Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood, nor do I own any of the characters related to it, such as Cain or Abel Nightroad. The song, to which this one shot owes its title and its lyrics, is "Faint of Heart" by Coheed and Cambria—this, I do not own either. All that I own are my plotline, my thoughts, and my OC Anabelle ^_^ Read, and hopefully enjoy!
With the worries that I'd give her in she told the worst of me
My wanting to just hold her head in my arms and feel her breathe
The candlelight spread dancing shadows over his face, never holding still for more than a second—never giving a clear picture. His footsteps were nearly silent upon the stone floor of the long hallway, marked only by the occasional whisper of air betwixt the folds of his elegant white suit. Darkened doorways passed him by slowly, growing ever farther apart as he wound his way through the depths of the old castle until at last they stopped all together at the base of a winding staircase. He ascended it slowly, the faintest smile tracing across his lips as he thought of his destination.
I don't know why I tolerate her, he thought humorously, she's such a willful little thing. But perhaps that's why—Ah…
His thought was cut off on a whim as he mounted the landing, a short wedge of stone three feet wide and two feet deep—just barely large enough for one person, maybe two, to stand upon. But, of course, no one ever stood there but him, aside from her.
As his shoulders shook with soundless laughter, he reached for the iron handle on the oaken door set before him. It was cool to the touch, and he rested his cheek against the smooth, dark wood. Exhaling quietly, he lifted his thin lips back into that flawless smirk and pushed his shoulder against the door while pressing the handle downwards.
No, I'm not going to give you want so if you please
The sin that shapes your voice carries, my ears, this new disease
As a hairbrush with an ivory grip sailed past his face and down the stone stairwell with a clatter, his laughter took audible form, rich and full. His crystal blue eyes crinkled at the corners with apparent mirth as he faced the audacious girl sitting upon the canopied bed. Combing his fingers through the silvery blond locks which fell over his forehead, he reclined against the doorframe and pulled the door behind him shut.
"Now now, Anabelle…," he entreated warmly, "surely you can't be in such poor spirits about me. I thought we were past this."
"We were," she returned quietly, looking up at him with deep green eyes from under dark, luscious lashes, "but I know why you're here, and no, I'm not going to give you what you want, so if you please—"
She trailed off and gestured back to the door, indicating that he should leave. He made no move other than to turn his gaze leisurely to follow her form as she stood. Crossing from the bed, bedecked in cream-colored sheets and gossamer curtains, the sable-haired beauty checked herself in a nearby mirror, pulling at imaginary dark circles under her emerald eyes. From there, she wandered to a barred window overlooking a thriving city, ever silent after her first reply.
"You ought to speak more," he murmured after her. "Your voice has a lovely tone to it. Sweet…almost sinfully so."
Did somebody take your tongue?
In worries of the words that you couldn't say, that you couldn't save them from
Pushing off from the doorframe, he made his way to her side and bent his towering frame over her petite figure. With one hand, he caressed her cheek and combed through her hair with long, delicate nails. She shivered imperceptibly under his touch, her lips parting ever so slightly as he sidled between her back and the curve of the window alcove in which she sat. He draped one arm, motionless, across her waist, blowing a soft, cold breath into her ear and laughing when she trembled.
"Did somebody take your tongue…? Where did my little spitfire go?" he asked her softly. "Are your thoughts being wasted on them again?"
His latter question took upon his voice a dark undertone entwined with the melody, and a shadow crossed over his eyes. In the window, her eyes slid away to avoid his, resting overtop of the grand cathedral in the Vatican city of Rome, lit like a beacon in the night. He frowned, taking her chin into his hand, and turned her away from her remote fantasies to a more prominent reality. Grazing his lips along her brow, the frown faded into an empty smile as he pressed his nail into her cheek along a dominating stroke.
"You worry far too much over what is beyond your power to save, I see. If you still believe you have any control in this realm or in any other, dearest Anabelle, I suggest you rectify this misunderstanding. You never cared for him, regardless, nor would your feelings have brought about any difference to this day. Let. Them. Go."
But I don't want to sleep without, so I bid to you, goodnight,
Tonight, sleep tight, my love
With a last glance to her, he parted from her suddenly, taking up the candlestick he'd set aside earlier. He inclined his head slightly, eyes closed with a warm smile for a moment, as if listening to something pleasing. Repressed laughter showed at the corners of his eyes when he opened them a margin to gaze upon her once more.
