Ayooo, I'm alive. Have a drabble. Standard disclaimers apply.

This war started out simple. There was simply good and bad; black and white. But now...

Allen sat on his bed, all but imprisoned in his room. Any venture elsewhere was rewarded with suspicious whispers and taunts directed at him, thrown by people he had previously called his friends and colleagues.

The blurring of previously distict lines started, for most people, when the man "The Fourteenth" was first brought up. The Pianist, the Ark, General Cross. Heresy, confinement, distrust. The Fourteenth. A fairly new problem that hadn't quite been worked over in people's minds. The ones that had the sense to consider the crossing of black and white, good and evil, did, and still were.

All except for Allen.

For most, the confusion started with hate. Who to hate, who to not. Why. This, Fourteenth? Maybe.

But, for Allen, the confusion started earlier, and with something much more confusing, and equally powerful. He had much, much, more time to consider the overlapping of black and white, of good and evil, of right and wrong. For his confusion started with love.

And this started with Tyki Mikk.

Of course, it is well known that their first encounter was the card game they had played while traveling on a train, though neither quite realized until much later the significance of their playmates. It had been a horrifying night, the next- the boy's beating heart punctured without mercy. Those cold eyes haunted him for many nights, and at times still do, and always awaken an ache in his heart. Though this ache was mostly caused by terror and the lingering memory of pain, at times Allen's mind conjured up other images of the utterly terrifying man. The game on the train. The side of him that seemed to show itself in the midst of terrible acts. There was a human behind all of that murderous intent, and the boy felt a certain curious attraction to it, at the time purely out of wonder.

There was one night, however, that tempted Allen's mind to feel something else. For at the time, he was feeling the full weight of the world on his shoulders, and rightfully so. Most days he managed to ignore it, but every so often the world would come crashing down on him. So he had holed himself up in his quarters, lying on the floor amidst various wrappers and dishes that littered the place. He had grown beyond throwing fits, and merely allowed himself to collapse and lay perfectly still, his face contorted into a drastically distressed expression, and his tears flowing freely to the floor. Silently, silently, always. He didn't want to upset his family.

He might have been surprised at the sudden company if his mind hadn't been otherwise occupied by his troubles. Allen hardly registered the footsteps, and the hand that was placed on his head, gently stroking his pale hair. He hardly registered the surprise that his visitor was none other than the murderer Tyki Mikk, and didn't much mind that he was practically helpless against him. In this state, he temporarily welcomed death. Something did, however, manage to catch his interest through the lag of depression; a heartfelt question that his visitor spoke. 'There, there, boy- what's wrong?'

Allen didn't much feel like explaining, so he didn't attempt. However, he found himself calmed at his foe's sudden interest, despite the inherent danger, and allowed himself- after a time-to be cheered up, if it was only a small amount. And the morning after, he found himself surprised that he had trusted the man enough to allow him to sing a quiet song to lull him to sleep.

These nightly visits were of course scarce, for both were constantly busy, and secrecy gets harder to keep with increased frequency. But they allowed the boy a chance to understand and be with this human side of his enemy, and for this he was grateful enough for one.

However, there came a time when the two met on the battlefield, and as much as he looked, Allen could not find the side of his friend that he knew so well. All he saw were those murderous eyes, as much as he would have liked to imagine a flicker of humanity. He convinced himself that this was for the better, though, for it made it easier, when the time came, to deliver a fatal blow. Though this blow, he had hoped, would rid his companion of his other self- would set him free.

But he shouldn't have hoped so much.

He is laying on his bed, trying to work through his mind the boundaries of good and evil. But his mind isn't working for him-for all it can do is fear for his companion's lost humanity. Allen believes that all that is left is the evil, which in the end overpowered the notion of 'good'. And Allen blames himself.

And when Allen succumbs to a worried sleep, and fancies a hand stroking his hair, he dares not awake to confirm a presence. For if he opens his eyes to nothing, his heart would surely break. In his dreams, at least, lies hope.

I just LoveCraft ing stories.