John paused in front of the slightly overgrown fence, his hands clenching on the wood to stop them from trembling. Years had passed since he had abandoned the house that horrible night, on earth even more than a decade, but to him it felt like it had been only yesterday.

The garden in front of the old farmhouse was eerily quiet, as if it wouldn't dare to disturb his dark thoughts. It was cold and the fog of the passing night still hung among the nearby trees.
None of which mattered to him, when the memories came rushing back in colourful, merciless pictures, trying to drown him, to tear him down.

Get a grip, dammit, John reproved himself, but it seemed impossible. And honestly... screw it.

During the last weeks he had tried to prepare himself for this. He'd thought about how it would feel, searched for tactics and mechanisms to deal with the memories that ripped him apart from the inside.
He hadn't found any - or maybe he had, but standing in front of the house he couldn't seem to remember even one. His brain seemed to work on slow motion as if his thoughts had to wade through mud. Anger, desperation and loss fought to take over, but all of them combined couldn't overrule the gnawing pain of his guilt.
He stubbornly ignored the growing hunger that was building underneath and took a deep breath to brace himself for his upcoming duty.

It is necessary, he tried to remind himself of the reason why he had come here. This had to be done and he was the one who had to do it.
After all he owed her at least this much.
No, he owed her so much more, but there was nothing else he could do.
She was gone.
She was dead.
He had killed her.

The wood beneath his hands protested with an audible crack that sounded almost like thunder, breaking through the stillness that surrounded him. John winced slightly, forced down another deep breath and went further through the garden and into the house.

He was expecting it to hurt, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Pure hatred burned in his throat hot and violent. He'd thought he couldn't hate himself any more than he already did, blaming himself for her death.
He was wrong.
His self-hate seemed to increase with every step he went further into the house.

John quickly passed the living room and headed for the kitchen. He ignored the cobwebs and the disgusting smell of some decaying animal and started rummaging in one of the lower cabinets. After he carefully set five or six potion vials with questionable and surely unhealthy contents on the kitchen counter, he finally found what he was looking for.
He pulled out the big bottle of Hell's finest and plopped the plug with his thumb before he took a deep draft. Whenever there had been a time for a drink, this was it, he decided. He drank another few gulps straight from the bottle, before he refilled the smaller bottle that he kept in the pocket of his coat. It didn't help much, but it was a start and the worst part was yet to come.

Taking the bigger bottle with him, he forced himself to go for the stairs. The kitchen had to wait, because he wouldn't be able to hang around in the house, knowing that her belongings were still up there - as if she would be back any minute.
He just couldn't stand that.

When he finally he reached their bedroom, he could hear his pulse in his ears.
The room was exactly how he'd left it, disregarding the more than ten years lack of housekeeping. One of the pillows lay on the floor, the two blankets still intertwined on the bed under a layer of dust with noticeable moth damage here and there. The once blue sheets looked grey in the meantime. Small particles of dust flew through the air, caused by the unexpected intruder, highlighted by the first lights of dawn which broke through the fog and through the window on the other side.

The memory hit him deep in the gut. He saw her face, showing her lovely and beautiful smile, the happiness shining in her brown eyes. He painfully remembered the soft touch of her lips on his, the sweet caress of her kiss, her irresistible scent. She had trusted him, had kissed him passionately, had laid her fate into his hands. And he had so terribly failed her.

He remembered vividly how amazing it had felt to feed on her power at the beginning, but the image immediately changed. She had finally screamed, realizing horrified and panicked that her plan had gone terribly wrong. But he hadn't been able to stop. He remembered how her skin had dried, how her beautiful brown hair had changed, how she had crumbled, dying in his arms. All in a matter of seconds. A terrible image that was his constant companion ever since. His constant reminder of what he was.

Of the monster he was.

The murderer.

He forced himself to concentrate on his self-hate and anger. Otherwise he was sure he'd lose it. Which would be just as well, he thought, but he couldn't stand the thought of some stranger rummaging about in her clothes. That was why he had to stay sane - at least sane enough - long enough to get the job done, he reminded himself.

He took the bottle and poured down a long one. Man up and get it over with, he told himself.