"I believe I'm being called elsewhere for the night, my dear, so you have your wish. I'll leave you be."
Turning away, he strode towards the door, his limber frame casting wraith-like shadows upon the plush carpet of her immaculate room. One step, two, and he heard nothing as he expected. Three steps more, and he had crossed to the doorway, his hand upon the oak. Still smiling, he turned over his shoulder with a kind, somber gaze.
"So I bid to you, goodnight. Tonight, sleep tight, my love," he murmured gently.
The anxious through the calming storm, you'll sit as you pray for rain
I'll touch it if you ask me to but how is up to you
"Wait!" she called from the window seat, the euphony of her voice marred by the saccharine hint of anxiety.
At the door, he paused, and the same, self-assured smirk which he'd donned before entering the room returned to his face. There was never any doubt that she would call him—she needed him. He was merely a hunter, playing this age-old game and baiting his time.
For a moment, he allowed her to squirm, tapping his fingers against the candleholder as wax dripped slowly down its side. A single bead had slipped from the crest of the candle down to within half an inch of his ring finger before he obliged, setting the brass holder with its melting wax arms atop a dresser to his left. Gratification gleamed brightly behind his eyes as he turned to see her sitting nervously on the edge of the window seat. Her hands were toying absently with the wispy hem of her filmy nightdress, and she seemed as if she might draw blood from the pressure she exerted upon her bottom lip.
The look she gave him was hesitant and defeated, as if she wished to prolong what she knew must come. Uncrossing her legs delicately, she held her hand out to him—it trembled very slightly. As she beckoned him to her, he crossed the room slowly with a confident saunter no other could possess. He bowed over her, his hair hardly brushing her bare collarbone, and dipped his lips to her hand, pausing expectantly as he reached her.
"Yes?"
"Stay," she whispered, quietly.
"I thought you wanted me gone," he teased, implying that he should leave once more, "so you could sit and pray alone."
"Prayer has never done me good in my life," she said, leaning up so that her lips were millimeters away from his.
"It likely never will, pet. Now, I believe you wanted something of me…?"
She hesitated.
"…Yes."
"Tell me what you want…"
No, I'm not going to let you get up if you struggle willingly
I'll savour all your form to show you how and where I bleed
It began slowly and gently, as it always did. As the rain pattering against the windowsill built gradually up from its mellow beginning into a thrashing downpour, so the concerto of their act built up into a crescendo—a mass of writhing flesh and near-panicked moans. The finest playwright could not have scribed a more passionate scene, even if he had been writing on lovers in the same position. No lover could have been as cruel as he was to her and yet maintained her allure to him. She had inquired of him, once, as to why he was so, to which he responded with a grin, "It's no fun if you struggle willingly." It was this constant polarity—the push and pull of emotions, toyed with upon a string—which so masterfully designed the inhuman spark herein.
"Cain," she gasped out in a whimper, "you're making me bleed!"
"Shh," he chuckled, tracing his tongue lightly along the thin streams of red he'd drawn across her alabaster flesh.
Never had he scarred her, nor did he ever plan to. He merely savored every inch of her delicate form as he ravished her and she succumbed to him. It was unquestionable, now, that she would, of course, give in to his desires, whether spoken or not. This room had been her gilded cage long enough for her to learn this lesson, at the very least.
"If only you would do the same," he breathed into her ear, raking his nails across her back as she arched into him. "If only."
Did somebody take your tongue?
In worries of the words that you couldn't say, that you wouldn't save them from
When he left her, the room was silent and dark. His candles had long gone out, and he had drawn the curtains across the window so that no light would go in to awaken her, nor would any light go out from the turret. Not a sound issued from the door as he clicked it softly shut and turned on his heel. As he traipsed leisurely down the stairs, still fastening the gold buttons of his suit together, his lips curled upwards again. He took a moment to pause, leaning on the wall of the darkened stairwell, and gazed back at Anabelle's doorway.
She must think that I love her, he thought absently beneath the smile.
In truth, he felt he no more loved her than puppeteer loved his marionette. He admired the craftsmanship in her build, and the artistry in her form, but he did not love her. He was bemused by the rhythms to which she could be persuaded to dance, but he did not love her. He was delighted by the movements he could bring her to, but that was not love either. There was a myriad of traits and qualities about her which satisfied him, but none of them equated to the ardor of "love."
