A man dies once. A god, twice. Somewhere in between lie monsters.

"Cover them up, Lindus. You can empty the trap tomorrow morning. The ground's still hard anyway, it's far too much work for two men to build a grave." General Slauson. Curt. Hard. A man who'd seen enough death in his career with little to say for the massacre they'd found.

"Will a blanket do, sir?"

"Damn it man, does it look like anyone else around here needs it anymore? That Indian woman danced off on her own, I doubt she'll come back to complain. Where on god's green earth do you think Major Knox went?" General Slauson's voice, angry, clipped yet surprisingly energetic, began to fade with the creak of the closing barn door.

Boyd hovered on the brink, listening, waiting. Waiting for the last spark of life in himself to go numb, for his soul to be set free as payment for the one brave act he'd committed to repent for a lifetime of cowardice. Apparently it wasn't enough.

He waited. Through the aging day into the late winter night. Yet, still, he lived. The memory surged forth of being buried already with his fellow soldiers as the earth and the knowledge of the fateful spark of flame that would have consumed him if he hadn't escaped. Then, too, with that came the taste of blood. Theirs. His. Ives'.

Ives…

"C-..C-..." Boyd's tongue conspired against him, refusing to let him mutter the word, the fateful word that very well could re-awaken the monster beneath him. More blood coating his mouth, and then that...hunger...so much stronger now, so much worse. He hadn't thought it possible.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to meet the blank and staring pair beneath him. Yet, no other movement. No breath.

No life.

He didn't like that. The bastard shouldn't have the right. Shouldn't have the release...Boyd's eyes fixed on the smeared cross of blood on his forehead, and how arrogant Ives had been to liken himself to Christ. Or the devil. Somehow, his lips were already pressed to the dried red of blood on Ives face, pale, cold fingers gripping slowly at the fabric of the dead man's uniform. He denied the strangely feral intimacy this seemed to invoke in him, as if mere cannibalism wasn't already repulsive enough. Boyd angrily quelled the way his body seemed to thrill with the taste of Ives on his tongue.

Boyd didn't want to do it, didn't want to live and eat, yet here he was...and somehow even what little he could get to seemed to give him an odd surge of strength. Power. Virility, as Ives might have said.

Then true life came back to his arms, enough to contort them back, to press and dig his dirtied red nails between the cracks of the trap's teeth, through the shreds of his own sweater and flesh. He screamed, struggled to shift the stubborn metal rust.

Am I finally dying?

No, he wasn't so lucky. The teeth moved enough for cool air to sweep in and blow through his wounds like a fleshed panpipe, and then his arms gave out, and he screamed again as the trap once more dug back into him. It felt even worse than before, as fresh strength and life oozed anew from his back.

Boyd whimpered, and in pain he almost laughed at the notion that he could be fortunate his screams likely went unheard. The same wind that had licked his wounds had also carried his voice away with a fresh blanket of snow clearly forming through the cracks of the shabby barn door.

Yet still, Ives lay, dead. Lucky. Almost invincible, even as a corpse. Boyd hated that deathly smile, even as he began to lick at the crusted blood again, instincts taking over to try and rouse what was left of himself to try once more to escape. His vision danced, and he struggled to lift the jaws once more. Second by second. Each centimeter a breath, each inch a mile. Muscles burned fresh, protested, yearned to give in.

Then. Then. He was free. As if by some horrible miracle, Boyd escaped, and rolled onto the bloodied earth beside him, Ives head having lolled away so that the catch was no longer pressed.

Numb, worse even than when he'd began his struggle, Boyd stared towards the corpse, still grimacing.

"You're...y…" He coughed up a fresh blossom of dark blood, darker than he'd ever seen before.

Dead!

He wanted to scream it, to rise and rend the flesh from Ives' bones, limb by limb. To consume him. To take. To have. In so many ways. It would be so easy, if not for those final damnable words clouding his mind. Eat or die?

Boyd would rather die. Even more, he'd rather die under the stars and be buried in snow than for his final sight to be the thing lying beside him. So like a cat seeking the shade of safety to die, so to did Boyd drag himself, slowly, gasping and panting...towards the door. His legs could not move, his mind could no longer rationalize. He was a twisting thread, and each inch of the bloody trail he left in the dirt behind him brought one more fresh wave of agony and forced the blackness to crowd in even further until there were only small specks of light before him he still shouldn't have been able to see, were he a normal man.

Unfortunately, Boyd did not get to see the stars. He was at the door when he finally fell painlessly into the dark.

The trap behind him creaked. Fresh blood stung his senses anew with its siren song.

Bon Appetit...you bastard...

Boyd's final thought. He hoped.

Ivest despised this sort of pain when he was the one forced to endure it. Far too reminiscent of convalescence, of the days he'd thought his fate was simply to endlessly rest and wait until consumption finally had its way with his emaciated body. Still, this pain really was only a minor...inconvenience. Lying like a doll beneath Boyd, cozy, silent while he let the other do all the work. He wasn't quite dead yet. He was just a very good actor, as he'd already demonstrated several times to the residents of Fort Spencer. It was a shame for the good little soldier he hadn't seen through this final little performance. Ives was almost disappointed.

Really, Captain Boyd...I can read you like a book.

At first, he supposed he had been waiting for Boyd to die, much as the other man was waiting for him. If he'd even known that was Boyd's desire, he could have happily obliged him and gotten a nice meal out of the bargain, save for one tiny little problem. He was beginning to have far too much fun to let it end with that.

Boyd was an endless well of entertainment. Those thoughtful, tormented eyes that had always been focused inward, the first time they flashed in fear and defiance towards him when Boyd had taken the dive from the cliff to escape...Ives delighted in it. Reveled in it. In that little moment, he knew that with a little work, he could make him. Create something far greater out of the young man than Boyd would ever have dreamed. This last fight, too, was absolutely...breathtaking. He had so much fight in him, so much...spirit. Not like their unfortunate companion Colonel Hart who'd deemed it better to take his own life after all the trouble Ives had taken to groom him, there could most certainly be more than mere conversation with Boyd. Ives felt a familiar discomfort he didn't really feel he could afford easing at that moment, given how limited his resources were, bleeding as heavily as he was.

In truth, Boyd was a miserable conversationalist anyway. He didn't really talk much at all unless it was to issue some sort of warning to an idiot or a threat he couldn't carry through. That suited Ives just fine, as he'd always enjoyed the sound of his own voice over all others. If his lungs still weren't freshly healed from peeling himself slowly and carefully from the trap, he probably would have began to talk right then an there. Said something sweet, something deliciously poignant, if just a little arrogant. He would have gloated over Boyd's prone body, supped from his wounds as the man had dined on him...a glorious feast...

Ah, but there would be plenty of time for that, once dawn arrived, and the General or his little page boy returned to deal with their bodies.

"Mmmmmhhh..." Ives rumbled, halfway between a growl and an appetite-inducing groan, dragging himself much like Boyd had across the earthen floor, though much quicker. He was, after all, no newcomer to half-death. In fact, he shouldn't doubt it would become a regular occurrence if he wasn't more careful around his unwilling new friend nearby. Ives grinned with blood-stained lips, managing to lean against one of the weakened walls of the barn, awaiting breakfast. There were plenty of tools at his disposal, and plenty of time left to regain some modicum of strength. Perhaps even enough to deal with Boyd later.

Ives closed his eyes, still grinning, and hummed Toffler's unfinished hymn.