn foal.

"Leonard, your lord is dead. We have won. Release Darren – do the vampaneze no longer keep the oaths they have made on blood?"

Larten Crepsley's shouts are closer to a roar, scar twisting obscenely as he snarls up at the platform, the mentality of a mother bear coming into play. After all, even if Darren is older than appearances tell, he still lives in the body of a child, a mere fifteen-year-old boy who should still be at home, worrying about anything and everything trivial. Beside Larten is a growling Vancha, and a few yards further a number of hesitant Vampaneze have circled around Harkat Mulds, axe held close to his chest. Debbie and Alice both clutch firearms as their lifelines, standing backed up against the walls as they defend themselves against a swarm of enemies. The group is outnumbered, swimming in a stormy sea with just enough energy to keep their heads above the surface.

Steve leans forward, resting his chin on Darren's shoulder with a predatory grin. He is quite aware of the buttons he can push, and so the hand in Darren's hair loosens and wanders downward, gripping his hostage's hip tightly, knife pressing deep enough into the boy's clavicle to draw a fresh trickle of blood. Darren lifts his chin and tilts his head, trying to put more distance between his captor's face and his own as possible. This sudden change in proximity is tormenting; he feels feverish and sick, balmy and weak with fear and the sensation of warm puffs of air sliding over his exposed neck. His training kicks his mind away from these ideas and into gear, scanning frantically for a gap in the man's defenses; a single hole to eat away at, to widen and escape through. He can see none.

The cub vampire is at the mercy of the merciless.

Steve grins even wider, eyes sparkling with ill-contained mirth. His expression is infuriating; Darren knows his previous friend too well, and doesn't need to look because he can smell the self-satisfied leer on the man. It is foul, and smells like Murlough's slaughterhouse, reeking of fetid meat and melting, butchered dreams.

"Killed my lord?" his tone is piercingly saccharine and grating, "'fraid not, Crepsley. You've accomplished nothing, in fact."

Below, the ears of the assembled vampaneze seem to resume functioning and the mass of men stops seeping toward the entrance of the cavern. Amongst them the vampires can only gape and work to process this new tidbit of information. Larten looks vacant; Vancha's composure vanishes entirely and his jaw drops. Steve flashes them a pleasant smile, smugly sliding his hand up Darren's side (the knife switches hands and nicks him deeply under the ribcage, forcing out in inaudible gasp) and seizing the back of the little vampire's neck forcefully. His clouded eyes never break from Larten's clever green ones.

Darren makes a low noise – a warning – as the spidery hand traces his side, lingering on every rib, and he shudders slightly at the peculiar sensation. It gives Steve all the satisfaction he could want and more encouragement than he can bear. Darren feels the man's grin against his neck. The feeling makes him bear his teeth and tense up even further, but the knife has found it's way to his throat and Gannen has moved forward, grasping his left wrist tightly, as if he would strike at his faux-friend despite the hungry blade. The pressure around the back of his neck increases, and Darren breaks the long silence, already knowing the answer to the query he will pose.

His voice is quiet and tired, forlorn – then Steve leans forward and runs his tongue over the shell of one ear and a suggestion of alarm enters his voice. Far below them, Larten spits onto the concrete floor and looks away. Leonard snickers.

"There were three people on the platform, Steve; You, Gannen, and your lord. He's dead." The boy observes; but the words feel dead to him, meaningless, untrue.

He can feel the intensity in the air, and can smell Steve's excitement as he thrusts his face further over the crook of the boy's shoulder. He reaches the hand that had previously held Darren's neck (which is quickly replaced by his mentor's sturdier, less delicate grip) around to take a tight hold of his captive's chin, turning his face away from the others. His stare is sharp and gleeful and he can feel it puncture him, like an intangible penknife had shoved itself into his belly. Steve inclines his own forehead until it touches the teenager's, and silence settles over the cavern, but for the whooshing heat rising from the fire below. His voice is hushed and direct, brimming with pride at his indisputable victory.

" It's true - I said our lord was on the platform, but who said that that –" Leopard gestures toward the charred black body crackling over the flames, his murmur breezing sibilantly over a powerless ear, "was our lord?"