But I don't want to sleep without, so I bid to you, goodnight,
Tonight, sleep tight, my love
With a dry laugh, he turned away from the narrow landing and shook his head. The same, ever calm smile he bore was insubstantial on his lips as he descended the coiling staircase through the tower. His footsteps echoed clearly through the night, weighted strongly and with the intention of alerting his waiting guest in the lower levels of his citadel. No candle lit his face along this journey, nor did any starlight reach him from behind the indigo clouds beyond the stone walls. Apart from the malicious gleam behind his cobalt eyes, he was enshrouded in darkness. Upon the last step of the stairs, he paused, and listened attentively—he was rewarded shortly.
"CAIN!"
"Now now, Abel," he laughed from the shadows, descending gracefully, "don't go waking my pet up. She's had a…rough night."
You were so well behaved
As you watched them make your way
Bleak, dull sunlight shone down upon a world of muted color, portraying it with a neutral light erring on the side of poor, like an overexposed sepia picture. Dust swirled up from the cobblestone roads, marred here and there by overextending bars of shadow spread from the looming walls of the Vatican monastery. A far more slender shadow stretched out, lonely, upon the ground, and its owner stood slightly to its side, as if attempting to distance herself from it. She gazed around quietly with head bowed, her lips pressed into a softly downward curving line as she took in the drab shadows moving along in consistent lines through the empty sunlight.
"Are you ready, Sister Anabelle?" asked a kind voice at her side.
"Who?" she returned meekly, failing to register the name as her own.
"You," laughed the male's voice quietly as his gloved hand took her arm gently. "Don't worry—you'll get used to the title soon enough. Let's get you settled in, shall we?"
She looked up curiously, her blank green eyes meeting with warm, tender blue eyes guarded by glasses which reflected the sunlight minimally. The tall man smiled at her, his silvery bangs fluttering over his forehead as he inclined his head towards her. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, and allowed him to lead her away. Every footfall felt hollow to her as she moved mechanically; the only thing she felt was the movement of her gaze to follow the man's black-clothed shape across the courtyard.
"Father…Nightroad," she whispered in her sleep.
A kiss for you engraved
You shift and stretch your legs
"S-Sister Anabelle? If I may have a moment?"
Slumped slightly against a chill marble pillar along the walkway which bordered the church gardens, the young nun started upright at the sudden noise. Her dark brown hair slipped forth from beneath the blue trim of her white hood as she turned marginally to face the priest who approached her. His shoulders were sloped humbly, his glasses sliding down his nose as he laughed sheepishly.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he said honestly.
"It's alright. I didn't think anyone would come out at this time of day. What do you need, Father Nightroad?"
"C-Call me Abel," he pleaded, a rosy hue touching his cheeks as he adjusted his glasses and looked aside. "I know you don't like those titles."
"If I'm going to call you Abel, you're going to call me 'Anabelle,' then. That bothers me more than having to call you 'Father'."
For a moment, he looked at the girl who had spoken so bluntly, but in so gentle and sweet a tone that it could not help but to be immediately forgiven. He made no sound as he shuffled forward to stand across from her in the sunlight as she reclined in the shade. His gaze traced the outline of her fair features, turned pallid by the dry light which dipped to kiss her cheeks when she did not turn away. Swallowing hard, he fingered at the high, stiff collar of his habit and blinked before opening his dry mouth to speak.
"Anabelle…then. I was going to…to ask…"
"Yes, what is it?"
Her voice betrayed no hint of emotion, nor any shade of affection. He fought the urge to cringe, and fell silent. Brushing her hand lightly across her cheek, she turned to face the priest, wondering, after several minutes, why he had not spoken. This brought her face to face with not the lovable, gloomy priest who had taken her from sorrow and ushered her into this new life, but with a sinful, blond angel with eyes like the coldest ice. A soundless gasp escaped her lips, and he stole it back smoothly.
"Let them go, Anabelle," he murmured into her lips. "Let them go."
In bed, she sat up with a weak whimper, a cold sweat beading up her back.
You were so well behaved
You were so well...
Who taught these tricks that make...you were so well behaved
"She's such a sweet little flower now, brother dearest," crooned Cain's voice from overhead, reverberating coldly through the high dome of the ceiling, "I'm sure you'd still love her as you always did. Although…I'm not sure how much of a flower she's got left anymore."