John went to the wooden cupboard and quickly grabbed both hands full of clothes. He consciously avoided to take a closer look. But when he turned back around, his gaze unexpectedly crossed a pile of white cloth lying on the floor beside the bed.

He froze.

John felt how tears of fury and despair began to water his eyes, but he knew he couldn't afford that now, so he stubbornly fought them back. His chest felt like being crushed underneath tons of weight or like a rope was slung tight around him, with someone pulling it closer and closer, choking him.

"Bugger all, concentrate dammit!" he muttered to himself, his voice sounding weird and out of place within all that surrounding silence.

He put the pile of clothes on the bed, sat down and took another drink. And then another one.
His jaw clenched tight, he finally grabbed the dress and the other clothes before he went downstairs again.
As soon as he left the house through the backdoor he heard it. The steady - if a little nervous - heartbeat of another person.

Sud it. He hadn't expected him to be here so soon.

"You might as well show yourself, I know you're there," his voice was harsh. To his surprise it wasn't Jonas, like he had expected. But then, Jonas wouldn't have tried to sneak up on him, at least not without using a silencespell to hide his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing. He knew better than that.

The intruder's voice was steady when he spoke. Bonus point for courage, three points discount for risking his life so easily, John thought.
"Mr. Pritkin? I'm here to accompany you to the headquarter."
John sighed. Of course you are.
"Thanks, but I know the way", he answered with a cold voice, not even turning around to face him.
"I'm afraid I have to insist, Sir."
The guy had balls, you had to grant him that, John mentally approved. Or maybe he was just damned stupid. He stopped to put the clothes slowly and accurately on the ground before he turned.

A young man with brown hair stood beside the house. He wore a long brown leather coat and black boots and gave off a wildly flickering but nonetheless strong magical energy. A dim green shield slightly flowed around him. The war mage straightened his shoulders.

"And why is that?" John mentally counted to ten. He wouldn't kill the guy for just being a pain in the ass, even if it was tempting.

"General Marsden put me on watch and I was ordered to report directly to him, if you'd show up. He hadn't finished teaching his class yet, so I left him a note and went to make sure you wouldn't escape."

"I get it. You figured it would impress the boss if you'd bring me back." The poor guy obviously didn't know Jonas at all. And he certainly didn't know anything about him. Even under good circumstances he wouldn't call himself patient, right now… right now, to his surprise, he realized, that a part of him welcomed the unwanted distraction.

"Well, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I'm not going anywhere. If Jonas wants something he has to drag his ass up here himself. Feel free to quote me. You'll find the exit on your own." John didn't wait for a response and turned around.
When he bent down to pick up the pile of clothes he felt the sizzling energy of a spell passing right next to the side of him. A huge split appeared on the sundial a few feet away and a few tiny stone shards crumbled down to vanish in the high grass.

Sure. Why not.
He wondered what the hell Jonas had told them who he was. John turned to face the mage again, raising one eyebrow.
"You dare to threaten me, mage? Alone and in my own garden?" His voice was calm.
"I sure as hell won't just watch you burn evidence!" The young war mage managed a superior look on his face, but John wasn't fooled. He could hear his frantic heartbeat. Must be a newbie, he thought, obviously he hadn't heard the rumors about him in the HQ yet. Maybe there weren't much left, after all that time. Or he was just too arrogant to believe them.

"I assure you, I'm not burning any evidence. But this is none of your business and believe me, you do not want to pick a fight with me right now," he told him acidly.

John saw the slight tightening in his muscles and had enough. He muttered a single word before the newbie was able to throw a spell. The result was impressive.

The vines that grew besides the sundial came eagerly to life and the long roots peeled themselves off the ground, reaching for the unwanted intruder within an eyeblink. The newbie looked a bit shell shocked and was distracted for a second which was all John needed. He threw two spells in the meantime. The first one plopped the guys shields, so that the second one could hit. With another muttered word he forced the vines to retreat before they would rip the poor guy to shreds.

Newbie fell to the ground like a sack potatoes.

Now, that was easier than he had expected, he thought, almost a little disappointed. John silently added another three points discount for sheer stupidity, shook his head and turned back to his duty.