No one says a word, but a feeling of tangible electivity rises in the room.

Cobweb grey eyes bore deep into tree bark brown ones with excitement at his inexpressibly cruel victory, and beneath his thumb he feels Darren's jaw clench tighter. Gannen grunts in disapproval and clicks his tongue in warning, but Steve ignores him. There is a weighty pause as the grin on the young man's face grows to a maniacal extent, and suddenly he turns to the group of fighters below him. His teeth flash in the light of the flames, and the bellow is so fierce Darren grits his own and tilts his head away, ears ringing with the sound.

"I am the lord of the vampaneze!" he shouts, fingers tightening on Darren's chin and forcing him to turn his gaze down again. "… And your first order, my children, is to break these thoughtless toys."

Masses of voices merge into a single bellow that fills the cavern and in an instinctually smooth movement the vampaneze regroup. No longer do are they focused on trapping their cousins; now they fight for real blood, seek complete incapacitation and slow-acting mortal wounds. There is a new fierceness in their blows and ducks and rushes as their devotion to this clever new lord flares. And, Darren knows, this will be the end. They have failed.

Steve leans over and sighs his arrogant words right into his ear, and Darren can hear the smirk in his voice, but his eyes are glued to the battle below, watching his allies to losing ground.

"You know, Darren, I don't think I'm ready to kill you yet –" Gannen begins to protest but Steve quiets him with a violent flick of his wrist, letting his esurient words linger and trickle through the air, "No, I'd rather keep you around for a bit. You know, to catch up on things."

They hear a howl of pain (all too familiar and unwanted, and he feels a shiver coming on at the sound) and a shriek; Darren knows that blood has been drawn, and it id maddening. Steve smiles.

Darren snarls and his composure collapses like a dying star. His vision sharpens with rage as he lunges forward, trying to break from the strong grip around his neck though the pressure is making him dizzy. The roaring of blood in his ears is deafening. The vampire snatches his head away from Steve, his eyes widen, and his pupils contract to narrow slits. His body is suddenly on fire. Time seems to stand still.

Darren slides away from the knife caging his throat in a wrathful haze and draws back an arm; his fist collides with Steve's face hard enough to break his nose, and the echoing snap is satisfying enough but before he can reach the rope at the platform's edge Gannen leaps forward and yanks the boy backward, into his brawny chest. The impact leaves the cub vampire breathless and gasping but writhing frantically in the other creature's arms. The vampaneze snarls and latches on to both wrists with one fist, and pulls his arms behind and up – and his shoulders groan in protest, his heart flutters, and he must stand balanced on his tiptoes to get any air. Bit by bit the fervor in his resistance dies away, replaces by the quivering that the fading adrenaline left in his muscles,

Steve (sprawled like a fallen angel, droplets of blood framing the shape of his silver-blonde head with a sanguine halo) groans a few feet away, pushing himself up from where he has fallen. His skin is an angry bloodless white there the fist struck him, and he is licking away the line of blood that runs out of his nose and down to his chin. The vampaneze raises a hand to his injured feature, inspecting it with interest when it comes away stained. His eyes raise from the hand to the young vampire's face and he steps forward swiftly; his slap is hard enough to turn his captive head makes the boy's ears ring and his eyes water. As if to confuse him further, soft caresses ghost over the flushed cheek. Darren quivers for a moment, mouths an insult – something, a word, anything at all – before his eyes glaze over, too tired to wade through the confusion he feels. Steve seems unshaken; his victory is affirmed in the form of another yell of pain, which only barely registers in his hostage's increasingly vacant eyes.

"Well, the kid vampire can throw a punch, can't he?"

Steve chuckles and then pauses for a moment; suddenly the boy is shocked back to responsiveness as his captor digs a nail into the skin below Darren's eye and drags it downward with a chuckle," There. You and Crepsley match now – I suppose that's what you always wanted, isn't it?"

His voice is callous and scornful, distinctly different from the fluttering of the graceful pianist's fingers across his injured cheek. The caresses press just enough to cause the smoldering pain in the deep cut to worsen.

The man watches Darren peculiarly for a moment before looking up to his mentor and stepping away, keeping one eye on the immobile boy as he speaks.