His laugh was callous and empty, spilt from thin, pale lips curled back from ivory fangs like sand from a broken hourglass. A single feather fluttered down from the dim recess above, landing alone on the torn surface of a white glove. Crushing the fair symbol with elongated claws as dark as the night sky, the silverette, Abel, snarled; his mouth twisted in a fashion not unlike his brother's when Cain had laughed.
"You will be damned for your sins, Cain!" he bellowed, the back of his priest's habit rending apart with a sound of heavy cloth tearing.
"Is that so?" the smoother of the twin's voices whispered into his brother's ear as he ran his claws along the black feathers now protruding from Abel's back. "How does one damn an angel, Abel? Tell me, please."
"You're not an angel," returned the younger's voice in a hiss.
"Nor are you, brother. Nor are you."
Anabelle…has this demon really taken you in such a way?
If the world stops turning girl you better not stop when I say
And there was nothing you could do to cut me, cut me down
Awakened by the sounds of stone grating against stone and anguished, muffled roars, Anabelle sat at the edge of her bed, and very stilly so. Sudden jolts would cause the legs of her bed to quake, and with each one she would watch the solid stone floors of her tower shudder and wonder if they would give out. As dust trickled down from the ceiling, pooling lightly on the canopy stretched o'er her place of rest, the young woman stood and made her way unsteadily to the door. To her surprise, as she tried the cold, metal handle of the door in only a half-hearted attempt to open it, she found it unlocked.
The darkened landing beyond the heavy oaken door was eerily silent in such a way as it muffled all other noises which encountered it. Taking each step gingerly and cautiously, she slid down the halls, keeping one hand to the chilling stone walls. It had been long years since she had wandered these halls freely, but the haunting sounds were easy to follow—the nearer she drew, the more frantic and aggressive the thrashing noises became. And so it continued as she traipsed down the corridors, the clamor raising to such a volume that she wondered why the whole of the city had not already awoken, until, at last, the sounds came to a stiff standstill as she placed one bare foot upon the floor of the great hall.
"Anabelle…"
Startled by the fall of her name in the form of a whisper from familiar lips, she started and stumbled back into the stairwell, the action causing her to fall back against the stone. Her hands shot upwards to muffle the sharp cry of pain she released as her eyes stared forward into the antechamber.
Cain, with the appearance of an errant, avenging seraph, hovered more than half the room away, his arms relaxed at his sides. The strong, erect structure of his back faced her, ornamented with six feathered wings, as pure white as his suit. She could not see his face, but the subtle shake in his shoulders, the familiar shift of fabric she had seen far too often, told her all there was to know. Wide eyes of a luminous crimson hue stared at her over his shoulder, trembling as tattered black wings arched behind him.
"That's what I like about you, Abel," whispered the vexing blond as he moved slowly forward, "always so predictable."
If the ground starts parting through the silence and the walk of the dead
Everything here dies alone...
With a jerk, Abel jolted forward in pain, his lips parting in a soundless shout. His once ardent crimson eyes faded into their typical watery blue, sorrowful and betrayed. Below the curve of a sharp nose, blackened lips returned to their usual pallid state, fluttering with the ragged intake of a slow breath. Feathers drifted down like injured birds as his wings dissipated, mingled with scraps of his tattered robe. The fallen Kruznik's1 untamed silver locks fell limply to his shoulders as he slumped against his brother's chest, his body trembling with the unspoken whisper of a name.
But I'm not quite sure what you've been told...on labor day
Ooh, I'm not starting with you but the faint of heart
Were worries way
"And as to you, dearest Anabelle…perfect timing," Cain purred, turning about to face her as she pressed herself against the sharp stone steps.
Her breath hitched in her throat as he glided over the stones towards her, leaving his brother in a despondent heap crumpled upon the floor. Though they were the same shade as Abel's had been, the light behind his scarlet irises was like hell shining through a ruby—lovely, but dangerous and wicked all the same. Moving without effort, he shook his brother's blood from his hand in a single graceful motion and cleaned it upon his otherwise stainless suit.
"Although I do wonder how ever you managed to wander outside of your room."
