AN: Sorry for the late update everyone. I have been having troubles with a bitchy teacher that thinks she is god so she has been causing so much trouble for me since the beginning of the term. I would like to point out that one of my reviewers has called this a slash. In a way it is, I based this story off of a book called Dark Desire by Christine Feehan. If you have not read any of her books I suggest that you do along with Black Dagger Brotherhood seriesby J. R. Ward. Both are most graphic with there vampire novels. So go by them!!
Warnings: See previous chapters please, I do not really want to type them all out again I am lazy lol.
Pairings: 1x2x1 mainly, but the other GW boys will slowly, but surely, make there entrance if not have there own stories since I am using Christine Feehan's books as references.
WHAT LINGERS IN THE SHADOWS
CHAPTER 3
"MY WILL MY WAY"
The agony continued, went on relentlessly. Heero has sent mental call after call out into the night; none of his kind came to help him. Where were they? His kin? His friends? Why wouldn't they come to him and end this? Had it been a conspiracy? Had they deliberately left him to the butchers who had previously wielded their knives and cigarettes with such delight? It had been someone Heero knew that betrayed him, but the memories were fading fast, obscured by his endless pain.
Time no longer meant anything to Heero, his world had become so narrow, but at some point he felt another's presence in his mind. The touch was far off, male, and young. He had no idea how he had inadvertently connected with this man, his mind melded to his so that this man was sharing his torment, every scorching burn, every searing cut prior to now. Heero's blood loss still drained his life force from his weakened body. He tried to remember who this mysterious man may be. He had to, in some way, be close to this person in order to share minds.
This unknown man was as helpless as Heero was, enduring the pain with him, sharing his agony. Heero tried to close himself off from him, the need to protect him was paramount in him, yet he was far too weak to block his own mentally traumatizing thoughts. The pain still poured out of him; has not stopped pouring out of him, a raging torrent, following straight to the male tapping into his mind.
The man's anguish hit him like a powerful blow. He was, after all, a Carpathian male. His duty was to protect this man above all other things. That he should falter so added to his agony and sense of failure. He caught brief images of this male in his mind, slightly tall, built, long chestnut braid that flowed down his back like a silken waterfall, curled up on the end of his queen size bed in pain, desperately trying to keep a tight grip on his sanity. He seemed a stranger to him, yet he saw her in color, something that he hasn't seen in centuries. He could not send them both to sleep to escape this endless agony. He could only catch fragments of the man's thoughts as he called out for help, tried to decipher what was happening to him.
Droplets of blood began to seep from his pores. Red blood. He clearly could see that his blood was red. This meant something important, and yet he was completely confused, unable to discern why it was significant to his people and what it meant. His mind was hazy, as if a great veil were being drawn over his brain. He struggles to "see" the image of the one of his own kind who had betrayed him, but the picture would not return to his mind. There was only pain. Terrible, endless pain. His mind chose that moment to shatter like glass, into a million little fragments and he could no longer remember what, or whom, he was struggling to protect.
Duo Maxwell lye curled up on his queen size, extensive mattress, the lamp on the cherry wood, side table provided enough light for him to read his medical journal. He covered page after page in mere seconds, committed the information to memory as he had since he was a child. Now he was completing his residency, the youngest resident on record, and it was an exhausting ordeal. He hurried to finish the text, wanting to get what little rest he could. The pain hit him hard and suddenly, slammed into him with so much virulence that he had been thrown off the bed, his body contorted by the force. He tried to call out, blindly crawled to the phone, but he could only writhe on the floor helplessly. Sweat beaded on his skin; smear of crimson blood seeped through his pores. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced, as if someone had cut his flesh with a knife, burnt him, torturing him endlessly. It went on and on—hours, days, he didn't know. No one came to help him, and they wouldn't; he was currently at home by himself while Quatre and Trowa were on a date. At the end, when the pain ripped through him as if a hole the size of his fist had been opened in his chest, he finally lost consciousness. This is how he was found, three hours later, when Quatre and Trowa had returned home.
Heero was a creature of the night. The dark was his home. Yet now, in his agony, it was his enemy. There was only pain and silence. Always before, he was the one who chose whether to stay in the darkness, in the healing soil. Now he was a prisoner, locked away, with the soil just out of reach. Comfort should have been his, was near, yet always the wood of the coffin prevented his body from touching what would have eventually healed his wounds.
Hunger began to make itself known. Time passed, meant nothing. Only the terrible, relentless hunger that grew until it became his entire world. Agony; hunger; nothing else existed for him anymore.
He found, after a great stretch of time, that he could put himself back to sleep. But the return of his gift meant nothing to him anymore. He could remember nothing; his life now consisted of sleep only to wake when an inquisitive creature strayed too close. The rush of agony consumed him with every strained heart beat. He conserved as much strength as possible in order to draw food to him. Sources were few and far between. Even the insects have learned to stay away from the place of darkness and the malevolent creature that was dwelling there.
In the moments that seeped past during his waking hell, he would whisper his name to himself. Heero Yuy. He was real. He existed and lived in hell. This is the only way he could keep what little sanity that may be left. Hours turned to days, days to weeks, and weeks to months. He could no longer remember any other way of life. There was no hope, no peace, and no way out. There was no end. There was only the darkness, pain, and unbearable hunger. Time continued to pass, meant nothing to his limited world.
His wrists her in chains so that he had little room to move, but ever time a creature came close enough to awaken him, he scratched at the walls of the coffin in vein attempt to get out, to reach the only source of food. His strength of mind was beginning to return so he could eventually coax his prey to him, yet only enough to survive. There was no way of replacing his strength without replacing the mass amounts of blood that he had lost. The creatures, that lived underground, were not big enough to replace that of which has been lost, only enough to keep going. Every time that he would move, wake, fresh blood would drip steadily from his wounds. Without the necessary amount of blood to replace the loss, his body could not heal itself. The circle was endless, hideous, an ugly cycle that would last for all eternity.
Then the dreams began to intrude, waking him when he was starving and having no way to fill that void. A man, he recognized him, alive, no chains, not buried beneath the earth, but moving freely around and smiling. He was just out of his mind's reach, yet he could not touch her. Why isn't he coming to him? Why isn't he responding to his mind's call? He was calling to him, pleading, begging, and even raged. Where was he? Why is he allowing his agony to continue when even the presence of the man in his mind would ease the terrible sense of isolation? What had he done that been as terrible as to deserve this punishment?
Anger began to fill his world, hatred even. In the place of a man a monster grew, deadly, dangerous, feeding on the pain, and became a will that could not be crushed. Fifty years, a hundred—what did it matter if he traveled all the way to the gates of hell to get his revenge? He already resided in it with every waking moment.
He will come to me, he vowed it. If it took him torturing this angelic man in order to ensure his escape, he would do anything in his power to make it so. Once he found this man he would become the shadow in his mind, reside there and get familiar with it, he would do whatever it took; be there to cause any amount of pain, to get his revenge on this man that left him; could hear him but never answered, never came to save him. He would become familiar enough with this man's mind in order to force his will upon him, to ensure that he comes; he will have his revenge.
This man could not escape him forever, he will have his way. This man will know every pain, every sorrow, and his hell on earth. This man will be his savior and his meal as soon as he comes on his own accord or by his mind's force. It's inevitable.