"Right, Gannen, we're almost finished here… I think –" Steve pauses, staring down at the fray and the isolated remaining fighter. "I think they've saved a piece of Crepsley – and, of course, your treacherous brother – for me … no, don't kill him," Steve interjects (the object of his attention has changed, but it is too soon for his revenge to have finished) as Gannen begins to reach for a dagger in his belt, "We're taking him with us. I want him placed in the traitor's suite, understood?"

The older vampaneze – though the corners of his mouth seem to imply the turn of a frown – nods, using his free hand to reach up and salute his superior.

"Anything else, my lord?"

"Yes. You are to make sure the rest have been ended too. I only have time for the blood- traitors."

He receives a response in the form of a grim nod. The older vampaneze doesn't even bother trying to protest. Steve smiles warmly.

"I knew you would see it my way, Gannen. Now, nighty night, Darren."

A hand crashes into the boy's blank face, hard. Everything slips off into darkness.

Darren wakes from his delirium, dry retching, clutching his burning abdomen in a grim attempt to subdue the pain and nausea. His head feels heavy (he knows very well it is because he has neither eaten nor drunk a thing in days). The boy rises unsteadily to his feet and crosses the room – a distance of no more than two yards – to slip into a crouch against the opposite wall, resting his chin on crossed arms to keep his sight clear and his head held high. He must not admit defeat, even when it is inevitable; his body and blood will not allow him the privilege. The contrasting mechanisms of his body have yet to reach a full agreement – but for now he may show the fear and pain that any full vampire would have sooner died than display, but even now he may never stop trying to protect his dignity.

Nuzzling his face further into the crook of his arm, Darren leaps for the void again.

Even at the age of seven, Steve and Darren are together.

"C'mon, let's go already!"

Ahead of him, Steve charges down the street, stopping before of the townhouse that his mother rents. It hardly registers with Darren that, had Steve not been his friend, he would have avoided this section of town; the thought skips and his vision shifts. A ragged old tree dominates the front yard, naked in the frigid October chill, and the older blonde clambers over the flowing roots like a goat, eyes sparkling with glee, teeth flashing with the rich melting chocolate of the setting sun.

Darren speeds up, grinning wider, making a sharp turn to avoid the clawing branches of the dying tree. He passes Steve and comes to a sudden stop on the stoop, bracing himself against the door as Steve jogs up the sunken concrete path. The clumps of yellowing grass bleed into the cracks of the sidewalk like wandering strokes of paint on an easel.

Steve fiddles in his pocket to find the key – old and brass, something that his companion can hardly believe is still viable to use in a lock – and tries the door. A moment passes and he jiggles the handle and pushes until it gives in and moves. The blonde flashes the smaller boy a wide grin, then strides into the house with his head held high. Darren follows, carefully shutting the door behind him.

They pass the entrance to a sunlight kitchen and reach the back hall, where Steve darts up the staircase, beckoning to the other boy to follow. The wood groans in protest, but he makes it up the stairs in the wake of imaginary machine gun fire and the exploding of shells in the distance. Steve is hit, but manages to make it to his room (despite his pitiably amputated leg), where the two crash to the floor, locking the door behind them and laughing together in their play.

"Watcha wanna do?" Steve asks, eyes glimmering with warmth that surpasses even the richest of champagnes. The wiry blond is grinning at him from his place on the bed, so Darren answers him.

"I don't know."

" I want to read comics. Let me go get them."

But Darren is not in the mood, so he forgets to think and sticks out his tongue with a patronizing groan. Steve stops, watching him strangely, a pile of magazines held protectively in his arms.

"Nooo, I don't want to. Comic books are dumb anyway."

Something in the grey eyes glints, but the younger boy is too naïve to notice the warning signs, the way he shifts his weight and the muscles in pale arms flex, and his jaw sets itself on edge; soon these memorize signs, take them to heart more closely than any book or bible. Steve flashes him a grin – wide, too wide – and stalks over to the bed where Darren is sitting. The younger boy inches backward but the distance between them closes too quick for comfort until his back is pressed rigidly against the cream-colored walls. When the words come they are deliberate and low.

"Come on, Darren. I want to do comic books."

He is still too young, still too unaware.