As he bent down to take her chin into his hand, she shivered and flinched back. Nevertheless, he brought her upwards into a standing position, chuckling as she struggled for the briefest of moments against him. In his fallaciously tender way, he stroked back her hair and laid a kiss upon her forehead with lips as white as ash. His clawed hands tangled in her hair, pulling taught as he lowered his lips to her ear. She gave a sharp, half-hearted cry.
"I'm pleased you saw what you did, pet. Perhaps it will teach you to be more obedient. That," he cooed, indicating his fallen twin, "is what happens to those who obstruct me in the way of getting what I wish. Now, be a good girl and go back to bed."
I cannot tell, he added as an afterthought, frowning as he inclined his head to the side, why her presence here bothers me so greatly. Would it not be better if she were to remain and watch my brother's destruction…?
But I'm not quite sure what this unfolds...on labor day
Ooh, I'm not starting with you but the faint of heart
Like an electrical shock, the sound of Anabelle's cry resonated deep within the fallen Kruznik; his breath came in a sudden, deep gasp without a sound. Latching his claws into the stone with a new strength, Abel slowly lifted his head. The light returned to his eyes as a storm-force wind whipped his hair away from his ashen face. He ran his tongue along his darkening lips and the ivory fangs which now protruded from them slowly, breathing in raggedly as the deep red blood staining the stones beneath his body began to seep back into his torn chest. Its slow journey became ever increasingly faster as he rose to his feet, racing like downward flowing rivers.
Cain…
"CAIN!" he roared.
With his fangs bared and claws extended, the irate Kruznik charged forward in great speed. The room seemed to spin about him as he tore towards the blond, the whole of his gaze a hazy red. As the latter turned slowly, a familiar scene spread out before him, repeated from just minutes earlier. Anabelle, with wide eyes, stood at the base of the stairs, and in front of her stood Cain as Abel rushed to kill him. However, this time, he caught an unfamiliar glimpse of astonishment in the eyes of his brother, and this time, he would not stop for anything.
Did somebody take your tongue?
In worries of the words that you couldn't say, that you wouldn't save them from
Ringing, ringing…Cain's ears were ringing now. The taste of blood filled his mouth, coppery and bitter rather than the sweet symphony of flavor which he normally relished when feeding. He coughed once, and blinked slowly to clear away his blurry vision; the last few moments returned to him in a constant flow, aching against the back of his skull like the pound of a waterfall. His brother—his younger, inferior brother—had charged him as he spoke to Anabelle, and now here they stood, he with a hole in his chest, and his brother with his claws embedded deep in his flesh.
"A…bel…," he murmured softly, still halfway in shock.
"In pace requiescant, frater,**" the silver-haired demon before him hissed.
As those treacherous words passed his lips, he passed a large current of the electricity racing through his feathers and veins into his brother. Blue sparks jumped from neuron to neuron in his system before making their way in a sudden surge to the blond Kruznik's inert figure. The overwhelming scent and taste of copper filled his mouth as his brain conducted neurons through misguided actions. Muscle spasms notwithstanding, he sagged forward onto his brother's arm. A last thought flitted through the murkiness which became his mind, half the work of a misfiring synapse, and half the work of a long dormant heart.
Anabelle…, he thought absently as her countenance flashed before his eyes, perhaps I do love you…Pity it's come too late.
But I don't want to sleep without, so I bid to you, goodnight,
Tonight, sleep tight, my love
"C-Cain…!"
His name escaped her lips as an accident, a worried whisper tumbling from unconsenting lips. As he crumpled to the floor before her, his immaculate white suit turning a blackish, wine red as its fibers soaked up and trapped the thick, claret liquid. It was peculiar, how similar and yet identical this situation was to its mirrored twin of moments past. Where before Cain had stood o'er Abel in satisfied triumph, now Abel stood over Cain, his eyes shut tight as if he were in pain. Before she had felt nothing but the faintest hint of fear at Cain's brutality, and yet now here she stood, her chest clenching as she stared at the bloody angel. For a moment, she wondered whether one had been the reality all along and the other never existing.
"Anabelle…come here…," rasped his voice softly, commanding her presence at his side even in this weakened state.
As if in a trance, she nodded and moved slowly to his side, dropping hesitantly to her knees. Her thin nightdress absorbed the thick liquid only as far as a couple of inches before it was too laden to bear any more of the burden as she pulled his head into her lap. His eyes had turned blue, though rapidly fading to grey, and all that was now left of his feathers lay scattered across the glass-littered floor. Laughter made his chest shake, and she gave a half-hearted hope—perhaps it was fear, though—that he would survive.
