Soft whispers passed through his ears. The hushing of scared figures sang and harmonized their sobbing. As he regained that ability to lift his body of the wet ground he could only think of the noise echoing off emptiness that surrounded him. Where was he?

Was he in hell— "Ow!" His stiff hands reached for his ear.

His body felt as if he hasn't moved in hours, weeks, years. Where was he? Who was he?

"Do you know your name, spirit?" the sobbing echoed passed him.

Were they addressing him? Not him, surely not! Why would these grieving souls want anything to do with him? Were they grieving? Why were they in such pain? Where was he? He held his head tighter staring in the direction he thought was down. On the floor maybe? Which way was up, which way lead back to…Where was he going? He opened his mouth to shout as he feared that his eyes were the problem and not the plane of darkness, but he could only taste dust. His coughing gave no sound as he grabbed his throat. Water! Please—

He fell back and stared up. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. How long had he been here? How long had he tried to escape?

"I asked you a question Spirit. If you do not answer me I will leave again." Their voice again... It was stronger this time.

"No—please—" He rolled on to his stomach and felt pain. Awful pain, truly agonizing pain came from his chest it reached his stomach, and he coughed, feeling the dust fill his mouth and spill out onto the floor.

"You are awake Spirit," There was a tone in its voice. A smirking tone he had grown fond of. Something he'd use every chance he could. "Now I'll ask you again. Do you remember your name?"

No… Of course not! How could he? His name…what could it be? What was a name?

He closed his eyes only to feel the heat of the voice brush against his brow. It was moving again. Was he being circled? Was he now prey for this…this.. What was this? So many things he just didn't know or understand. He squeezed his eyes tighter. Somewhere inside of him there was a man who could comprehend many things. Analyze them and end their life before they had a chance to strike back. So why was he on the ground being circled like a corpse?

Anger and pain swarmed in his stomach. The dust heaved from his throat, and he could feel his jaw almost break off. It hung by his cheek. There was a quick move to try and grab his face but his body was far too stiff to move as fast as he could before. Instead he felt small and skinny fingers graze his chin, pushing the jaw back into place. A second hand brushed his broken cheek. A spark set off and his face was enlightened along with its face as well.

Where was he?

The spark glowed to the back of his eye lids as it burned against his flesh. He wanted to scream of his new found pain but he was a man. He wasn't worth his bread if he could not hold his own.

"You are breaking…If you give me your name I can make it stop…" The cynical tone in its voice was gone. It almost sounded sympathetic now…

I don't know. He was in so much pain from his body to his head that ached from these frustrating questions and the white noise crying in the background. He opened his eyes only to stare into the void around them. He felt his skin drain of any heat as fully regained himself in this pitch dark hell. I don't know. He felt enraged with himself. He blamed this taunting demon for his suffering. Why was it that he had ideas of who he was before but not who he was now?

"I'm losing my patience with you, spirit."

"No—don't leave—" He managed to choke out a response. "M-my name…It was—I was—"

"I do not want to hear excuses!" Anger filled the void as its shout echoed over the white noise. All was quiet in one sudden flash.

"You can not order me as if I was one of your filthy, broken, damned souls!" A fire started around its feet. He could smell the smoke and see the light dance on the edge of his eyes.

"Please I just—"

"I said no!" With a stomp of their feet the ground shook and his instincts allowed him to push himself into a crouching position.

Their fire did not touch the ground but it still burnt as if it was dry wood. A robe draped over their feet, broken and mangled as if their flesh had been pulled off toe by toe only to display the bone. He himself was also mutilated; blood dripped from his chest. Now that he could see, he could see it all. His grey and blood free skin, his long grey hair filthy from oils and blood, hung in his face and the most important part of himself was his runes. Yes! His runes! The only way he could know his name!

"My Name is Valentine!" He tried to scream over the fire's hiss. "I am—I'm Valentine Morgenstern!"