"No, I don't wanna," Darren repeats, only vaguely aware of the dangerous territory he has entered. Stillness swallows the room and they stare at one another for a moment, eye-to-eye, grey and brown mixing where oil and water never could.

In a moment, Steve draws back, and Darren relaxes – and a powerful punch catches him under the chin and throws him sideways off the foot of the bed. The blow leaves him stunned, crumpled on the floor like a discarded toy or forgotten paper on the pale khaki carpet.

And then Steve is next to him, and Darren curls tighter in on himself, shivering in fear at the next blow he is sure will follow. His cheeks run rivers and his breath is ragged, but the punch has stopped any thought of escape or self-defense, and a feeling of warmth runs through him as he realizes that – in the same way all children who do not get their way begin to feel – his resistance was pointless, and that if he is wise he will never do it again.

Darren feels arms – cold and thin, but somehow stronger than he ever would have imagined – strain to drag him back onto the bed. His head is still fuzzy and his eyes are closed tight, but he can feel as the bed dips under his friend's weight, and vaguely understands when he is pulled against a slim chest, feeling those familiar arms wrap around him. Little, half-conscious finger strokes tease his hair, gentle and appeasing, and he can feel the shuddering breath in Steve's chest as his friend fights not to cry. If he had the will, the strength, or the courage, he would comfort the frightened boy, but his head still feels light and his eyes just can't quite seem to focus on anything right. Even now, he knows he cannot blame Steve – they both know he has a temper. Sounds begin to ebb back into his world, until the words the other boy is murmuring are suddenly audible.

"…please, Darren, you're my best friend… I didn't mean to hurt you… I'd never really hurt you, you know…" he whimpers, grip tightening around the other's shoulders. Still, he can't help but notice how difficult it is for him to breathe in this embrace, and how the other's boy's sharp nails are cutting into his skin, "…never hurt you. really."

His eyes flash open again, because above him he can hear the thud of footsteps, light and firm, on the wood floor. Darren looks to aloft (his sky is a dirty, mold-stained wooden ceiling) and the shadows under his eyes deepen. Lead sinks in his chest; the wood above him strains as weight presses down against it. The lock on the trapdoor taps against the wood and opens with a distant click, jarring a tightly held breath from his lungs as though he has been struck. For a torturous moment there is only silence, and Darren is left to wonder who is coming to torment him, (but inside he knows those steps, has heard them crossing linoleum and concrete for years in his youth) and if the end is near.

Will his end come now? He doesn't doubt it, nor does he fear it.

Still, he refuses to speculate on the means to his end.

Then the door set in the ceiling is drawn back and the light hits the boy right in the face – a merciless slap, a gesture of power – leaving him blind and gasping in the change like a fish. Then, suddenly, the door is closed and the light is gone, and he is almost relieved. Then there is a sudden movement before him, a violent rush of air. Darren is wrenched from his spot on the floor by the torn collar of his shirt and shoved brutally against the wall; he can hardly resist, falling limp as a corpse, though he still claws feebly at the hands on his shoulders. It registers only faintly in the back of his mind that in one hand the man is holding a massive, savage looking dagger.

Steve takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, manic grin only growing wider when his prey stays where he leaves it, too weak (or afraid?) to move, except to slide a bit further down the wall as the atrophies muscles in his legs give way. The man's eyes are filled to the point of bursting with sadistic pleasure. Knowing that the violence can only get worse, Darren is silent. His pupils have shrunken to pinpoints in his dread, the signs of the body betraying its master.

The lord of the vampaneze chuckles and moves forward decisively – his grace is feline in it's concentration – and leans forward, giggling as he invades any semblance of personal space that his prisoner might had had. Unable to retreat, Darren leans away and turned his head; this is the end, and even his body has begun to fall in on itself, any particular determination to fight or survive that Darren felt has long since abandoned him.

They have failed; they have died and he is alone.

Perhaps his presence will alleviate some of the destruction…

but he has failed before and if he lives he will fail again. It is a liberating epiphany.

Finally, Steve speaks, and his voice is bitter and threatening.