"Closer, pet."
The smell of blood which wafted from his lips assuaged that feeling, whatever it had been, and assured her that no, this man would not survive—not today. She fought the urge to recoil at the overpowering stench, held down close to his face only by his hand in her hair as he gave a feeble tug. Frailty, a marvel she had never before experienced with him, in his motions compelled her to lean closer, realizing that there was nothing left in this broken creature to be afraid of.
"Remember, Anabelle…you never loved him. You only loved me," he whispered, clenching his hand in her hair as he inhaled deeply once more. "Let them go…and embrace me."
Goodnight, Anabelle…
Did somebody take your tongue?
In worries of the words that you couldn't say, that you wouldn't save them from
The sleek, onyx slab was cold under her hand as she smoothed across the even surface absently, her other hand placed in the folds of white cloth gathered on her lap. She couldn't help but marvel at the flawlessness of the stone tomb, and wonder if it had not been created by the hands of seraphs rather than humans. No engraving scarred its perfect face, nor did any hinges mar its sides with their claws; it was merely a simple, black coffin, held in place forever by the weight of its composition and the burden it carried.
Did I ever really love you? I thought I hated you, she thought quietly to the occupant beneath the stone. Wasn't I just a toy to you?
Her smile was as empty as the voiceless silence. She wiped her hand across her damp forehead, looking with tired eyes to the sunlight streaming down from the church windows. Squinting against the bright light, she sighed and watched as her breath disturbed the dust hovering expectantly in the air. It was waiting to settle down upon the surface of the coffin as soon as she would let up her guard.
Or did you understand something I didn't?
She laughed suddenly, a dry, cynical laugh that sounded like flower petals released to the wind. Lying across the coffin, she reached out her arm and quietly laid a dried flower upon the unmarked surface, presumably where its inhabitant's hands were folded. The cool stone pressed into her cheek for a moment, and she closed her eyes, her shoulders still shaking with the soundless laughter from before. At last, she brushed her lips against the coffin and stood, tilting her head to the side as she looked down with apathetic eyes shaded by long lashes which touched her cheeks with shadow. The coffin showed her nothing but a darkened reflection of her lovely face.
But I don't want to sleep without so I bid to you, goodnight,
Tonight, sleep tight, my love
"Anabelle?" intruded a tender voice into her solitude.
Turning, she half expected to see blue eyes peering from a face framed by platinum blond locks. The eyes were the same as far as color went, but the hardness was not there, and the shade of his hair was too far off. She should have expected as such, she thought with a rueful smile.
"Yes, Abel?" she answered composedly, obediently folding her hands together below her waist. "Did you need me for something?"
"He never loved you, Anabelle…you understand that, right?"
She had never heard such fierceness in his voice, and it set her back for a moment, staring at him blankly. He did not face her now, she saw, but stared coldly at the coffin behind her. A faint smile touched her lips when she finally recognized the expression, both in voice and in countenance. Crossing the soft carpet, she reached out benignly and took his hand into her own.
So odd, that these pure gloves should hide the hands of a sinner, she mused to herself as she pressed her fingertips into his palm. That they should kill.
"I understand, Abel," she said aloud, turning him away from the stone. "Shall we go?"
"O-of course," he stuttered, her actions stunning him far more than they came as a shock to her numb system.
As they walked away, she let him put his arm around her at last.
So I bid to you, goodnight, she addressed the fallen angel. Tonight, sleep tight, my love.
* "The Krusnik or Crusnik's as they are called are vampires who feed on the blood of other vampires. They possess immense power and destructive potential and are nearly invincible." –Wiki article: [url=.com/wiki/Crusnik]Crusnik–Trinity Blood[/url]
** Latin for: "Rest in peace, brother."
Refer once more to the disclaimer at the beginning of the fanfiction, if you please~ All rights to the original creators. ^_^. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed this one shot, everyone who has read it, and I apologize, once more, for any formatting problems. _
Thanks to my special friends who have helped me all the way through by providing me with feedback and opinions 3 Without them, this story would likely have taken a lot longer than normal, or it might not have been written at all! Feedback is welcomed and appreciated, as are reviews, as long as they are not spam, flame, or hate mail!