"You never were brave alone, were you? I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I was the one who took care of you… we were brothers once, you know. I still know you better than anyone else…" he growls, and when the younger man doesn't react an edge of disappointment enters his voice, and he presses closer, free hand wrapping unyieldingly in dark hair and pulling up a vaguely resistant chin, brown and grey mixing for the first time in years. One pair is harsh; the other is remorseful and impassive. Steve hisses, wants to see pain lace those eyes, distort that broken face, make him tremble, whimper, thrash, and fall to his knees. He thrives on resistance, made a living off of betrayal. Steve wants to see his Judas fall into the void, make him beg and submit like the base animal he is.

He doesn't want much; only dominance, control, revenge; the reparations due him.

"- though that was before you betrayed me, you lying bastard. How does it feel to be on the losing side, after so many years at the top? A pathetic little toy prince, a pet, hmm? How does it feel to know –" he hisses, driving the knife an inch into the flesh of the teenager's shoulder, watching the brown of the weary eyes water and sharpen with awareness of the pain, " that I'm going to put you through twice the pain I felt when you left me? More agony than you've ever felt in your life?"

The knife is pushed in deeper, and both of them hear it grinding against his clavicle, rending through the muscles of his shoulder. Darren gives a violent shudder of pain and nausea and Steve releases his hair to push one hand against his chest, to hold the wilting boy to the wall. The vampaneze leans in closer, delighting in his retribution; the room is feverish and inconsistent, cold as ice, hot as fire, and he will end this traitor with both.

Synapses work frantically as sensations collide in Darren's head, watered-down adrenaline ebbing away even as it snaps across organic gaps and fibers, too strong in potency to push him into shock and too weak to even do it's job and melt the awareness of ruptured tissue away. The boy's eyes (he tightens his hand around that pale neck, watches that god awful blood roll down in rivers and, ah, those are tears that are weighing down his lashes) gleam like unrefined citrine; he cannot stop this dance because he knows the steps too well, and the staccato squeals of the violins are coming faster…

Darren feels something in the man holding him change and begins to writhe and dance against the wall; it is an instinct, innate and feral as the day he was born. He forgets the pain, lifts his hands, beats against the stronger flesh, pushes, scratches, shoves – but then Steve has his wrists in one hand, pulled taut above his head. Steve backs away with a flash of teeth (a smile? if he had not lost all sense, he would not have liked it) and Darren lunges forward –

Then he falls back with a quiet thud, wrists caught in twisted coils of wiry rope that seems to be splitting the skin when he pulls. It does not make sense, after he has suffered so many humiliations, so many of them worse, but he cannot stand it, caught like a dog tied to a pole. Each breath comes like lightning, a fire in his chest, and he can feel the resistance and pride rise in a tide of the sweetest sickness he has ever felt. His mouth twists into an angry scowl and he braces himself against the moldy stone wall. The boy wants to whimper and scream, cry out to the heavens; again he feels a change in the air, knows he has passed the point of no return, and his snarling words quiet themselves before they can leave his lips.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he can feel the froth fly from his gasping mouth, a dying on land "I ruined my life – ended it – just for you, so you could keep on breathing, and this is how you repay me?"

Steve is silent, eyes narrow and steeled to the fire of the rapidly vanishing glare; Darren is weak – he will be broken, be reformed, until he never wants to know any sensation but nails and teeth tearing through skin. Perhaps, for a moment, there is a flicker of regret in the storm cloud eyes…

But then the ropes are ripped free (a pity that this time his rage will get the better of him) and before he knows it Steve has thrown the boy to the ground like a doll, punching, kicking and delighting in the way the soft flesh bends for his blows. Darren is almost silent – but he can hear the gasps and sobs see the tears and the way he is curling into a crescent moon, shielding the bruises as best he can. Steve quickly exhausts himself, regains his composure, and reaches down to wrench the limp child from the ground. The fire in the muddied eyes is flickering, fading to an ember, but the vampaneze knows it will never go out…

but then there is nothing but a bedraggled, stunned, scornful little wraith glaring up at him – what a terrific transformation. He lets go and Darren drops to the ground with a hollow oomph, weak and pliable as clay in a masters hands.

His laughter is triumphant, hysterical, even, but it ends far to soon.

"Fuck, Darren, you haven't changed a bit, still weak, still unfaithful. I'm almost tempted to show you mercy – you're so small, yet, so dreadfully breakable…"

He reaches up to caress an ashen cheek, feeling the ghosts of dried blood and tears on the cheek he has not torn. When he forgets himself – and it is all too easy to do so – the man finds himself flushed with power, reveling in the curves that are only beginning to appear where the muscles have atrophied and melted away into dust. They both can see it, where the dignity and vigor have been crushed into powder, been blown away, and have left their once master with nothing.

"C'mere." Steve orders, sitting with his back against the wall and pulling the boy into his lap, wrapping strong arms around the boys shoulders and feeling the weight of a long lost friend-and-brother fall against his chest. Darren has a heartbeat like a fresh-caged bird but the will to resist has fallen back from his prison, left the bars in his eyes. His head is light with blood loss and the beast that cradles him – worse than darkness, now – can feel it unwillingly loll back against one broad shoulder. Steve grins obscenely at the sign of weakness, revels in the glow of the flaw, and begins to stroke the dark hair back from the expressionless eyes with frighteningly gentle caresses. Something about this feels familiar –

comforting, even – and though he cannot recall what feels so comfortable about the warmth and the pressure, neither can he resist it. He can feel himself shaking and starts to drown, leaning towards the hand and hating himself all the while, feeling himself breaking.

It is like a purr, the fragmented way the chuckling washes over him, front to back, shared, warm, and intimate. A deceptively gentle hand begins to wander again (one stays, placating the greedy little prince, nestled in the filthy strands of hair) and settles like a blanket over one of the half-vampires. The laughter starts up again like a motor as Steve wonders at how much larger his own hand is in comparison, flipping it's diminutive copy over to look at the calloused palm. He toys with the indurate fingers, watching the tenuous sinews stretch in the back of the hand as he pulls them back in their sockets tenderly; he pauses for a moment, stops to savor the moment when the vacuous gaze changes into horror, when considers and understands this delicate new language that these experienced hands are teaching him, he feels his plaything tense just on time, like clockwork. The head twists, catches his eye, and the new expression he sees in enthralling, a mix of smoke and sweat and fear. He feels it like redemption, a recreation of the heaven he will be sure to never reach. He smiles like a panther, eyes standing at the brink of something far worse than insanity. They both know what is coming next.

Fingers snap, bones like twigs, right out of their sockets. It hurts Darren cannot help himself, kicks out and whimpers like a frightened animal. If there are no atheists in foxholes, it is because they have lost their self-respect, and Darren can feel his melting away in rivulets, right down into the sewers, knowing it can never be recovered.

Steve – clearly pleased with the noises his victim has been persuaded to release – grins, and twists the dislocated finger, delighting as he receives a little growling mewl, quieter than before. It is not a dance so much as it is a game, because he has spent years being pushed, and now it is time to push back. He watches at the faded russet eyes twinkle the tears he cannot shed as Steve reaches for the other hand.

The attentions continue and his responses grow more and more wanton, until teeth clamp hard over his shoulder, draw his blood, and then he yelps like a dog. He twitches, gasping and trying inadequately to pull away, to reach his salvation…but Steve holds him tightly to his chest and growls at the spasms. Nails go to work, tearing indiscriminately through cloth and flesh the struggling, heated breaths that seem to be doing such a good job of warming up the little prison.

The struggles do not cease, and the knife reappears, slashing a long crimson line across the heaving chest, blood flowing with a kind of calm and deliberate naturalness, like water from a tap. The grin widens and Darren gasps;

Steve is thrilled with the agonized noises his toy – and perhaps it is one he will cherish for a very long time – is spewing. Grey eyes smolder like winter ash in the darkness, calculating, planning like the strategist he has devoted so much time to becoming. If one could see close enough, a touch of destiny would be visible in that ardent, hostile glare. This young man – strong in his element, steeped in suffering and soaked with devotion – is nothing short of a prodigy. Teeth flash like a spray of bullets, sink into prostrate flesh and rend in streaks of bloodless red. There is closeness and heavy, panting breaths, and something nagging at him that he simply cannot deny any longer.

In the darkness a hand wanders too far, and Darren screams.